I've been waking to a terrifying thought these last several mornings.
It often sneaks its way into my mind during middle moments.
You know, those moments where you're neither awake nor asleep.
*
If you must know, the entire thing started in the ladies locker room at the YMCA,
{which happens to be one of the finest places in the world.}
In fact, I discover all sorts of wonders about life, and living, and womanhood there.
Amaing, isn't it, what you can learn from a room full of naked, old ladies?
*
*
So, it seems the YMCA locker-room is also the birthplace of my constant, nagging morning thought.
*
It was there, where, upon leaving the shower room,
I found myself fresh out of the shower, shuffling behind a seventy-something woman toward my locker.
She had cellulite from hither to yon and the biggest back moles any human has ever owned.
Her shoulders were freckled. Her hair was grey.
Instantly the thought came,
"Oh. my. gosh. This is it, isn't it?"
*
No matter how vibrantly I smile for pictures, no matter how tightly I hold my children,
no matter how heartily I knead bread, no matter how purely I kiss my husband,
I'm headed straight for cellulite, freckles, and a back full of giant moles.
*
*
*
The thought struck instantly with a tinge of horror heading straight into my bosom
(a bosom which I now know will inevitably teeter between my belly button and arthritic knees in no time at all).
It sounds rather ridiculous now, but at the time the realization hit hard. I don't know why, but it did.
*
*
Which brings me to where I am now.
Mornings, lying somewhere between reality and dream, those words running themselves again and again through my brain,
*
This is it, isn't it?
*
Dusting the cobwebs of sleep from my eyelashes, I press rested feet to the floor and rise to the brilliant yellow of a new day.
This is it, isn't it?
*
I creep into the dark rooms of four sleeping children and kiss them tenderly awake.
This is it, isn't it?
*
I draw the family around a kitchen table, polka-dotted with yard-sale plates, and a heaping breakfast I baked with my own hands.
This is it, isn't it?
*
I shoo husband to work, babes to school, plunk myself around apile of laundry. Fold, pleat, iron, and straighten the house into submission, working to prepare a warm welcome for evening time when they all return home to me again.
This is it, isn't it?
*
I feed, read, bathe, pray, hold, bandaid and tuck my little lot of loved ones into their beds. Melt, exhausted ,onto our worn mattress, rest my head upon hubby's, drift to sleep with a list of things I didn't get done today sitting steadily upon my nightstand.
Then, I wake up and do it all again.
This is it, isn't it?
*
Yes. This is it.
But, of course. I already knew that.
Because, while I was pondering the freckles and moles and hunched shoulders of the woman at the YMCA,
She stopped in her tracks. Stopped, right there, enroute from the shower. Dripping wet and naked, she turned slowly toward me.
Her eyes were blue. They shined. They sparkled. They smiled.
She winked at me.
*"Sorry, darling. I'm a little slow these days. But, I'm still kicking."
That is so good, I told her. I winked back.
*
I slowed my pace even more and savored the walk back to my metal locker. I pondered a back bent under work. Shoulder rounded from giving hugs. Freckles arriving from summers on the beach.
*
This is it. Isn't it?
Waking up. Getting Up. Working hard. Eating right. Tasting life.
Kissing, tucking, growing, learning, getting, giving, letting go.
Winter, Spring, Summer, Fall.
Diets and cake and kisses sweet.
Tears and treats and bunioned feet.
A lifetime of experiences that make your eyes smile.
*
Yep. This is it.
And, it's so good.
*
Big, hairy moles and all.
Bite-Sized Beignets
with a sprinkling of Citrus Spiced sugar
These soft, sweet & puffy pieces of fried yeast dough are often found sitting under piles of powdered sugar. Though your waistline won't want you to eat them oft, you can knead up a batch in a matter of minutes, then plop the dough into a gallon-sized, lightly oiled ziploc bag and let it rise in the fridge overnight. Wouldn't a plate full of hot beignets, a bowl of banana's and a supful of cocoa make the perfect remedy for this final plague of chilly winter mornings? Yes. Yes, indeed. Add to the usual platter of powdered-sugar coated beignets a heavy dusting of homemade citrus-spiced sugar, and you may just discover that you're a morning person after all.
1 c. very warm water
1 T. yeast
2 (5 oz.) cans evaporated milk
1/2 c. sugar
2 eggs
1 1/2 tsp. salt
1 tsp. vanilla
2-4 c. flour
3 c. + 3 T. vegetable oil
In a large bowl, combine the warm water and yeast. Stir in sugar. Add milk, sugar, eggs, salt, and vanilla. Add 2 c. of flour to the bowl and stir until a thick batter is formed. Continue to add flour until a soft dough forms. Knead dough, adding just enough flour to keep it from being sticky. Pour 3 T. of vegetable oil over the top of the dough, cover and let rise 1 hour. (If you plan to make them in the morning, just plop the dough into a gallon-sized ziploc bag & stick it in the fridge until you're ready to fry the dough in the morning.) Once you are ready to fry the dough, heat 3 c. of vegetable oil in a large pot over medium heat. Roll risen dough very thin, cut into small rectangles, then carefully drop dough into hot oil. Fry on one side just until puffy and barely brown, then turn and fry on the other side. Remove from heat, place on a large platter lined with paper towels. Once all dough has been fried, sprinkle the mound of cooked beignets with Citrus-Spiced sugar, then generously sprinkle with powdered sugar. Enjoy!
*
Citrus Spiced Sugar
Sweet, perfect sugar with the slightest zing of warm, glorious flavor.
1 c. sugar
Zest of 1 lemon
Zest of 1 orange
1 tsp. cinnamon
1 tsp. nutmeg
In a small bowl, combine all ingredients together. Sprinkle atop warm beignets. Sprinkle on toasted, buttered bread. Sprinkle in your bath water, in your bed, and on your bunions. Yum.
*
Simple Holiday Window Paint
*
achines.
