stock.

Lately, I am:

accidentally killing plants
separating earth from sky
eating lots of noodles
celebrating birthdays
mourning losses
remembering Amanda
missing Seattle
reading Rilke and Robertson Davies
intrigued by Judaism
polishing up writing samples
buying new suits
unleashing surprises
riding the bus
doing Beth impressions
using chopsticks incorrectly (incurable)
watching magic happen on the pianoforte
whispering Italian
spending time with our community groups
bowling the HECK out of some capri-haters
wondering whether I will see my girls this Thanksgiving
banished to the realm of football
painting houses
filling space.

O, Great Pumpkin

A potentially failed attempt to make Paula Deen's Pumpkin Gingerbread Trifle for tonight's college community group function was, at least, educational. For one thing, I learned that regular canned pumpkin is NOT a substitute for pumpkin pie filling. And I accidentally made butter.

Yes, butter. And people wonder how I spend my free time.

Jessica's Fail-Proof Butter Recipe

1. It is freaking ridiculous to attempt to hand-whip 4 pints of heavy cream into a frenzied, sugary, oh-so-delicious state. Recognize this, and attempt it anyway (also: you are cheap. Let's be friends and not buy kitchen essentials together.)
2. When, in the course of human events, it becomes necessary to prove to oneself that one can hand-whip 4 pints of heavy cream into whipped, a small voice will insist in minute 18 that a blender is a suitable alternative to an electric mixer, that it can at least "speed the process along." Listen.
3. Set the blender on high. Blend. Wonder why you own a blender but no mixer.
4. When the consistency of the top two inches of your cream looks sufficiently whipped, spoon it out. Gasp, because what you see at the bottom of your blender will be...
5. ...at least 6 inches of pure, unadulterated butter.

The accounting.

I suppose that, at some point, I should tell you what I've been up to. Or I can make another empty promise about getting to it "someday" when I've got a little more time than I have now. Choose your pick.

The weekend ahead involves more road tripping. This time we're venturing deep into the heart of New England, breaking out the tenting gear for one last comfortable hoorah before the weather makes camping a question of endurance rather than delight. I'll be retracing steps and forcing myself into the role of unwanted tour guide as we head west into the Berkshire Mountains, stopping here to pick up some wayward Connecticutians before turning north into Vermont. (Bryan: "But if we actually stop there--if we successfully take this trip--what will you talk about incessantly every. Single. Time we are west of Springfield?")

I am expecting great things: iced coffee, waking up to a slight chill rising off the shores of Lake Champlain, the triumphant return of the Tiger Dog, mimosas at Penny Cluse, the great unwashed masses descending upon the town of Burlington, small streets and perfect clapboard churches set against impossibly beautiful New England hills, overuse of the word "quaint," flea markets, maple syrup, as much hiking as we can fit in, cheddar and apple sandwiches, campfires, and French in the air.

It almost makes a girl miss Canada.

Leviathan

The bus was already full when I got on at Harvard Avenue this morning. I stopped midway through the aisle, choosing my spot based on where I thought I'd be most out of the way of harried commuters rushing in or out. Grabbing the pole to my left, I opened the book my uncle lent me this weekend...and felt a gentle, exploratory tugging at the bottom of my shirt. I looked down, alarmed. A small boy, alone and with eyes like a cat's, was pulling on the sheer material of the makeshift fabric belt that dangled just below the edge of my shirt. He couldn't have been more than four years old.

"Hullo," I smiled -- relieved.

"Hi."

"Are you going to school?"

"No." More tugging. Now, he batted the loose end of my belt. "I am going to see many animals. Two WHOLE turtles! You can't come, either."

"Of course not. But how fun for you!"

Growing bolder, he pulled the fabric till the knot I'd hastily tied began to loosen. I kept waiting for some adult to turn around and reprimand him, for some young mother taking a moment's rest to become aware of what he was doing and call his name sharply. He's four, I found myself thinking. He's bold for four. Flattening out the fabric with his left hand, he made a puppet over his right.

"That's very clever," I said. "Are you making a costume for your hand?"

"No, silly!" He leaned in conspiratorially. "I shouldn't tell you this, but I am actually a dinosaur. There is no costume. That is why I am going to see the turtles. Dinosaurs eat turtles. Did you know that? It's true."

He let out the barest of imitation roars. I laughed, to his delight. The light changed, and a seat opened up in the back of the bus.

"I have to go now," I told him, "but I'll keep your secret...for now. If I promise not to tell the turtles you're coming, will you let me go?"

He nodded. I'd been awake for hours, but he started my day.