This is the reason I got up this morning.

Okay, so not really.

I mean, it was partly the reason, but not all of the reason.

The other reasons I got up were because the light sky outside my bedroom window made the dream inside my head turn off.

And I got up because I dreamed that my brother was flying to Qatar where he’ll be working for a couple months (and consequently missing the big bash that he talked me into hosting, the stinker). (Not stinker for making me host it but stinker, royal stinker, for missing it.) And I was all like man, did he just go and fly halfway around the world without calling me first? The stinker! (He called me this afternoon from the airport. Now he can go halfway around the world.)

The other reason I got up is because I remembered we had gotten a fresh load of library books the night before and I knew if I got busy I could get quite a few things done while the kids lost themselves in the mountain of books.

The other reason I got up was because, while I lay there thinking about plane trips and library books, I thought I heard one of the kids calling for me which made my whole body tense in preparation for a forthcoming leap out of bed and charge down the hall to the offending child’s room where I would attempt to hiss the twerp into silence.

The noise, however, was just a barking dog.

But I certainly couldn’t go back to sleep after that adrenaline rush. I needed coffee.

Besides, the other half of the bed was empty and I was curious as to what the dude who sleeps there was up to. (He was cleaning.)

About the time I threw my covers back, I recalled yesterday’s lunch, which is what you see in the pictures. And then I got all sorts of hungry and excited. I thought about making myself another skillet-full right off the bat for breakfast but then decided to wait.

And now, several hours later, I just finished my lunch, and boy oh boy, was it worth the wait. While the kids slurped up their green smoothies (ever since the spinach has come up, they’ve been begging me to make them) and munched on thick slices of freshly-baked sourdough bread smeared with peanut butter and drizzled with honey, I plowed into my made-to-order lunch and proceeded to rave profusely. (The kids just rolled their eyes and said no thank you when I stabbed loaded forkfulls in their general direction.)

I got the idea for my lunch from Julie but ended up changing it just a bit. Because yesterday, when I was on my way back in from raiding the garden for spinach and a couple baby purple onions, I passed by the lettuce patch and the fresh scent of new dill fronds—they’re coming up all over the place—caught my imagination so I snatched up a few.

In the kitchen, the pot that I had earlier used to fry up a pound of bulk sausage, was still sitting on the stove. Into the kettle I tossed my chopped onions and a little drizzle of olive oil. A teensy bit of sausage (maybe a tablespoon?) was next. And then a couple handfuls of torn spinach. I stirred it around till the leaves began to darken ever so slightly and then added a spoonful of leftover cooked rice. As soon as the spinach appeared to droop a little (not wilted, and definitely not cooked—it should still retain some crunch), I dumped the contents of the pan onto my plate where I added the finishing touches: some crumbled feta, a very generous squeeze or two of lemon, lots of fresh dill fronds (at least a tablespoon, and maybe two), and several grinds of black pepper. (Today’s lunch included some sliced baby radishes as well.)

This salad has made some of the best lunches I have had in a long time. It is deeply satisfying, thanks to the sausage and rice, and yet brisk with all the bright springtime flavors.

Lemony Spinach and Rice Salad with Fresh Dill and Feta
Inspired by Julie

This salad can be served at room temperature or cold, which means it’s perfect for packed lunches.

Feel free to experiment with different types of rice, orzo, quinoa, or any other grain that tickles your fancy.

I do not measure when making this salad; the guesstimated measurements are to give you a general idea.

a little olive oil, bacon grease, or butter
1-2 baby onions, chopped
a couple handfuls of fresh spinach, torn
1 tablespoon cooked bulk sausage, optional
1-2 scoops (about ½ cup) cooked rice
1 tablespoon feta cheese
1-2 tablespoons fresh dill fronds
1-2 tablespoons fresh lemon juice
sliced radishes, optional
freshly ground black pepper

Cook the onions in a little fat. Add the cooked sausage, if using, and the spinach. Once the spinach has started to darken just a little, add the cooked rice. After about a minute of cooking and stirring, when the spinach is slightly droopy though still crisp, dump the contents of the pan onto a serving plate. Top with the remaining ingredients and dig in.

This makes enough for one large serving.

This same time, years previous: hummus and rhubarb sorbet

This weekend we will have a bunch of people descend upon our house to eat and sleep and play and I can’t wait. My whole life is revolving around the event, what to cook, what to clean, where to sleep everyone, etc. For the last month we’ve had an ongoing list of all the gory details (much of the stuff needed to get done anyway but got added to the list so that we could pace ourselves).

Despite our carefully penciled lists—first, a column for each week and now a column for each day, and some days have several columns each—my husband still goes about approaching the festivities in his own special way. Which means he spends prime work time tackling projects that we did not even discuss.

Now, lest you think I am criticizing him, let me explain. My husband has a unique way of working, and it is very different from how I get work done. I clean methodically, with a list that I check frequently to note my progress. I adhere to the belief that cleaning involves the basics, like picking up, dusting and vacuuming. John, on the other hand, cleans like a whirling dervish, one who spins off on side tangents.

Like painting the picnic table.

And like painting the kitchen stools,

with the help of all of the (thrilled) children, no less.

I can’t complain because those are both things that really needed to be done (plus, when strongly encouraged to focus, he attacks the bathrooms and floors with the same intense ferocity)—I just didn’t think they needed to be done at this time when so many other things, like installing a screen door, building shelves, and installing my magnetic knife strip, really needed to get done.

But as you can see, he’s done those things, too.

Of course, I’ve been known to stray from the list, too, so I don’t have much room to talk. On Saturday, in the midst of John and the kids’ paint fest, I took shelter in the kitchen to make a margarita cake.

Because that’s a really important thing to do when my to do list is a mile long and boring as a dried up old bone.

Perhaps John and I aren’t so very different after all?

Of course, on top of everything else the weather has to go and give me fits. This week we’re having 75-degree sunny gorgeousness, but starting Saturday it’s calling for solid rain for days. This wet outlook has given me a serious case of the Triple Ds: I am daunted, depressed, and deeply disturbed. I moaned about it to John a dozen too many times (he ought to consider it an intensive course in how to handle a bummed-out me—he could put it on his resume), and wallowed in the depths for awhile.

But then I read this line in Misha’s blog—Rain shouldn’t stop you. There are always slickers and fleece hats. And then set out a towel by the front door—and I started to feel slightly up. I also resolved not to look at the weather anymore (but then I peeked this morning—no change).

So anyway, that’s what’s up with us these days. I’ve been cooking a little here and a little there, squirreling away the finished scones, granolas, marshmallows, etc, in jars and freezers. I hauled the plant pots out of the toolshed and stuffed them with bright colors, (mostly) ridded the front porch of spider webs, and washed curtains and bedding.

It’s starting to feel good around here and I’m beginning to think we need to host weekend bashes more often, because no matter our cleaning-method differences, it appears that both John and I work well with deadlines.

Margarita Cake
More a formula than a recipe, and inspired by—oh, cwap, my delicious bookmark thingy is down. I’ll update as soon as it’s back up.

Add 1-3 tablespoons of lime zest in your favorite plain yellow or white cake batter. As soon as the cake comes out of the oven, brush the top with 1/4 cup of tequila. Ice the cake with buttercream that has been jazzed up with 2 tablespoons each of fresh lime juice and tequila. Sprinkle more lime zest over the cake.

I think this could be made even more margarita-y with the following changes:
a) make it in a layer cake, and after brushing the cakes with tequila, invert them on a rack and brush the bottoms with a hot lime-sugar syrup, and
b) put a layer of lime curd underneath the buttercream (for just the tops, not the sides, of the cake).

P.S. Completely off-topic, but you need to know this: canned apricots and pandowdies were made for each other.

Take a quart of soft-to-the-point-of-mushiness apricots, add a couple tablespoons of cornstarch that has been mixed with a half cup of sugar, heat till thickened and dump in a pie pan. Lay a piece of buttery pie pastry over top and brush with cream and sprinkle with sugar. Bake till bubbly and brown. Take the pandowdy out of the oven, slash it vigorously with a table knife, and return it to the oven for another five minutes.

Cool to room temperature and serve with whipped cream.

“Get up! Psst, get up!”

My eyes pop open and struggle to focus on the clock. It reads 5:59 am. The rousing isn’t directed at me. In fact, it’s all the way at the other end of the hall, one girl to another, but I have spent the last dozen years of my life conditioning myself to wake at the slightest child-made noise.

The stairs creak as several pairs of feet tip-toe down. I groan and roll over. I want my coffee and computer. How long will I have to wait till my tray arrives?

I lay in bed for 15 minutes, listening (there are no noises, hmm) before heading downstairs to investigate. I’m halfway down the stairs when the kitchen explodes in panic, running feet, and frantic voices. “She’s up!” and “Stop! Don’t come down!”

“Okay, okay,” I say. “Can you please make me my coffee? And I want my computer. Now.” To the male parental figure who is feigning sleep on the sofa, I say, “Help them.”

Soon my coffee arrives. And then a little later my youngest daughter, apronclad, shows up with my reading glasses. “Everything stinks down there. We burned the butter.”

When the tray arrives, it is mounded with an impossible amount of food. Four eggs? Or maybe six? There are also two thick slabs of toast, a jar of cherry jam, and a piece of margarita cake. I have to laugh at the cake. My kids sure know what makes me tick.

The eggs are incredible, moist and light, and I am surprised to learn that Papa had nothing to do with them.

Then the littles, giggling with excitement, give me their cards. And the bigs, each bearing a half, deliver their jointly-made card—but wait! Oh my, look at that! It’s a book!

They had cut out our faces from some old photos and glued them on the pages. My daughter decorated the pages, and my son wrote the poetry, riddled with misspellings (for example, “poems” is spelled “powoms”).

So this is what they had been doing last night when they were holed up in my son’s room for hours on end.

Here, I’ll give you a sample:

When It Was Messy
There was a time
back in our prime
when it was a mess
we had to confess
when it was just cleaning
and also the weaning
and that’s the story of
mom and us.

And this one:

Here we are all
cozy and small.

Quite suddenly, my eyes spring a leak. My children’s goofy, round faces beaming up at me from their heart-shaped picture cutouts—it pierces me through. They are growing up and all too soon this will all be just a memory, waaaaaah!

I blow my nose, wipe my eyes, hug my daughter (who had promptly pressed up hard against me as soon as the tears started to squirt), and read on.

This is us
so why all the fuss.

And,

So long, farewell, auf
wiedersehen good-bye.
Good-bye, good-bye, Mom.
We all love you.

They finished off the letter with their names and a torrent of X’s and O’s.

So, for a little post-letter analysis. According to my children, I
1. Fuss a lot.
2. Am obsessed with cleaning.
3. Equate messes with sins and make my children confess them.
4. Need to take a chill pill.
5. Have taught them they are past their prime at the wise old age of nine. (And what do they think of me? That I have half a leg in the grave?)
6. Nursed babies for as long as they can remember.
7. Traumatized my children when I weaned them. (I mean, really! How many kids talk about weaning in their mother’s day cards? Anyone? Anyone?)
8. Have encouraged so many viewings of The Sound of Music that they now can no longer simply say good-bye, but instead have to sing-write it, and in German.

This same time, years previous: warts and all