All a man needs out of life is a place to sit ‘n’ spit in the fire.
Asier will be turning seven, and the common theme in the family is that we like him just the way he is.
“Asier, I forbid you to turn seven. I don’t want you to get older. I think you are perfect just the way you are,” I said chuckling.
“But, Daddy, if I don’t get older then I will never get married and have a family.”
“You have a good point, Asier. I guess we’ll allow another birthday… this time.”
I’ve been having back spasms, knots that have been causing me a fair bit of discomfort. It could be age, sitting too much, I don’t know. All I know is that I haven’t been sleeping particularly well. My brain, in its attempt to work the pain into the dream world has seen fit to do so in a novel way.
I’m nine months pregnant. Sigh, in the dream I am so ready to give birth, to get this baby out. Ugghh, the last month is the worst.
This is the second time I have this dream.
How come I can’t be doing something extreme? Wrestle a bear, cliff dive, hunt a buffalo. If I’m going to have back pain in my dream, it should be manly, I think. Just sayin’.
Did a little coffee tasting with Laura this morning. I compared three different roasts of varying darkness and one store bought one.
It was a mixed bag. The store bought roast, Café Mami en grano (whole bean) was actually pretty good. One of my roasts was burned. The lighter roast was fruity, but thin bodied. The final, the most recent batch, was chocolaty with a hint of fruit with a nice round body. I preferred it, but Laura actually picked the Café Mami store bought roast. I don’t know if I was swayed because I knew which was which. I trust her palette. Back to the drawing board.
Each demitasse cup had a tablespoon of grounds, over which I poured the just off the boil water and let it sit until the coffee was barely warm. I find that you get a the best sense of the coffee after you let it sit to almost room temperature.
You’ve entered an elite fraternity. I applaud you for your ability to eat so much Halloween candy that you puked. Bravo!
I have been toiling in my garden, mostly struggling, that is planting things and watching them die. I got sick and tired of fighting the weeds, the fungus, the sun, and I made a decision. If I would have weeds, let them be weeds I can eat, so I took the flowers of my basil dried them, and then scattered the tiny little black dots where ever they would fall.
I had had enough; to hell with you, garden. I had given up and was willing to try anything. And like having women throw themselves at you when you are taken, the damn things decided to grow. It’s like the things you want to grow know you want them to grow and don’t, and when you don’t care they seem to beg for your affections. That’s it, I don’t care about you either, you tomatoes, you corn, you zucchini. I don’t care about any of you. Are you buying this? Damn, I just jinxed it.
Frosted cinnamon rolls. They are cut up to spread the joy.
And some more croissants. They came out extra flaky this time. My process is improving. Look at those striations.
Made with wild yeast!
I haven’t seen such an inundation of rain in a long time. The downpour was so intense that streets had turned into rivers. I arrived home from picking up Javier and Asier at school.
“Hey, you guys want to jump around in the rain?”
They looked at me their eyes growing wide. “Really!?” they exclaimed.
“Yes, go put on your bathing suits. Let’s run around in the back yard.”
They scampered off opening up drawers, tossing toys aside in a desperate attempt to find their trunks.
“Last one outside is a rotten egg,” I said. “Hey Javier, it’s gonna be cold, are you sure you’re ready?”
“Oh yes.”
And out we went into the pouring rain, the drops as big as dimes, and visibility a mere hundred meters or so.
“Daddy, it’s cold, but this is awesome.” And they slipped and slid and rolled around on the terrace, running back and forth and jumping around.
We all felt like little kids.
Nos echamos a reír hoy por la mañana haciendo el desayuno de panqueques. De momento empecé a acordarme del abuelo de Laura, Papi Quique (Enrique) y como su nombre junto con los panqueques resultaba un trabalenguas.
Mi papi hace panqueques de paquete.
Pero el papá de mi papá, Papi Quique, hace panqueques perfectos.
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