Three times this week, I got to have an evening at home. It’s a novelty, all this time on my hands. I have time to eat more than I need at supper and help with clean-up and work in the garden (begrudgingly) and read to the kids and watch Modern Family with my husband (the part where the kid was jumping on a pogo stick on the trampoline? we laughed so hard we had to stop the DVD) and go to bed in decent time. It’s nice, yes, but truth is, it’s also rather dull.

After being on such a steep learning curve for so long, pushing myself to do something so completely different from what I’m used to, The Humdrum Daily just doesn’t cut it. I feel anchor-less, indifferent, and—yes, the dread word that I use way too often—bored.

I’ll get beyond this—if there’s one thing I’ve learned in my 36 years, it’s that everything is a stage and nothing lasts (also known as Having Perspective)—but in the meantime, I’m vacillating between wanting to do something else New and Scary and trying, really trying, to nestle myself back down into the nest.

Last night I half-heartedly did some hoeing, planted the zucchini (yes, we’re late), and weeded the tomatoes before collapsing on a blanket in the yard.

This was my view—all green and blue and white. Pretty.

This was me being all sorts of vapid. My kid had to check to make sure I was still alive.

Then he used me as a pillow.

What is it with kids sticking out their tongues at the camera? Do all children do this? Or is it just my uncultured monkeys?

Eventually I realized that the sunlight was kind of pretty and so I started snapping pictures of my surroundings.

I took pictures of weeds.

I took pictures of the clothesline.
 

I took pictures of the tomato cages.

I took pictures of my husband charging me with the mower.

When I didn’t move, he gave me What For.

When I still didn’t move, he backed up and went the other way.

So then I moved.

This same time, years previous: when I sat down (oh look, another post on boredom!) (it’s better than today’s), how to freeze strawberries and make strawberry jam, buttered peas and brown buttered noodles with ham

Re the play: under no circumstances whatsoever are we to eat food while wearing our costumes. If we do, we run the risk of the (normally bubbly and happy-go-lucky) costume designer suffering an apoplectic fit.

Even so, there is often food in the green room anyway: bagels, cake, bread and jam, pie, crackers, and the like. We eat while walking around in various stages of undress or after the play is over. I usually don’t eat anything, partly because of nerves, partly because I don’t need to, and partly because the corset doesn’t allow for breathing, let alone food.

However, four and a half hours is a long time for the little kids to go without eating, so their mother often packs them something more substantial. They put on full-body bibs (the plastic smocks that we wear while we’re getting our hair done) and dig in. One night I spied them huddling over a big container of cucumber and tomato salad.

“What’s in that?” I asked, bending over to get a closer look.

The mother rattled off the list: tomatoes, cucumbers, chickpeas, feta, and black olives.

“And the dressing?”

“A garlic clove mashed up with some salt and olive oil.”

“Vinegar, too?” I suggested.

“No, lemon juice. I always use lemon juice for the acid when making Greek food.”

I love it when people have particular food prep habits. It’s indicative of style, flair, an informed opinion. I never knew that lemon juice was preferred over vinegars when making Greek food (I am flair-less!), but I’m all for learning.

I made the salad this morning, mashing up a bit of garlic with some salt in my mortar and pestle, just like she recommended. I never use my mortar and pestle, but that’s all changed now. It transformed that clove into a pungent, salty paste. A couple glugs of olive oil and the juice of half a lemon later, and I had a smooth, authentic (yes? yes!) Greek dressing.

The salad was as good as I imagined it to be. Maybe even better. Come August, when tomatoes and cucumbers are at their peak, this salad will make a frequent appearance at our table.

Greek Cucumber and Tomato Salad
Inspired by my friend MAC

1 cucumber, quartered lengthwise and then sliced
1 pint cherry or grape tomatoes, quartered
2 green onions, minced (optional)
1 15-ounce can chickpeas, rinsed and drained
½ – 1 cup black olives, quartered
½ cup feta cheese
1 small clove garlic
½ teaspoon salt
3 tablespoons olive oil
1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice

In a large bowl, combine the first 6 ingredients.

Mash the garlic with the salt until creamy. Whisk in the olive oil and lemon juice.

Pour the dressing over the vegetables and toss to coat. Taste to correct seasonings.

P.S. My younger daughter was washing the dishes and came upon the mortar and pestle. “Can I have this when you die?” she asked.

I didn’t answer right off—there were so many things wrong with this statement. First, she’s planning my death already? Second, a mortar and
pestle is the best she could come up with? Seriously?

“Can I? Can I?” she pressed.

“We’ll see,” I finally answered, shaking my head.

This same time, years previous: microwave flower press

I took the kids to the library today. Well, first I took them to the pool. It was pouring outside, but no thunder, and today was the day for swimming lesson sign-ups. So we made like ducks and went.

The kids swam all day yesterday. They had free passes to the water park and their papa (otherwise known as my husband) took them. They got there around 1:30 and returned home a little before 10 pm, eyes red from the salt water and good, old-fashioned exhaustion. The littlest one—who last year wouldn’t even go on the lazy river—went down nearly all the slides. Hip-hip for growing up!

But the library. We checked out a boatload of books even though we already have a monstrous-scary pile at home. I just know I’ll confuse myself with what’s due when and have to pay big fines, but oh well.

The library has a new policy: kids, 12 and under, must be attended. It drives me batty, these super-cautious rules. Not because I have any desire or need to leave my kids at the library (but it’d be nice to have that option), but because it seems a shame to not encourage the local kids, the ones out riding their bikes all summer long, to come in and read for a spell. What could be more idyllic than a group of kids zipping over to the library to hang out on a hot summer afternoon? It makes me sad, this loss of trust and childhood freedom.

Coming home from the library, the kids completely fell apart. Low blood sugar and lack of sleep, I presume. I (stupidly) had them fold three wash baskets full of laundry before they ate, so we were pretty much in full crisis mode by the time I handed them their eggs and toast. The meal over, they were sweet as angels. After all these years of immersion parenting, you’d think I’d learn TO JUST FEED THE LITTLE TWITS when they start acting up.

But back to yesterday. I had big plans for my alone time: a walk, lots of writing, some reading, etc. I did the walk—that part was good—but it went downhill from there. I did a little writing, but couldn’t get into a groove, so I gave up and tried to read. But then I just got sleepy. So I ate a chocolate peanut butter ice cream cone and tried to read/write some more. But the sleepiness persisted. So I had two more helpings of ice cream. And then I fell asleep anyway. Whatever. Apparently, I am no good at producing anything if I’m not under pressure.

I skipped supper (unless you count the ice cream as supper) and drove into town to attend a dramatic reading of Ariel Dorfman’s Death and the Maiden. (I think they might perform it again in the fall. Locals, it’s worth seeing. Difficult, but very worth it.)

And then I came home and ate carrot sticks and nachos.

P.S. The photo has nothing to do with the post, just in case you were wondering.

This same time, years previous: sourdough waffles, fancy strawberry shortcake