Whatever He Says

Over this weekend, I inherited four cookbooks. Three came from my friend, V, who is also the mother of my much-loved son-in-law. V's force of nature Russian mother, Julia, also a friend I used to visit occasionally, moved into a retirement home some time ago. One of V's parts in sorting through her mother's belongings that couldn't move with her included a small library of cookbooks. She gave me the first refusal at several she thought I might like and sent photos of their covers so that I could select the ones I'd like, including a selection last week. Then, on Friday, she came for dinner with her son and our daughter in our downstairs apartment, which they're renting for a few months. She brought the three books I'd chosen in a repurposed cheery bright yellow gift bag: The Oy of Cooking, a treasury of a Jewish grandmother's recipes, complete with stories; Baking with Julia (no need to add the last name!) and a book of Amish cooking. Yesterday my friend...

I broke into a jog , my oldest daughter pacing beside me on her bike. Two of my other children were quite a ways ahead, one weaving back and forth and the other stooped, picking raspberries with his bike parked beside him. Hannah said, "I wish we weren't going home today, Mom." "I know," I acknowledged her grief at the end of our vacation. Trying to avoid the lecture about we've been fortunate to have four weeks I say instead, "We've had a lot of fun. These four weeks have gone fast, eh?" She then said, "I'm looking forward to seeing my room again and our house." We smiled at one another and she reminds, "We come back for the long week-end in five sleeps." I had purposely planned this last six and a half km on the Tay Shore Trail as an interlude in the pack-up. There's always such mixed emotions at the end of our time at the cottage. We pack up memories as we fold towels, tuck away bathing suits, store away beach toy...