When my grandmother turned 95 a couple of years ago I asked her if she felt her age. She paused and said, “No, more like 93.”
This winter I felt as though I had crawled into an ancient body, an old mind, and a withered spirit. I don’t mean ancient as in wise, I mean old crone, haggard, spittle in the hair, claw-feet, and whatever else. I had fangs but not in the sexy vampire way. In leaving behind The Year of The Shit – heretofore known as TYOTS – I am turning to bright foods, dishes that please the eye, ones I can make with my claw-hands and beak.
Yesterday, I gave each kid a task. Julia made the soy-apricot glaze, Will chopped vegetables (he is 4 so “chopping” is really just cutting into irregular pieces and asking me fifteen times ‘is this okay?’), Jamie walked the dog, and Daniel was busy with his own cooking project (more on that tomorrow). My job was boiling the noodles, separating them with chopsticks, eyeing the kids, and drinking a beer.
I do my job very well, thanks!