Yesterday afternoon, I took the kids over to my parents’ property so they could run around with sharp, pointy sticks and play with fire (or, as the case may be, stick the sharp, pointy sticks in the fire and then run around with them) while I went for a walk.

My husband and older son were already up there working. When schedules allow, my son has been getting up early to hitch a ride over to the property with his dad, or sometimes he’ll ride the 2 ½ miles on his bike.

After a full day of work, my son glows with sunburn, sweat, and pride at being able to wear a tool belt and his papa’s straw hat and work boots. He’s pretty pumped about having his own packed lunch and getting to hang out with The Men.

I confess, seeing my son caulking boards up there yesterday, my heart swelled up just a bit. Finally, after all these years of trying to get him to jump in and apply himself already, he’s finally doing it.

However, my back-patting got cut short first thing this morning when I assigned him the simple tasks of scrubbing the bathroom floor and sweeping the porches. He did a staggeringly horrendous job and then had a hissy fit when I insisted they be redone properly. (I won.)

So, to summarize, the gig’s not up yet. But still, it’s nice to see glimpses of the future.

(And, to be clear, it’s the hard worker that I see in the future, not the hissy fitter. Call me Pollyanna, but in cases such as these, I’m an eternal optimist.)

This same time, years previous: polyester bras

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