Our days have been skeins of colorful yarns, beaded and knotted and purled, with small and large moments of shine and display, and the great rolls of them wind round this house like grapevine on the hills. We played and danced and ate and sang, we drew and colored and wrote and danced some more, running through the cold sprinkler on these oven days with shrieks and giggles, with music a heartbeat of the fun, and the background notes echoing always---the important stories of teenage Disney channel, with the bright-dressed, ever-lipsticked girls in floofed hair and impossible shoes and the vibrant young fellows with the energy and innocent preposterone of battling fawns.
Never-muted, the Mobius strip television and its tricked-out sets and its fashion-plate characters repeated the same angst and lame humor, with no obvious segue into the commercials, save for a perceptible upswing in the decibels and even-brighter voices hawking other shows, other STUFF.
Breakfasts were of the five-minutes-after arising sort, with a burst of cereal boxes and fruit and milk jugs and toast magically flitting onto the table as places were taken, the blessing said. I don’t think I’ve buttered this much bread in a week in all my life, for toast was a principal character in the array, and Lucky Charms spilled out of boxes and into the red bowls with astonishing speed, rattling down, being splooshed with milk, then almost immediate seconds spattered into the leftover milk in the bowl.
simple life---apples, toast, and sometimes a blob of peanut butter. And he, like Sweetpea, is fond of gathering
up all the silverware for himself. Cal
Strawberries were an ever-present punctuation, with their bright red shine and green topknot---sugar in the big berry bowl and the can of Redi-Wip hissing out poufy clouds onto plates, onto toast, into mouths.
Kit was quite an architect of breakfast, building elaborate displays of fruit, dip, sugar, and cream, and lingered over her building as she positioned a berry, munched another, dipped a third.
She ringed the berries with a fleet of dark cherries, spooned on sugar, topped that with the vanilla-cheese dip, then laid on a nice roof-tile of apple.
THEN there was a second story, capitaled with a great white dome and a cherry--all worthy of a fifties soda-jerk in a white paper hat:
I apologize for the blurry, mis-angled pictures---it’s a wonder there ARE any, considering my sticky fingers and the probability of cream and sugar on the lens.
The centerpiece was courtesy of Kit, from a little leftover milk jug, some of Ganner’s tomato-tying tape, and a trip out to the Rose of Sharon and the daisy bed. See those tee-ninecy white spots? That’s whipped cream, shot out of the can by a vigorous hand. Did you know that if you hold it right, you can shoot a spatter clear onto that wall over yonder?
Moiré non after some more clean-up.