Pencil and chalk

Mechanical pencil is being agreeable tonight. May have something to do with breaking lent and having a beer because it's the eve of a state holiday. Am relaxed and getting liberal with my chalk.

Nose, nose, EYES.

St. Patrick's Day

In my life, I have had four really memorable meals. Nothing seasons food like hunger and exhaustion.

1990: instant rice and powdered chicken gravy. I was 10 years old, in camp at Alford Lake, and had hiked for 12 hours over Baldpate mountain in upstate Maine

I looked at a picture of Baldpate just now, and it's tiny. I remember it being a lot bigger. I had an enormous backpack, trembly child's legs, a hyperactive imagination, and no dignity or stamina. Most of the hike was on my hands and knees - miserable, complaining, and certain the birds were leading us to our deaths. By the time we reached the campsite, our limbs were ready to snap off, and that rice with gravy was the most delicious thing ever to reach my mouth. We would have eaten it raw, if the counselor hadn't had a spatula to slap our hands away from the little aluminum pot boiling over the camp fire.

2002: Thai eggplant and chicken green curry. Eaten on the living room floor, sitting on a towel, when I went into labor with Gavin.

2008: Scrambled eggs, rice, and bacon. Wolfed down between contractions in the hospital waiting room with my gown flapping open, before the nurses could find me and take it away.

2013: Jello and beef broth. Consumed while hanging over a birthing bar at a much better hospital that allowed laboring women to eat.

I should probably take up marathon running, just for the food appreciation.


So now St. Patrick's Day is beef-and-jello day. I bought two corned beef briskets and put a grasshopper pie on to set, then chased the family into the car and drove to Waikiki for the parade. Which it turned out we were actually walking in, behind a banner for the Royal Scottish Country Dance Society and in front of a man dressed like Saint Patrick. One of our members made the bold decision to come mostly naked and barefoot, wrapped around the waist with just a long piece of tartan. I plowed ahead with the stroller, trying not to imagine all the Instagram feeds I would be appearing in, right between St. Patrick and the Impractically Naked Man. The kids were given flyers for the Highland Games to pass out along the route. Twelve-year-old girls waved at Gavin. He waved back, a little uncertainly.

We met the cousins at the end of the parade, while my mother caught a ride back to fetch the car. A minute later she texted, "You have the car keys." Damn. We walked in a group back through Waikiki, Leif asking about every sprawling homeless person we stepped around. "Are they dead?" "I don't know, and I'm not going to check. Isn't that terrible? I feel bad. Move faster." We stopped at a crosswalk by the busiest stretch of road, with vans and buses whizzing by. My aunt stood at the edge of the sidewalk and asked her 6 year-old to press the crossing signal. Instead of walking behind her to press it, my cousin jumped out into the road to run around her. I screamed. Her hand shot out and yanked him back by the shoulder. A speeding bus missed him by inches.

NOBODY IS ALLOWED TO BE VIOLENTLY CREAMED IN FRONT OF ME OR MY CHILDREN ON A BIRTHDAY OR HOLIDAY OR ANY OTHER DAY.

ALL CAPS.

That child owes me a year on my life.

We headed home, ate corned beef, opened baby presents, threw the birthday girl into bed with only a bit of cake in her hair, and didn't realize until morning that we had forgotten the jello. I guess that will be the tradition.

And nobody took pictures, because I was helping with the cake. A lesson never learned.

One