Early on Sunday morning, I squished my eyes closed tight, clamped my hands over my ears and tra-la-la-ed while my three kids relished in the delight of an entirely self-choreographed, chocolated, Easter breakfast. At one point I overheard the eldest advise the youngest to ‘listen to her body’. The youngest stopped munching and held silent and still, her head cocked to the side, for whole, long moments: LUCKY I CAN’T HEAR MY BODY TELLING ME ANYTHING!
Not long after, we piled in the car with packed lunches and headed for the hills. We found a walking track, noted the cool and the damp and the
After a while, the voices calmed and those three kids fell back into themselves:
The vague plan was to hang out in the hills for the day – at least ’til the Mr stumbled across a chestnut tree.
The day became foraging for chestnuts,
hoping like heck a spiked meteorite wouldn’t plummet to earth, via a human head.
We rushed home – quicksticks! – for fire-building, roasting and toasting. Spent the afternoon and early evening in the backyard, by the fire, babysitting those chestnuts,
drinking tea, listening to just one more Harry Potter chapter, waiting for spur-of-the-moment, Pineapple Upside-Down Cakes to emerge from the oven. More chocolate was consumed. More Mama eyes were averted.
The Chief Chestnut Roaster (aka Mr Myrtleandeunice) noted the knit-knit-(not-stopping)-knitting of the Rubble jumper,
and suggested rustic hunks of Pineapple Upside-Down Cake, a perfectly viable dinner. He reckoned that was the kind of wisdom he’d be happy to be quoted on.
A Sunday packed to the brim and overflowing and runneth over-ing with GOOD.
Monday night dinner: virtuous, brownest rice; holier-than-thou broccolini. Tonight: less smug, (buttery) brussel sprouts and chestnuts.
Just all ’round YUM.