to my dear and faithful readers...

Doesn't that title make it look like I'm about to quit blogging? As if. But, like my cousin Di, you may have rather desperately wondered where I've been. I pride myself on making people feel desperate. As if. No, I've just...not been blogging. Spending my time going on walks, getting sunburt, painting pots, gardening, working, working up a sweat, eating malt eggs, watching Q, shopping for shoes, and playing croquet. Or, as my dad in a toothache induced stupor called it, crochet.

I went over to my parents' for dinner, and one thing turned into another, and after a glass of wine, dinner, coffee, an ice cream cone, and beating up my not-so-small cousins for a while, I found myself playing croquet. At dusk. On the ever-so-smooth surface of my parents' back yard. How do normal people play croquet? I have no idea. Jon seems to pride himself on finding the worst terrain and oddest corners for wickets. Around the pine tree, across the cement walk, around a corner of each shed, through the raspberry bushes, up against the rhododendron, and across a stretch of bumpy grass. With each shoddy hit came Jon's exclamation, "Oh, it hurts!" But he got his dues when, nearing the finish line in almost complete darkness, he lost his ball in the heap of odds & ends under the pine tree. It hurt, but he had to forfeit. Strangely enough, the ball was later discovered under a bush on the opposite side of the yard. Cousin Donovan,* the competition crushed, rallied to finish first, and I managed to beat out Alexis in a last minute show of skill.

I promised Di I'd show her the shoes - but that'll have to wait until tomorrow when I've gotten some sleep. I swear, I can barely remember the days when weekends meant sleeping in. Now weekdays are my only chance, and not many of those if Kate & I take up running again. (Oddly enough, the shoes motivate us to run. Run for the shoes! You can do it! We begin tomorrow.)

*Being, of course, the cousin of our cousin-by-marriage. We feel that Cousin Donovan has a pleasantly Dickensian ring to it and usually employ the name in his absence.

"what's a pascha?"

Easter was, as always, the same and different. It's one of those times of year when all the previous years come washing back over you. Like a piece of paper folded accordion style, and all the Paschas line up together, and you think, "remember last year when..." or "when I was a kid this was always my favorite part." And it's somehow larger than just a memory - the other years are right there next to you. You could maybe jump over and be seven again, fighting sleep until you give in and tuck yourself away under a pew.

Recipe for a good day:

Around 3:30 am, after a plateful of heavenly Ethiopian food, snag the first Welsh cake you've had in years. Sprinkle with nostalgia.

(When Bronwen and I were in middle school, we would take Holy Friday off and hang out at her house. We felt very virtuous, fasting, and would drink bowls of water with spoons, pretending it was food. And her mom would bake Welsh cakes to bring to the feast. The smell of them baking? Pure torture.)

Toss in a scant five hours of sleep, and awaken to the smell of cream-cheesey puff pastries baking. Pack your Batdorf & Bronson, your French press, the buttermilk, and the pasties. Proceed to your parents where you brunch upon buttermilk pancakes, pasties, bacon, melon, and potatoes. Have your dad tell a liberal dose of Old Order stories, like the time they were punished for leaving a door unlocked by spending the night guarding the dumpster, or how when they were novices and had to fast every Friday, they could smell the pizza that the house mother & father snuck in at night. Go through at least three pots of coffee.

Return home. Bake macaroons. Prepare strawberry-mozzerella-spinach salad. Proceed to Kate's mom's house.



Discuss invasion by aliens, chickens, women becoming fighter pilots, who took all the mozzerella balls from the salad bowl, the glories of lamb, and whether or not God answers prayers like "please send me a laptop."



Traipse across the street to the church for Agape Vespers. In other words, the rowdiest service of the year. Sing loudly. March across church lawn singing Christ is Risen. If you're too old for the Easter egg hunt, take pictures instead.



Oh, and hold some bunnies. You're never too old for that.



Then go to the basement and enjoy the bounty of the chocolate fountain - sticking the strawberries in is half the fun. And cheesy desserts, and ice creamy desserts. You must get chocolate all over your face. It's required.

confession

I feel quite smug when the Orthodox Easter is gorgeous and sunny as all get-out, not a cloud in the sky, almost hot: weather that is clearly superior to that of the Other Easter (on which the sun was struggling to shine through and a sweater was essential). Because, you know, God is clearly on our side here and sends us blissful weather as a sign that we have used the proper guidelines to determine the feast.

Egghunt, sunset, church lawn, Pascha. 

holy saturday

  1. "WHAT? More church?" says Q.

  2. Sisters whispering while vestments are switched from purple to white.

  3. The infamous pond, wherein I was baptized. Sadly, after the demise of the pier, baptisms take place in a tub next to the pond. 

strange things

I just saw that Sal tagged me...and since I haven't done one of these in a while (and it's delightfully loose-ended), here goes.

Six Strange Things

1. Most years during Lent I have huge cravings for eggs. This year I'm fantacizing about deviled eggs, something I've never craved before.

2. I was raised in a cult. But that's old news.

3. I used to sing songs from musicals to put myself (and my sister) to sleep. She would make requests. We had a special fondness for Man of La Mancha. If I'd been my mom, I would've been dying of laughter in the next room.

4. I clear my throat a lot. Tiny little clears that don't really do anything. Kate likes to point it out to me. I can't stop.

5. I will recognize you as a kindred spirit immediately if you are willing to split dishes when out for brunch - one eggy dish and one pancake-y dish - because I find it impossible to decide between the two brunch genres.

6. After being known for the way I squeeze out my teabags thoroughly, I now feel guilty on the occasions when I fail to do so.

You - you out there. Yeah, the one snickering at me. I tag you.

Psalm to the Grocery Store

The people were a hungered, and their stomachs didst cry out, and they said to themselves, let us go out and procure the fruits of the earth for the days that are to come, the days in which our stomachs shall be satisfied. And lo, they didst rise up and go to the grocery stores, which did yield forth their fruit in good season. Firstly the Trader Joe's, source of moderately priced cheeses, of provolone and cream and mozzarella, of butter and buttermilk, of heavy whipping cream and cream for coffee. Yea, it did yield also the fruits of the earth, spinach and cantaloupe. From thence they went forth to the New Seasons, which also in its turn did produce rich rewards. The chicken legs were laid out and weighed, even unto four pounds, and the bacon unto half a pound. The freezer cases poured forth puff pastry and the people did rejoice. The pints of strawberries were numerous, from generation to generation. The coffee aisle, source of joy, rained Batdorf & Bronson upon the heads of the believers. And they didst rejoice, they and their growling stomachs, for the feast that is to come.

interpretive scarf dance

I don't feel like I've written much lately - just relying on pictures to pull this thing along - partly because I don't know what I have to say lately. My mind feels like a broken record - I woke up at oh-dark-thirty last night and couldn't the same three thoughts to stop cycling through my brain. That and I couldn't get church music out of my head. I kept trying to think of nice blank things, like a snowbank or clean white sheets, but that didn't really help. I shouldn't complain because I ended up sleeping something like a rediculous ten hours, minus the time spent tossing & turning & obsessing, which probably wasn't that long, but it always feels like forever when you can't get back to sleep.

Yesterday was a good kind of draining - but accounts for needing all that sleep. I came face to face with all the little ways in which I've been forgetful and lazy lately. The fact that I forgot to tell the library in advance that I needed to leave early to go to Pre-Sanc and Unction (something I could have told them this time LAST YEAR). The fact that it was my turn to clean the breakroom in March and I left it until yesterday. Etc. I feel so bright and happy when I'm on top of things and plan in advance and am orderly. It makes my head hurt when I pull shit like that and make people rearrange their schedules at the last minute just because I was lazy.

But then spending four hours in church put me right again. Go read Kate's account of the Tour de France - excuse me, Holy Week. I watched Q for part of the services, which is something I rarely do for any length of time because she tends to ping-pong between her mom & grandmother. But I was standing by a bench, which offers endless opportunities for diverting oneself excessively (especially if one is two-almost-three), and then I took her to the playroom during the gap between services, which pretty much sealed her affections in my favor.

During Unction she asked very politely if she could get a scarf, so we got one from the cabinet in the narthex which is filled with various hideous head-coverings left behind by other parishoners (or, more likely, secretly dumped there to get them out of their houses). Q chose a particularly lovely blue & red polka dot number, long enough to trail on the floor as she wore it. Back in our places, during particularly solemn moments of prayer, she took to practicing what I like to call her "interpretive scarf dance." It would start harmlessly enough, with her tossing the slick polyester over her head, followed by an effort to throw the ends over her shoulders. As soon as it was in place, she'd whip it off, flail her arms, hop a few times, perhaps throw herself on the floor, and start over.

Today I'm torn between weaning myself off food in preparation for Holy Friday's strict fast or taking this last opportunity for a few solid meals. Technically, no food from what, sunset tonight? until Saturday afternoon. Me, I need at least a snack on Friday night or Saturday morning. I'm not made of that strong a metal. I went with the "smoothie and a faux-chicken burger" option. Oh look, it's time to go to church again.

Show & Tell

Via blackbird: Considering wearing this for Pascha - either Saturday night or Sunday day. Maybe, maybe not. Also a to-be-worn-to-a-wedding option. 

Last year's Easter outfit, courtesy of a sale at Hanna Andersson. Love it. It's become a little unflattering since I stopped, um, running, but hopefully will look good again by August, when I plan to wear it to one of the trio of weddings. 

This was yesterday's library/church outfit - thrift store skirt (it's got a Greek key pattern), white t-shirt, Old Navy sweater borrowed from Kate's closet. Q greatly enjoyed zipping & unzipping the sweater and trying to put the hood up. 

And this is what I'm wearing right now - Nikki McClure shirt, Gap jeans. And? It's warm enough to not need a sweater. Hallelujah. 

the Other Easter

As I was leaving my cousins' on Sunday, Di said, "I hope this makes the blog!" Are you kidding? Serve me heaven in a grape leaf and not make the blog? Impossible. For the record, there were 99 of those little guys to start with, and shockingly there were leftovers.

Adults chatted and drank wine in the kitchen, while legos were constructed in the dining room and Mr. I-Just-Turned-Seven good-naturedly beat up anyone who walked through.

We feasted (no pictures because I was too busy breaking the fast a week early). After the table had been cleared of lamb, dolmades, Greek salad, rolls, potatoes, and vegetables baked in a heavenly broth, Diane asked, "how soon do we want dessert? Because I need to know when to take the ice cream cake out to thaw." We decided to take it out in ten minutes, then it would take a while longer to thaw, then we'd be ready for dessert. But, Di went ahead and got out the baklava and the macaroons. You can imagine what happened next.



A side story about the ice cream cake (correct me if I mess this up, Di): the East Coast Cousins were in town a week or two ago on a business trip. It was Tony's birthday, so Di wanted to celebrate. "Chocolate cake is his favorite," said Chris. So Di whips up a chocolate cake and presents it to Tony on the big day. "I made your favorite!" Tony's face falls. "Actually, ice cream cake is my favorite." Now, I wasn't there for this part, but I can just see the expression on Chris' face as he says gleefully, "No, it's MY favorite!" So, of course, as soon as Tony's gone, what do we have? Ice cream cake. Coincidence?

sweet victory

I am the ONLY result on a yahoo search for "a mean introvert." Oh yeah.

circa 1999

joe and harrison: from this... 

to this... 

to this. 2006: just turned seven and almost eighteen. 

the only thing I know to do is turn up the music

I go in fits and starts with music. I can go ages without really listening to anything, and then I'll become obsessed with a certain album or song for a while, and then drop it all again. The Animal Years came in the mail this week and I don't want to stop listening to it. While standing in line at the coffee shop (wretch that I am) I want the line to move more quickly so I can get home and turn it on. I turn it on while I do the dishes and make macaroons (for the Other Easter Dinner at Di's) and read. Have you listened to Girl in the War yet? Why not? Go.

Last night I was walking home from the Four Seasons when I heard one of my favorite sounds - bells ringing. Church bells. I adore the sound. I sometimes hear the bells on Sunday mornings, from the Catholic church around the corner. But it took me a second to remember last night that, aha, it's the Other Easter. They rang for a good long time, which is always pleasing, but it got me thinking about how early they hold "midnight" mass. It was, oh, eight-thirty. I'm used to Easter bells at a more respectable time - the dead of night.

Instead of Easter bells today, we had the rustle of palms being spread on the floor during the Great Entry. And hot cross buns.

But back to those Easter bells - and the dead of night. Our church is on a good bit of property, but those bells carry. Especially at midnight.

One year, when the church calendar dictated that Orthodox Easter (Pascha) fall on a different day than Other Easter, we were new converts with strong arms and an enthusiasm for bell ringing, and the neighbors hadn't gotten used to our ways. One neighbor became, apparently, alarmed by the noise. What would you do if bells started ringing at midnight? This neighbor called the police. Who sent an officer over to investigate. Who found a packed church with sleeping children on the floor and enough candles to constitute a fire hazard. Now, the neighbors are used to us, I suppose.

I can't wait to sing myself slightly hoarse.

And, I don't know if you've truly lived until you've directed a roomful of 1st & 2nd graders in re-enacting Lazarus being raised from the dead. And? Their ability to sit down and seriously discuss resurrection and the dual nature of Jesus ("It's hard to understand," says one) and the significance of riding on the foal of donkey constantly amazes me. And helps balance out the shrieking and running and so forth.

Junk drawer - a day late and a dollar short. But I just paid my taxes, so I've got a good excuse. The closest thing I have to a junk drawer is in this dresser/bedside table. All are junky drawers, here is the junkiest... 

Ibuprofin, cough drops, flashlight, suede protector, packing tape, pens, earring boxes, German crayons from Waldorfy school, Theraflu on the top layer. Underneath are colored pencils, stationary (although most is kept elsewhere in a box), and craft scissors. You know, the kinds with the squiggly edges. 

on tearjerkers, again

Last night I watched the final episode of Six Feet Under, and tonight I watched it again with commentary (and still cried in all the same spots, although not as hard) and it felt so, well, good. There were a hundred and one thoughts going around in my head, about grieving in general, fiction and grief, good endings, etc. What sticks out, though, I think, is fiction and grief. Sounds like a term paper, eh? Only it would have to be "The Uses and Meaning of Grief in the Novels of Virginia Woolf" or something along those lines.

But - I love fiction (novels, film, etc.) for its ability to throw me into different lives. To feel different experiences. From the inside, the outside, wherever. Gathering up all these thoughts and reactions and lives for the sheer pleasure of it. And the usefulness of it, like referring to an example a friend has told you about. The "Well, my friend had this happen to her..." type of example. Or the usefulness of, apparently, grieving things you didn't know you needed to grieve. Nothing in particular, but it always feels healthy to have a good cry now and then (apparently every other day for me, lately). It's not generally smiled upon when you break down at work or in the middle of walking the dog or while you're picking up some bananas at the store (although some people find the shampoo/lotion/etc aisle to be very therapeutic), but sit down with a movie or a book and...well, some people still think you're crazy. I suppose what I'm so eloquently trying to say is that fiction pushes us where we need to go. Whether we know it or not. We gravitate towards what will serve us best.

In other news, I just started East, and ooh am I getting into it quickly. Lots of POVs, hint of mystery, a healthy dose of superstition, a polar bear, and names with significance. I always love books where the names are important.

I've been in a weird reading space, a distracted one, where I don't feel like sitting down with any particular book. I'll read a bit of The History of Love, a bit of Consider the Lobster, a bit of Rasmus and the Vagabond, a bit of last week's New Yorker...What do I do to take care of this problem? Put four more books on hold at the library, including a couple of YRCA* nominees.

Has anyone read God Went to Beauty School by Cynthia Rylant? We were looking for items to put up on our staff favorites wall for poetry month and a coworker handed it to me. I read the whole thing there at work. I thought it would be something entirely different than what it is. I love it. Go read it, it'll only take a few minutes. I would describe it as "funny and heartwarming" if I were in a cliched mood. I can't think of anything better, though.

When I was in that half-awake state this morning, I thought that each time my snooze went off it was a signal that I had more work to do - work that I was doing last night, where I basically audit paperwork. Why? Why must I feel like I'm at work when I'm half-asleep? And why does my imagination so vividly fill in the individual quirks for each item I audit? And why the hell would work be brought to me in bed?

Why is it that I have the energy to go on a 3 mile walk but not to do my taxes? I know, completely different kinds of energy, but still. I don't so much mind paying taxes as I despise the whole "doing" of taxes. It's a pain in the ass.

*Young Readers' Choice Awards, duh.

sunday confession

I cried harder watching Six Feet Under (episode ten, season five, if you must know) than I have, EVER, over a work of fiction. One solid hour (or is it forty-five minutes?) of tears streaming down my cheeks. Kate was the same. We were little wrecks, sitting here on the couch, clutching our tissues and glasses of wine. It started innocently enough, the kind of crying where you try to pretend you're not really crying. You're just, um, leaking a little bit. Maybe it's a little sad. Maybe you're developing allergies. But a few minutes into the episode we both gave up any pretension of stability and wept to our hearts content. Look up catharsis in a picture dictionary and you will find Kate and I on our red couch.

I'm a crier. I've been known to cry myself to sleep. I love a good tearjerker. I cried regularly through the last third of The Return of the King. I cry every time I read The Kitchen God's Wife. I cry during bad movies when they play the swoopy music designed to make you cry (and I resent it the entire time). But this, oh, this was crying. It was real life crying, pain & hysteria.

Is this healthy? And please leave any tearjerker suggestions in the comment box...

the mail, again

I just finished a letter to Bee, sealed it, slapped a Wild Thing on it, and headed out to the nearest drop box, since our afternoon mail delivery had already come. I was walking along, thinking about the fine weather and about fond postal memories, places I've lived and the routines that went with the mail, when an oversize vehicle whipped out of the Starbuck's parking lot and stopped, nearly in the street, to wait for a break in traffic. Never once did he look in my direction and see me, innocent pedestrian that I was. I wanted to preserve my right of way on the sidewalk but I couldn't think of anything to get his attention short of slapping his hood or shouting "hey you, I'm trying to walk here." I was tentatively stepping out, thinking the movement might catch his eye, when, predictably, he nearly ran me over. Or would've if I hadn't noticed his complete lack of awareness. There I would've lain, on the pavement, envelope clutched in a death grip, waiting for a more kindly passerby to scrape my body from the pavement and drop Bee's letter into the box (I was nearly there). How sad that would have been, a posthumous letter. Thank goodness it didn't come to that.

So back to the topic I was contemplating before I was so rudely nearly run over - the mail. A favorite topic. In this apartment, the ritual goes thusly. A postal worker usually comes by in the early afternoon, one or so, usually before I've had a chance to finish a letter. I can hear the mail clank into the box by the door and sometimes I'm so quick to check it that the USPS employee is still stuffing things into our neighbor's box. There've been a lot of wedding invite reply cards lately, which makes it necessary to do a thorough swipe of the box for any stragglers. The box is three blocks down, a nice little stroll.

At college I would check my mail up to three times a day - the boxes were a flight down from the cafeteria and conveniently on the way from my dorm to meals. I never locked my box and always located it by the Tahoe sticker a previous student had left on the box. Using the lock involved an average of three tries, about ten turns apiece. More than it was worth. Sometimes it got locked accidentally and I had to go look up the combo in the mailroom. Pain.

Even worse was the set-up in London (and even greater was my thirst for mail). The mailroom was in another building owned by the same organization, the same building as the computer lab and the laundry room. In Galway the mail came with a nice thunk through the slot in the door and one of us would race down the stairs for it. I never tire of thinking about letters and their not-so-little journeys from mailbox to mailbox.

chocolate update

So I never talked about how Green & Black's and I have been getting along. Well, last week (maybe Friday?) I went to the People's Coop which is in a lovely little building and is very tiny and has produce and bulk foods and a refridgerated section and about two shelves of other food. I procured a bar of Maya Gold, along with some soymilk. They didn't have any mint, which was what sounded really excellent, but the Maya was more than satisfactory. I'm limited to the dark chocolates at the moment, otherwise I might have deliberated for ages.

I managed to stretch that bar until yesterday. Five whole days! Then today I found myself at the park with K & Q. I'd brought a little picnic lunch, PB&J on sourdough and some grapes, and after lots of sliding and swinging and laughing as sliding about twenty times turned Q's hair into a mass of static, I thought to myself, "I'm halfway to Target. Might as well see what they've got." So after they went home, I headed out.

And in the parking lot of Target I ran into K's aunt & cousin who were running errands. "I'm actually just here for chocolate," I said, and we spent several minutes discussing favorite brands and flavors, and they accompanied me to the chocolate aisle where we all oohed and ahhed. K's aunt, who's undergoing treatment for breast cancer, said that she's not drinking coffee or alcohol anymore, and chocolate is one of the treats she still gets. We deliberated over their "suitable for vegetarians and vegans" selection and she picked out a bar Maya Gold, and I came home with another Maya and a Currant & Hazelnut to taste test, on Lily's recommendation.

words

Why isn't the word verification ever an actual word?

And speaking of words, The Meaning of Tingo just came in on hold for me.

Tingo (Pascuense, Easter Island) to take all the objects one desires from the house of a friend, one at a time, by borrowing them.

what's with today, today?

Yesterday was one of those days that started out in an excellent fashion - sunshine and walks in the park and finishing the quilt top and going to the fabric store to indulge in more gorgeous colors. And then work, which wasn't so bad at first, with cupcakes I made for a coworker's birthday and daylight savings, loathsome though it may be, providing more light to stream through the skylights and light up the warehouse. And I had plans to head over to my cousins, where it would be a regular cousin-fest with even more cousins in from out of town, and dinner to look forward to. And then I was overcome by raging PMS and my complete inability to solve a complicated timecard mess (even though I've been shown how several times, and each time it makes sense until I actually try to fix a real one) and the fact that the minutes were ticking past and I still had work to finish and it was already 9:30 and I just wanted to GO. So I rushed through the last bit of work, didn't clean up after myself, stormed to the bathroom to change into my civvies (ie, out of the uniform), stormed to my car, laden with my (previously containing cupcakes) Pyrex which I was sure I would drop in the parking lot and watch it shatter into a million pieces.

I was shaking with fury (who knows at what? that doesn't matter) and not feeling terribly social, but I thought I'd do a drive by and see if my parents' cars were still outside my cousins, it being now 10pm. They were, and all the lights were on, so I went in and my almost-seven cousin pulled me aside to play a game he'd made in school, which he rigged so that we tied instead of me losing. Then he offered me a choice of prizes: a shell with small change in it, a wallet with assorted papers, or a plastic box that had something to do with plastic fish. I don't know. I said I'd decide after I ate, and went to devour a plate of tamales. And all was well with the universe again.

Except for the incredibly freakish and disturbing dreams I had, which involved dead bodies, decapitated antelope (you were responsible for that part, Di), and spending the night in the library as a flood raged outside.

sidetracked

I'm finding the sewing machine quite addicting. But, like any drug, there are the downsides, my frequent battles with the bobbin, the breaking of threads, the getting the pins caught in my blouse as the fabric whips through. It's easy sewing, just long straight lines. I pick up a row of squares, do a visual check to make sure I'm not screwing up the pattern, line up the edges neatly, pin every couple squares to keep things steady, roll up the finished rows so they don't drag on the not-quite-clean floor, pull the pedal back towards me (I'm in a constant struggle with it to keep it in just the right spot), flip the foot down, and hope for the best. I'm not really caring if the corners aren't neat. The blues and greens and browns are soothing and make me want to take a nap with it.

My main problem is that I'm so easily distracted. I'm used to multi-tasking - having a snack, listening to music, flipping back and forth between email and blogs, getting up to clean for a minute, sitting down with a cup of tea, picking up a book - it's heard to just sew. I could listen to music or my book on tape, but once I start a seam I'm in the zone and can't really hear it above the machine. But as soon as that row is sewn on - I have to get up, move around, have a bite of chocolate, write a little blog entry...

Oh, and I finally caved in to the whole flicker thing, and it's down at the bottom of my sidebar. Templates are like a maze to me and that was the only spot I felt safe sticking it without messing the whole thing up.

Yesterday we were feeling restless, so Lu & Mom & I hit the gorge. One of the top reasons to live in Oregon. 

We hit all the waterfalls along the historic highway. No hiking, since Lu was feeling poorly, but we could take in the roar and the spray and so forth. 

This plaque cracked me up. Especially the bit about the drama and poetry of the highway. I mean, the scenery has drama and poetry in it, but not the highway itself. 

Clearly, Lucy needed to get out of the house. She claimed she had three days left to live. 

smoothies

I just got back from taking my sister to visit our family naturopath (for a persistent cold/cough/something (by "family" I mean that he was the one who delivered my brother, and the one whose office we went to as kids). Lucy was there last week to get antibiotics, and while she was waiting for him to finish up with other patients, he handed her a twenty and told her to go around the corner and get some yogurt. "Two big ones, plain, and a bunch of those little flavored Brown Cow yogurts." "That's a lot of yogurt," she said. And he said, "I'm going to make smoothies for everyone. Oh, and get some food for yourself, too."

Today she had blood drawn, and left her half-eaten banana behind on the table. While she was filling out paperwork, he comes out to the front office, holding up the banana, mischievous look in his eye, waiting for her to notice. Which takes about, oh, five minutes because she's fairly oblivious. "This is unsterile," he says with a straight face. Then he goes back and brings out the sweater she left behind. "This is unsterile, too."

My favorite story, though, is about when my mom was in labor and Dr. Dan and his wife (a midwife) were at our house, and their kids, naturally, were playing in the front yard (what, doesn't your doctor bring his kids along to births?) And my mom screamed at one point and startled his son so badly that he fell out of the walnut tree.

Time for a smoothie, speaking of...