Forgetful

It is a damn pity that I don't carry a notebook as consistently as I'd like because I have had so many To The Lighthouse moments with Jumbo this weekend, and of course, now, I don't remember them. Between his a.d.d. and my early-onset Alzheimer's, we're a fine pair. (The birds started to sing at precisely 5:21 this morning just as I was losing myself in pictures of Tjøme and imagining what a summer would be like without going there; I finally broke the news to my mother that there just were no mileage tickets left and that the trip, however much I wanted to do it, would be too expensive, and she is of course disappointed. But I am sad and I think the children are sad too. Cold Spring will be an adventure, and I have just discovered that Billy Collins will be reading at the Hillstead Museum in Farmington, CT in July, so lots of wonderful things to look forward to.)

We gathered bushels of mint, lemon basil, tarragon, french feta, persian cucumbers, armenian bread, zhatar, olive oil & J made hummus and grilled lamb, and lebanese rice with pine nuts and vermicelli for friends on Sunday. It was early, almost a late lunch, and we sat outside at the big Moroccan table that is too heavy to move and watched the children swim. Hoops brought her two year old twin boys and her seven year old son who has an apparent crush on Minks. She went to hug him as they left and he resisted, then wrestled her to the ground with a "watch it lady - I know tae kwon do!" Men don't really change, do they?

KB (who calls me BDub, which must make me some kind of cool MoFo) made the most sublime bread pudding with a creamy, warm version of brandy butter. It's called whiskey sauce, but I wouldn't believe that for a moment. It reminded me of mince pies. The recipe is here.