Back in the fall, Rolando called to ask if our guest room would be available in January — he’d be coming to the valley to return Glorianne, his older daughter, to college and to attend the STAR program.

But of course, we said.

Before Christmas, he called again to say that Kathy, his younger daughter, would be also coming, just for fun. Great! we said. And then last Wednesday he called yet again to say that now Glorimar, his wife, would be joining them. “Aaaand,” I could hear the laughter in his voice, “my sister and her husband are going to come, too.”

“Awesome!” I said, and then I paused. “But, um, where will they sleep?“

“In the guest room with us, of course,” Rolando said, as though that were the most obvious thing in the world.

People, our guest room is plenty serviceable, but big it most definitely not. However, these were Puerto Ricans we were dealing with, and if Puerto Ricans have a superpower, it’s flexibility. So taking my cues from them, I went with it.

When they pulled in Sunday evening, they came bearing sacks of groceries — juice, lunch meats, avocados and bananas, bread, butter, frozen pizzas, cheeses, salad mix, iced tea, chips, and on and on and on — and a double bed air mattress.

The two couples set up camp in the guest room, and the two sisters in my younger daughter’s closet-sized bedroom, sharing a twin.

Funny story: Rolando did not tell his wife that Johanna and Eliot, who live in Florida, would be joining them, so Glorimar was thrilled when they showed up in the Orlando airport to, she thought, just say hi. But then Elliot produced their plane tickets and Joanna announced that they’d be joining them in Virginia — SURPRISE.

The week has been amazingly relaxing. Rolando attended his classes, the rest of his family often joining him for lunch and then spending the afternoon in town and the evening at home with us.

Mornings I wrote, as usual, and towards the end of the week, after my cough subsided and I regained my voice, I started running again.

Afternoons, I cooked.

Since they are so easy to please and over-the-top appreciative, cooking for our guests — or extended family, really — has been gratifying. I’m milking it for all it’s worth: taco salad, meatloaf, sourdough bread, apple pies, Farmer Boy pancakes, lentil sausage soup, hot buttered rolls, granola, homemade pappardelle and ragu, roasted veggies, sweet rolls, chocolate chip cookies, baked oatmeal.

A couple days after they arrived, the weather turned cold.

On Friday afternoon, the kids went skiing and snowboarding, and then yesterday a storm swept in. Glorimar and I went for a snowy walk to my parents’ house last evening (we each hit the ground at least once).

Now this morning, I’m sitting on the sofa, listening to all the reactions as people wake up: lots of squeals and yips and happy dances, video phone calls to folks back home and photos, tentative excursions out into the bright whiteness.

Fresh snow is always exciting, but add a half dozen Puerto Ricans to the mix and it’s pure magic.

This same time, years previous: just for sparkles, marching, homemade lard, our little dustbunnies, breaking the fruitcake barrier, what it means, date nut bread, roll and twist.

I rallied in time for our trip to Pennsylvania for our Annual Baer Family Reunion. Our family went up a day early — we wanted to visit my grandparents before heading to our host home — so I was relieved to be feeling so much better. I sure didn’t want to be guilty of contaminating the elderly.

But then on the trip up, my older daughter came down with a fever.

So much for good intentions.

Then that night, just when I thought I was home free, I developed a cough. Between my coughing and my husband’s hacking (he’d already been smitten), sleep was nearly impossible.

Answer me this: Why is it that it’s exactly when one is ill, when the body most needs to sleep, that it can’t? It makes no sense!

Then halfway through the next day, smack-dab in the middle of our noonday reunion feast, I lost my voice.

I felt fine, but there I was, stuck in a crowd of people unable to ask questions and respond — an extrovert’s version of hell. Whenever I did try to speak, it was like I’d created a black hole: everyone stopped talking while straining to catch my whispered wisps of words. The first person to understand would triumphantly repeat what I’d said, and once again the room would be bubbling with chatter and noise.

Even with my ailments, the weekend was loads of fun.

There was the Baer Foot Race complete with lots of slipping, thanks to the buckets of rain they’d been having.

My odd child jumped in the creek again.

Without a thick layer of ice, it wasn’t nearly as dramatic, but he claims the water felt even colder than last year since the outside temps were warmer.

The food was tremendous, as usual: incredible sourdough bread (that I am trying to replicate), ham, cheeses and meats, pies, jams from Mavis, and so on.

There were babies to hold…

…and games to play…

…and heights to measure…

… and conversations to just listen to, gah.

And then we drove home, arriving just in time to unpack and get showers before our Puerto Rican friends arrived, kicking off a nine-day vacay.

The end!

This same time, years previous: high-stakes hiking, Christmas cheese, high on the hog, how we kicked of 2016, 5-grain porridge with apples, when cars dance, the quotidian (1.6.14), headless chickens, cranberry sauce, buckwheat apple pancakes.

I’m getting sick. My neck is tight and my eyes, when I look in the mirror, have that other-worldly, I-am-doomed sparkle.

I still went writing this morning, though. Ate my raisin cookie and drank my two-dollar coffee and rearranged words and thought real hard for a few hours, but back home, I’m clearly on the way down. Even with Ibuprofen, I’m flushed and achy. I finished reading one book and started another, and then it occured to me that if I wanted to write a blog post before I hit the do-nothing, pure-misery stage, I better get busy.

So quick. Before I succumb entirely, I must tell you about lemons.

On the way home from writing, after picking up my younger son from his friend’s house and stopping by first the bank and then the grocery store (for orange juice and cough drops, among other things) before heading out of town, I remembered a store that my sister-in-law had recently told me about. A Lebanese store, right on our end of town, that sold naan and hummus and such. So even though I was faint with hunger, I doubled back into town.

They didn’t have fresh naan — just the frozen stuff — but they did have big, flat cracker-ish rounds that would go well with our supper of lentils and rice (that I’m now probably not well enough to make). And, just so we’d know what they had, my son and I walked the short aisles, pausing to admire the packages of compressed dates, the tins of loose-leaf tea, the ground bulger and pasta, the bins of fava beans and sunflower seeds.

It was towards the back of the store that I discovered a bag of hard, brown, mysterious round balls.

“What are these?” I asked the shopkeeper.

“Dried lemons,” she said. “For soups and sauces, or tea. Just crack them open and simmer in water. They’re good for the digestion, too.”

Now it’s not even mid-afternoon, and I’ve already made the tea twice. The dried lemons are hard to open, but I discovered that one brisk whack with my heavy rolling pin does the trick. I simmer the lemon in water, then add a bag of chamomile for oomph, let the two steep together for a few minutes, and then strain, stir in some sugar, and drink.

It’s delicious, exactly the sort of beverage one craves when falling ill.

Cheers!

Lebanese Dried Lemon Tea

You can order dried lemons here, but I strongly suggest you track down your local Middle Eastern grocer — you know, to build community. Plus, it’s loads more fun.

For more information on dried lemons (or limes? I’m still struggling to understand the difference), read this or this.

1-2 dried lemons
2-4 cups water
Herbal tea bag, optional
Sugar to taste, starting with 2 teaspoons

Crack open the dried lemon(s) and combine with the water in a saucepan. Bring to a boil and reduce heat to a simmer. After 5 minutes, add the tea bag, if using. Turn off the heat and steep for another five minutes. Strain the tea, discarding the bag and lemons. Sugar to taste.

This same time, years previous: the quotidian (1.1.18), 2017, how to make a fireball, Christmas, quite frankly, constant motion, cranberry crumble bars, the quotidian (1.2.12), baguettes.