Actually It Was 6:45

This morning we began our day with a good old-fashioned fight.  It was all caused by the revelation that Caedmon eats his toast wrong.  Oh, you didn't know that there was a wrong way to eat toast?  Neither did Caedmon.  Neither did anybody, for that matter, except 7 a.m. Atticus.  Any-other-time-of-day Atticus probably could not care less how his younger brother eats his toast, but 7 a.m. Atticus cares.  Deeply.

See, what we all learned this morning is that Caedmon flips his toast upside down just before it enters his mouth so that it's jelly-side down as it hits his tongue.  When you think about it, this is insanely sensible.  Clearly the boy is a genius.  I may start eating my pizza this way.  Nevertheless, 7 a.m. Atticus's sensibilities were offended.  "That is not how you're supposed to eat toast," 7 a.m. Atticus insisted.  "You are eating it wrong.  Nobody eats it that way."  Caedmon pointed out that he eats it that way, and gave his jelly-to-the-tongue reasoning.  7 a.m. Atticus did not care.  He would not be swayed.    


The only reason this altercation stayed civilized is that I was present at the table.  They have flailed their limbs at each other's faces for less, I promise you.  It wasn't just me there, though; it was 7 a.m. me, and 7 a.m. me is more interested in getting enough coffee into her gullet to get her morning murder feelings under control than in refereeing such world-changing issues like Toast Up v. Toast Down.

It's... it's so BEAUTIFUL...

After I had shared my feelings on the matter, we all finished our breakfasts in resentful silence, THE WAY GOD INTENDED.

Coffee Dates of Varying Kinds

Derek's parents asked to have the boys for a few days, and while we didn't quite throw our two male offspring at them, we did respond in the affirmative with definite alacrity.

It's now been four hours since they left.  The house is quiet, to the extent that Adelaide commented, "It is so quiet that I feel like I should scream or something, just because my brain is apparently used to almost constant noise from the boys."  She has not screamed, but she does seem to have a smile fixed almost permanently on her face.

When your two noisy, rambunctious, lovable but high-energy sons/brothers leave, here is what a mother and a daughter do with themselves:

• Read a book because it is quiet enough to do so. (Daughter)
• Go for a run in the snow.  (Mother)
• Go to the library and take as much time as you want to leisurely peruse its offerings.  (Mother and Daughter)
• Go to the coffee shop (seen above).  Order a chocolate malt and a hazelnut latte.  Sit by the fire, discuss how quiet it is, smile like a maniac, play chinese checkers, observe and discuss all the interesting people sitting around you.  (Mother and Daughter, with pleasure)
• Return home, read some more books, write a blog post, occasionally comment to each other how quiet it is, think your thoughts.  (Mother and Daughter)

So, yes.  Of course I miss our boys already, but can I just tell you how beautiful silence can be?  No word from Adelaide about missing her brothers already, and I know better than to ask.

Speaking of Adelaide and coffee and happiness, have I mentioned how much we love her teacher this year?  Because man, do we.  For a variety of reasons, Daughter is sometimes a little withdrawn at school, and as a teacher with 20+ kids in a classroom, all with varying personalities and needs, I feel like it could be so easy to overlook the shy girl who requires little help with her work, especially when she's surrounded by louder, more demonstrative kids with more obvious needs.  

Her teacher this year, however (who I kind of doubted was actually old enough to be a teacher when I first met her), has gone out of her way to reach out to Adelaide, a task that takes perseverance when you have a kid that doesn't immediately respond to your efforts.  Her latest venture happened the week before Christmas break, when Adelaide came home and happily reported that her teacher let her stay in from recess and share a coffee with her.  I'm sure this isn't something they endorse in the district rule book (if such a thing exists), but it's a pretty clear sign that her teacher understands how this particular student operates.  Quality, one-on-one time?  Check.   A break from the loud, busy environment at school?  Check.  Coffee?  Check.  Not every school year has gone this well, so I fold my little hands and say a hearty "Thank you JEEEsus," every so often for the teachers we're enjoying during this one.

A List

• I'm slowly starting the annual fall cleanup of our flower beds.  This essentially consists of pulling mass amounts of creeping Charlie and dead foliage out, interspersed with buckets of balls that have been hit into the hostas/lilies/everything else by certain children and then left there for me to find right about now.

I kid you not, the above is from right about four square feet of flower bed, so for once I was not being hyperbolic; when I am done I will literally have buckets of found balls, along with a sock or four that blew off while drying in the summer sun.

• Since Derek and I recently finished all of Midsomer Murders that Netflix has to offer, I took the advice of MomQueenBee and we gave Doc Martin a try, because when there is a BBC-shaped hole in your life, the only thing you can fill it with is, well, more BBC.  Three seasons in, I have three important things to share with you about our new show- a list within a list, if you will (HOW EXCITING!):

1. We rely heavily on closed captioning for most shows, but British television in particular; however, the person who did the CC for Doc Martin needs to be summarily FIRED.  It's awful!  If they're not taking the easy way out ("inaudible content" constantly shows up), they're just out and out wrong; I don't know how many times I've exclaimed, "That is not what he said!" during each episode.  This makes me a joy to watch tv with, by the way.
2. Derek did a google street view tour of the village where the show is shot, so when I'm not yelling about the incorrect CC, he's interjecting with comments like, "Where does that car think it's going?  There's a dead end around that corner!"  We might just be made for each other.
3. If for no other reason, you must watch the show for its insults.  The doctor (not to be confused with The Doctor) is a curmudgeon of the highest order, and rarely holds back his vitriol.  Last night he called a man an "unctuous, platitudinizing eunuch," which was so spot-on for the character he was lashing out against I cackled and then went running for a pencil so I wouldn't forget those words anytime soon.

• A while back I read a tip from Superstar Science Chef Person Alton Brown (I'm pretty sure that's his actual title), which advised you add a bit of salt to your coffee grounds before brewing to help cut the bitterness.  Well, I ground up my beans and put them in their basket filter and added some salt, but then when I tasted the coffee... I don't know.  I can't tell if I could actually taste the salt, or if I've gotten so used to bitter coffee, what my taste buds were reading as "salt" was really just a lack of bitterness.  I need someone's help with this.  I don't really know how you're supposed to help me, but still- help!

Sep-Freaking-Tem-Ber

September hates me.

I know we've discussed this before, but now I know for certain:  September and I are not friends.  We do not text each other random things.  We do not meet up for coffee.  We do not send each other hilarious memes and articles on social media.  Not. friends.

My proof:  This morning, not eight hours into this cursed month, the carafe to my coffee maker shattered at my feet.  THANKS, SEPTEMBER.  Now, one could point out that the carafe slid from its plate and onto the floor because I insist on putting it in a cabinet every afternoon, only to get it back out every morning because I don't like having it out on the counter, but one is not going to.  One could also posit that moving something back and forth mightn't be the best idea by such a historically clumsy person, but one is not going to do that, either.

Thankfully, I am a problem solver.

Liquid measuring cup + my thumb = makeshift coffee carafe.  I have to apply constant pressure to that little black thingy because the coffee maker has some kind of "sneak a cup" feature, so if the black thing isn't being depressed, it assumes the drinker has removed the carafe because they can't wait 90 seconds for their coffee, which is a reasonable assumption, given the coffee drinkers I know.  

Not an ideal situation, sure, but I still got my coffee and had the chance to feel like I was milking some kind of coffee cow- or maybe it's coffeeing some kind of caffeine cow?- along with a hearty "Take THAT, September!"  

Then September made my iron levels too low and I didn't get to give blood, even though the supply for my blood type is CRITICALLY LOW.  It's no longer content with making me miserable, it's risking people's lives now!  WHERE WILL IT END, SEPTEMBER?

And just for anyone else who doesn't believe that bloodthirsty September is all bad, I just remembered that one of the songs on my old Fiona Apple album was called Pale September, and while I enjoy the song, Ms. Apple would be a major contender for the title of Queen and Grand Monarch of Melancholy and Depression.  I rest my case.

Par-taaaaaay

Our progeny have spent the past couple days living it up at their grandparents' house.  This means I got to run a bunch of miles, including a long run on the Heart of Iowa trail yesterday, which is pretty at any time, but yesterday they were burning the fields that snug up against the trail for about one of those miles. Thankfully the wind was blowing the smoke away from me, so I got to enjoy the merry, crackling fire and new charred earth as I ran.  

This sign is one of my favorites, as it means that, at least on the way back, I'm just under two miles from home.

Derek's in the middle of a super busy work week, including meetings in the evenings, so he hasn't really gotten quite the mini-vacation I have, but I did accompany him into work for a few hours last night and the evening before.  This prompted me to say things like, "Your job is seriously thankless sometimes," and "Ugh, you've been doing this all week?"  My words probably weren't exactly heartening, but maybe I'm a little more understanding than before.  I also managed to screw up the one job he gave me:  Placing microphones all around a table and plugging them into their corresponding pluggy-hole-things in this giant piece of expensive equipment.  After I had tangled all the cords and plugged everything into the incorrect slots, he said something along the lines of, "Why don't you go do book things?" but in a nice voice, and because we were at the library without children and he knows me.

We did manage to squeeze in one date after work Thursday night, when we went to the big newer grocery store in another even bigger nearby town, where we walked around with bug eyes at all the fanciness.  Friends, we've been Aldi shoppers for a solid decade now, so features like lights that only come in the freezers when you walk by, then flicker back off after a minute of no activity, aisle after aisle of gleaming bins of bulk candy, bulk granola, bulk coffee, etc, etc, and an in-house restaurant with real live waiters was a bit overwhelming for us.  Derek got a mixture of bulk chocolates, and I got $2-worth of bulk organic coffee.  Naturally I bypassed all the snooty, high class-sounding coffees and got Jamaican Me Crazy, which smells amazing when you stick your face right in the bag and inhale, as I have done every time I've walked past it on my kitchen counter.  Apparently "high quality Arabica beans... with a perfect blend of vanilla, caramel, and Mexican liqueur" will do that.  

I'm a little ashamed to admit I can't tell much of a different in taste from my ordinary coffee beans, although I'll be the first to tell you I have anything but a sophisticated palate.  Our house smells fantastic when I brew these puppies, though.  Not actual puppies, you understand, but the fancy beans.  Torturing metaphors:  Another hobby of mine.

And those were our two crazy kid-free days.  We're a wild couple, Derek and I.

A Coffee Timeline

September 30th:  Drink coffee.  So good.

October 1st:  Drink coffee.  Mmm.

October 2nd:  Drink coffee.  Southern butter pecan creamer, you complete me.

October 3rd:  Drink coffee.  Feel a tiny niggle of... something... deep in the recesses of my brain.

October 4th:  Drink coffee.  Ah, yes.  I know what that is:  Paranoia.  Hello, old chum.

October 5th:  Drink coffee.  Dismiss paranoia and its associated nonsense regarding my coffee.

October 6th:  Drink coffee.  Attempt to dismiss paranoia.  Stare distrustfully into my coffee cup.

October 7th:  Drink half a cup of coffee.  Upgrade paranoia to suspicion.

October 8th:  Do a google search.  Find this article, begin to roll my eyes, believing it to be yet another "All your food is evil and also chemicals" post (newsflash, internet:  EVERYTHING is chemicals), but its source is an NPR interview.  Confirm I have been drinking essence of cockroach.

October 9th:  Discover this handy/terrifying chart illustrating how much ground insect the FDA allows in ground coffee.  Retch.

October 10th:  Buy bag of whole coffee beans.  Use canny little mini-blender thing I got for Christmas last year but have never used.  It has a grinding blade!  It's a (10 month overdue) Christmas miracle!

October 11th:  Drink coffee.  Yes to the creamer but hold the cockroaches, please.

Oh, that?  That's just a teensy piece of roach carapace, daughter mine.  Drinky, drinky.