The Rock Home Companion and the Winter Metaphors
It was all azalea turned cotton this past week here in my flower beds, a little brain turned cotton, too. Cabin fever sets in as all the air from the North Pole rushes in for a long visit. I’ve never felt my bones so icy.
One night this week in the cold kitchen, Seth made stew in our new pressure cooker. Glory to goodness, nothing makes me feel more like a woman than having the regulator bobbling under pressure in my kitchen. Well, nothing makes me feel more like a woman than that, and Seth, and, of course, my subscription to Southern Living.
But desperate weather calls for creative thinking. All work no play makes Mama grow wild-eyed, brings a little animal out.
The rock house smells like home, the stew meat, wine-tenderized. Our music is a little bold and dancy sad. The boys piled around us, and we laughed and said words that make no sense.
Jude gave me a rare, “I love you.” They all tenderly kissed, piling them on for the too-cool independent years. Ian tried on every pair of shoes in the house and used his man voice, then hung on like a monkey. I don’t even need arms to hold that child.
Though they cling and hurl themselves head-long over furniture like caged monkeys, their new haircuts brought out the lion cub in them, and I purred about it nonstop, slicking them back and snapping pictures, gritting my teeth a bit at their greatness.