With a husband gone to Silverlake to see a man about a jig-saw that's been in his garage for thirteen years (the M is on a bit of a DYI kick, dear reader) and the children both home and oldest son's bf since they were four, I've made the Ottolenghi pasta with the basil sauce, some roast pork tenderloin, a little tomato salad. The recipe calls for edamame, for which I substituted peas, and I made it hot, not cold, so it was more of a pasta-pasta than a pasta salad and it turned out beautifully. Also, didn't have buffala mozarella, so sprinkled some pepper and grated parmesan on top. Children all very happy. Mamma very happy to have children in the house. Dogs very happy that children are eating pasta near them. The sofas are full and fat. The kitchen smells of basil and olive oil. There is a flat of peaches from Trader Joe's which I hope will turn out as well as last years -- sweet and juicy and effulgent.
The day, which was awful (I bumped into someone I really did not want to see and managed to palpitate my way through a dry-mouthed hello) has turned out well. I missed Jane Smiley at the Skirball because I was exhausted but I had the delightful young, and the spotted dogs, and the boys trying to start the dirt bikes, and I listened to the heart of my hard-working but tired child and cooked.
A highlight, however, was having my picture taken for my hospital volunteer ID, alongside a dog named Matilda, in a jaunty purple kerchief, who was a canine therapist.
I hope you've read the poem from yesterday, the Campbell McGrath poem. I think it's heaven. My friend Katherine and I both like "hovering like midget astronauts, tiny inmates in coonskin caps, convict stars above a nation of lawn chairs." Remember what Vivien's mother said: We need more poetry in our lives.
Good night, world. I'm off to read The Tiger's Wife by Tea Obreht, our book group selection this month.