Appropriate is one of my children's favorite words. Of course they learned it from me, because so often when I say no to something, and they ask for an explanation, I answer, because it's inappropriate.
But there is something about the word that really appeals to them; they use it frequently, savoring the sound of each syllable as they ask, "Is this a-PPRO-priate?"
Last night Sarah asked David, "Why do so many rock stars engage in inappropriate behavior?" She went on to clarify: "Like Avril Lavigne, she wears clothes that expose her NOVEL!"
This totally validated my efforts to limit her exposure to the full spectrum of pop culture.
14 May 2009
11 May 2009
slinging hash: pizza
Homemade pizza is having a moment. I spotted it last month, in the New York Times Magazine, and a few days later on Michael Ruhlman's blog, not to mention in this month's issue of Martha Stewart Living.
Although I go through phases, I've been making pizza for dinner about once a week for many years. I like playing with yeast; there was a time, many years ago, when I used to cultivate wild yeast spores in my kitchen for my amusement.
Making pizza does not require special equipment (Really!). You do not need a pizza stone. A pizza peel and cutting wheel are useful if you are going to do this a lot, but a cookie sheet makes a fine substitute for a peel, and a chef's knife, or pair of kitchen shears will cut slices adequately. You do not need to master fancy technique for stretching the dough; no spinning and flipping required!
While it may sound counter intuitive, I find pizza to be a quick meal that requires little advance preparation. I used to start the dough in the late afternoon, after my kids got home from school, and since pizza dough only needs one rising, it would be ready by 5.00 for topping and baking. I have since streamlined the preparation even further, after I learned on The Kitchn that while the dough's flavor may benefit from rising, it is not necessary! (I find the difference in flavor indiscernable.)
Perhaps pizza's biggest appeal, though, is that it is a rare dinner that exceeds my two out of three guideline, sort of. While everyone in my family likes a Neapolitan pie, everyone also has their personal topping preference, and someone is usually apt to complain if I don't make it their way. My sons like it plain, in the Roman style, with olive oil and salt. My daughter likes it with thinly sliced potatoes, rosemary, and a grating of Romano cheese. David and I like all of the above, but we also like it topped with olive oil and zatar, or caramelized onions and feta or goat cheese, or our current favorite, sauteed broccoli rabe and gorgonzola.
For a while, I made things a real pain in the ass for myself, by making many individual pies, with customized toppings for everyone. Why did I ever get into this habit? To amuse my children, who enjoy rolling and topping their own pies. That's just what every mother wants to do in the thick of dinner preparation, yes?
A few weeks ago, I said fuck it, and began streamlining things. Now I make two larger pies, two toppings. One that everyone (aka the kids) will like, and one for David and myself.
I did this last night, for Mother's Day. We'd gone out to dinner with my mother Saturday night, so were eating at home. That was a present to myself; a dinner that no one would complain about. But yet...
I decided on a Neapolitan pie, because I had some sauce already made, and one with broccoli rabe, because I also had that cooked in the fridge. Sarah came into the kitchen and asked what kind of pies we were having, and when she found out there would be no potato pizza, she had a minor episode of righteous indignation because I NEVER MAKE THE KIND THAT SHE LIKES.
(I made it last week.)
There is a parlor game I play with friends sometimes; informally called, What Puts You on the Couch? In it, we try to imagine which of the many, many mistakes we make as parents will be the ones that send our kids into therapy. If this is what eventually puts Sarah on the couch, that her mother made more of her BROTHER'S favorite pizzas, and not enough of her favorite potato pizza, I will consider it evidence that I did a pretty good job.
Homemade pizza dough
(adapted from The Kitchn)
This makes enough for four approximately twelve inch pies; the dough keeps well, in a sealed ziploc bag for up to a week.
*Lately I've been making the crust with a combination of all-purpose, and white whole wheat flour, in an approximate 2:1 ratio.
1-1/2 cups water
1 teaspoon of active-dry yeast
4 cups (10 ounces) unbleached all-purpose flour*
1 tsp salt
30 minutes to 1 hour before baking, pre-heat oven to 500 degrees.
In a small bowl or liquid measuring cup, heat the water until barely lukewarm. (I do this in short 30-second bursts in the microwave.) If you used a measuring cup, transfer water to a bowl, sprinkle the yeast over, and let stand a few minutes to allow the yeast to dissolve. It will take on a creamy appearance.
Add the salt, and then flour one cup at a time, until you have a wet, ragged dough.
Turn this dough out onto a well-floured counter or cutting board (I like to use a large silpat mat for this), and knead in flour a bit at a time until the dough forms a smooth, cohesive ball. Go slowly, as if you add too much flour, the dough will be hard to roll.
Tear off about a quarter of the dough, and place on a lightly floured piece of parchment paper about 12-inches wide. (At this point, I place the parchment on top of my pizza peel.) Lightly flour the top of the dough, and press it out to a flat disc. Working from the center, roll out until it's about a quarter inch thick.
Lightly coat the now rolled dough with a sprinkling of olive oil and salt, and top as you wish. Slide the pizza, still on parchment paper, into the pre-heated oven and bake approximately ten minutes. I try to remember to rotate the dough about halfway through at which point, I slide it off of the parchment paper to finish cooking.
Although I go through phases, I've been making pizza for dinner about once a week for many years. I like playing with yeast; there was a time, many years ago, when I used to cultivate wild yeast spores in my kitchen for my amusement.
Making pizza does not require special equipment (Really!). You do not need a pizza stone. A pizza peel and cutting wheel are useful if you are going to do this a lot, but a cookie sheet makes a fine substitute for a peel, and a chef's knife, or pair of kitchen shears will cut slices adequately. You do not need to master fancy technique for stretching the dough; no spinning and flipping required!
While it may sound counter intuitive, I find pizza to be a quick meal that requires little advance preparation. I used to start the dough in the late afternoon, after my kids got home from school, and since pizza dough only needs one rising, it would be ready by 5.00 for topping and baking. I have since streamlined the preparation even further, after I learned on The Kitchn that while the dough's flavor may benefit from rising, it is not necessary! (I find the difference in flavor indiscernable.)
Perhaps pizza's biggest appeal, though, is that it is a rare dinner that exceeds my two out of three guideline, sort of. While everyone in my family likes a Neapolitan pie, everyone also has their personal topping preference, and someone is usually apt to complain if I don't make it their way. My sons like it plain, in the Roman style, with olive oil and salt. My daughter likes it with thinly sliced potatoes, rosemary, and a grating of Romano cheese. David and I like all of the above, but we also like it topped with olive oil and zatar, or caramelized onions and feta or goat cheese, or our current favorite, sauteed broccoli rabe and gorgonzola.
For a while, I made things a real pain in the ass for myself, by making many individual pies, with customized toppings for everyone. Why did I ever get into this habit? To amuse my children, who enjoy rolling and topping their own pies. That's just what every mother wants to do in the thick of dinner preparation, yes?
A few weeks ago, I said fuck it, and began streamlining things. Now I make two larger pies, two toppings. One that everyone (aka the kids) will like, and one for David and myself.
I did this last night, for Mother's Day. We'd gone out to dinner with my mother Saturday night, so were eating at home. That was a present to myself; a dinner that no one would complain about. But yet...
I decided on a Neapolitan pie, because I had some sauce already made, and one with broccoli rabe, because I also had that cooked in the fridge. Sarah came into the kitchen and asked what kind of pies we were having, and when she found out there would be no potato pizza, she had a minor episode of righteous indignation because I NEVER MAKE THE KIND THAT SHE LIKES.
(I made it last week.)
There is a parlor game I play with friends sometimes; informally called, What Puts You on the Couch? In it, we try to imagine which of the many, many mistakes we make as parents will be the ones that send our kids into therapy. If this is what eventually puts Sarah on the couch, that her mother made more of her BROTHER'S favorite pizzas, and not enough of her favorite potato pizza, I will consider it evidence that I did a pretty good job.
Homemade pizza dough
(adapted from The Kitchn)
This makes enough for four approximately twelve inch pies; the dough keeps well, in a sealed ziploc bag for up to a week.
*Lately I've been making the crust with a combination of all-purpose, and white whole wheat flour, in an approximate 2:1 ratio.
1-1/2 cups water
1 teaspoon of active-dry yeast
4 cups (10 ounces) unbleached all-purpose flour*
1 tsp salt
30 minutes to 1 hour before baking, pre-heat oven to 500 degrees.
In a small bowl or liquid measuring cup, heat the water until barely lukewarm. (I do this in short 30-second bursts in the microwave.) If you used a measuring cup, transfer water to a bowl, sprinkle the yeast over, and let stand a few minutes to allow the yeast to dissolve. It will take on a creamy appearance.
Add the salt, and then flour one cup at a time, until you have a wet, ragged dough.
Turn this dough out onto a well-floured counter or cutting board (I like to use a large silpat mat for this), and knead in flour a bit at a time until the dough forms a smooth, cohesive ball. Go slowly, as if you add too much flour, the dough will be hard to roll.
Tear off about a quarter of the dough, and place on a lightly floured piece of parchment paper about 12-inches wide. (At this point, I place the parchment on top of my pizza peel.) Lightly flour the top of the dough, and press it out to a flat disc. Working from the center, roll out until it's about a quarter inch thick.
Lightly coat the now rolled dough with a sprinkling of olive oil and salt, and top as you wish. Slide the pizza, still on parchment paper, into the pre-heated oven and bake approximately ten minutes. I try to remember to rotate the dough about halfway through at which point, I slide it off of the parchment paper to finish cooking.
08 May 2009
roomba, RIP
It is with some sadness that I write today that me and my Roomba have parted ways.
I have something of a mania for vacuuming. Although one's dharma changes over time, for at least the past decade, vacuuming has been an important element of mine. It began when I was a newly married graduate student, yearning for a companion during my solitary hours of study, but not ready to commit to a dog. (I'm still not quite ready for that one.) So we got cats, the perfect pet for the commitment-phobe, although I am allergic to them. I adored my cats, but oh, the shedding! It was very hard for an anal neat freak to bear. But, I reasoned, as long as I took allergy medication, and kept the rugs and upholstery scrupulously clean, I'd be fine. It also seemed like the right thing to do as a hostess; who wants to see a guest rise from your couch with their ass covered in your cat's hair? So began a daily regimen of vacuuming.
I didn't really mind. It turned out, I find vacuuming enormously therapeutic. It's aerobic benefits should not be overlooked. I run cold (body temperature; not cold-hearted bitch; I hope), and in the depths of winter, when we try to resist turning the heat too high and a sweater is just not helping, I've been known to take the vacuum out for a few laps to warm myself up. Plus, the crackly sound of crumbs being sucked up by the rotating brushes and into the hose is one of those great satisfying sounds, akin to the whoosh of opening a soda can, or the pop of a champagne cork.
I've never read Joyce Carol Oates, but when I read her mention, in an interview in the New York Times Magazine a few weeks ago, "The cleaning is something I use as a reward if I get some work done. I go into a very happy state of mind when I’m vacuuming. I think some of my male colleagues, like Philip Roth and Don DeLillo, are completely denied this pleasure," I recognized a kindred spirit, and realized I should start reading her work AS SOON AS POSSIBLE.
My vacuuming habit has outlasted my cats, because not only because it is so finely ingrained, but because I now have children, and we all know the messes they generate. By the time I had children and multi-story house, the lugging of the vacuum, sometimes with a small child in one arm, up and down a flight of stairs from the broom closet, began to seem a bit hazardous, to my baby, not to mention my back. Although I don't like to duplicate appliances, it seemed like a second vacuum might be in order. When some friends mentioned they had gotten a Roomba, and it really worked, my pulse quickened with the possibilities.
The Roomba and I began dating about a year and a half ago, and like all doomed relationships, it started off swimmingly. It was a beautiful thing; I could press go, walk the kids to school, and come home to a clean floor! It was so amusing to watch it work, stumbling around like a blind dog eating your crumbs!
But once you've gotten to know one another a bit better, at about the point where you're leaving a toothbrush at each others apartment, flaws inevitably begin to emerge. At first, it's just little things -- how he never puts his clothes in the hamper on the way to bed, or consistently misses that pile of crumbs in the corner of the rug -- but you love each other, so you can live with it!
The first indication that things are doomed is when you begin to believe it's you, not him, that is the problem. Maybe I didn't arrange the chairs correctly, for maximum vacuuming efficiency? Perhaps I had unrealistic expectations, and clearing the rug of the dried grains of rice was just too much to ask of a vacuum?
Or perhaps, we just had a defective model? I exchanged it for a new one, and for while, it was like that reconciliation after the breakup; we were so happy, and didn't understand why we'd ever parted. But then the same old patterns began to emerge. Either David or myself would set the Roomba to go, and then chide the other one for not running the vacuum, because the rug looked just like it did before we started. All this, despite the fact that as long as we owned the Roomba, we emptied the filter regularly, and kept the brushes as clean as possible.
So my husband and I began to have that difficult conversation about whether it was time to put the pet down. As anyone who has ever had to say good-bye to a beloved furry friend knows, this is a difficult decision to make. But after one too many nights of me running the Roomba, then David running it, the answer became clear. I brought it back for a full refund. (It turns out, as long as you save your receipt, Bed, Bath and Beyond will give you your money back. Since I'd owned the vacuum for almost a year, I would have been satisfied with store credit, so kudos, Bed, Bath and Beyond!)
And because I was so happy to have all that cash back in my pocket, I bought a new vacuum for the first floor, a Eureka Optima. It was extremely inexpensive, at $60. It weighs about 12 pounds, so I could conceivably carry it up and down stairs. It's bagless, which I like, and has a telescoping handle, which appeals to my kids, because they can shorten the handle and actually vacuum, as opposed to pretend to vacuum. So much more satisfying than the toy Dirt Devil they currently (But that Dirt Devil is still one of the best presents ever given to my kids; thanks, Sharon, you know me so well!)
I have a friend who is a devoted bread baker; every week he makes his own baguettes. When I mentioned to him how superlative No-Knead Bread is, he was interested, but not eager to try it himself; after all, kneading is part of the fun. So it is, for me and vacuuming. Sometimes, you still have to do the hard work for yourself, and you actually enjoy it.
Adieu, my vacuuming robot; I will miss you, but not too much.
I have something of a mania for vacuuming. Although one's dharma changes over time, for at least the past decade, vacuuming has been an important element of mine. It began when I was a newly married graduate student, yearning for a companion during my solitary hours of study, but not ready to commit to a dog. (I'm still not quite ready for that one.) So we got cats, the perfect pet for the commitment-phobe, although I am allergic to them. I adored my cats, but oh, the shedding! It was very hard for an anal neat freak to bear. But, I reasoned, as long as I took allergy medication, and kept the rugs and upholstery scrupulously clean, I'd be fine. It also seemed like the right thing to do as a hostess; who wants to see a guest rise from your couch with their ass covered in your cat's hair? So began a daily regimen of vacuuming.
I didn't really mind. It turned out, I find vacuuming enormously therapeutic. It's aerobic benefits should not be overlooked. I run cold (body temperature; not cold-hearted bitch; I hope), and in the depths of winter, when we try to resist turning the heat too high and a sweater is just not helping, I've been known to take the vacuum out for a few laps to warm myself up. Plus, the crackly sound of crumbs being sucked up by the rotating brushes and into the hose is one of those great satisfying sounds, akin to the whoosh of opening a soda can, or the pop of a champagne cork.
I've never read Joyce Carol Oates, but when I read her mention, in an interview in the New York Times Magazine a few weeks ago, "The cleaning is something I use as a reward if I get some work done. I go into a very happy state of mind when I’m vacuuming. I think some of my male colleagues, like Philip Roth and Don DeLillo, are completely denied this pleasure," I recognized a kindred spirit, and realized I should start reading her work AS SOON AS POSSIBLE.
My vacuuming habit has outlasted my cats, because not only because it is so finely ingrained, but because I now have children, and we all know the messes they generate. By the time I had children and multi-story house, the lugging of the vacuum, sometimes with a small child in one arm, up and down a flight of stairs from the broom closet, began to seem a bit hazardous, to my baby, not to mention my back. Although I don't like to duplicate appliances, it seemed like a second vacuum might be in order. When some friends mentioned they had gotten a Roomba, and it really worked, my pulse quickened with the possibilities.
The Roomba and I began dating about a year and a half ago, and like all doomed relationships, it started off swimmingly. It was a beautiful thing; I could press go, walk the kids to school, and come home to a clean floor! It was so amusing to watch it work, stumbling around like a blind dog eating your crumbs!
But once you've gotten to know one another a bit better, at about the point where you're leaving a toothbrush at each others apartment, flaws inevitably begin to emerge. At first, it's just little things -- how he never puts his clothes in the hamper on the way to bed, or consistently misses that pile of crumbs in the corner of the rug -- but you love each other, so you can live with it!
The first indication that things are doomed is when you begin to believe it's you, not him, that is the problem. Maybe I didn't arrange the chairs correctly, for maximum vacuuming efficiency? Perhaps I had unrealistic expectations, and clearing the rug of the dried grains of rice was just too much to ask of a vacuum?
Or perhaps, we just had a defective model? I exchanged it for a new one, and for while, it was like that reconciliation after the breakup; we were so happy, and didn't understand why we'd ever parted. But then the same old patterns began to emerge. Either David or myself would set the Roomba to go, and then chide the other one for not running the vacuum, because the rug looked just like it did before we started. All this, despite the fact that as long as we owned the Roomba, we emptied the filter regularly, and kept the brushes as clean as possible.
So my husband and I began to have that difficult conversation about whether it was time to put the pet down. As anyone who has ever had to say good-bye to a beloved furry friend knows, this is a difficult decision to make. But after one too many nights of me running the Roomba, then David running it, the answer became clear. I brought it back for a full refund. (It turns out, as long as you save your receipt, Bed, Bath and Beyond will give you your money back. Since I'd owned the vacuum for almost a year, I would have been satisfied with store credit, so kudos, Bed, Bath and Beyond!)
And because I was so happy to have all that cash back in my pocket, I bought a new vacuum for the first floor, a Eureka Optima. It was extremely inexpensive, at $60. It weighs about 12 pounds, so I could conceivably carry it up and down stairs. It's bagless, which I like, and has a telescoping handle, which appeals to my kids, because they can shorten the handle and actually vacuum, as opposed to pretend to vacuum. So much more satisfying than the toy Dirt Devil they currently (But that Dirt Devil is still one of the best presents ever given to my kids; thanks, Sharon, you know me so well!)
I have a friend who is a devoted bread baker; every week he makes his own baguettes. When I mentioned to him how superlative No-Knead Bread is, he was interested, but not eager to try it himself; after all, kneading is part of the fun. So it is, for me and vacuuming. Sometimes, you still have to do the hard work for yourself, and you actually enjoy it.
Adieu, my vacuuming robot; I will miss you, but not too much.
06 May 2009
chick flick
My daughter was home sick yesterday, and both boys were at school, so we had the morning free. Normally I'd suggest a cooking project, but yesterday, a rainy day when you just wanted to huddle under the covers, I asked if she wanted to watch a movie. It seemed appropriately decadent, since I'd never turn the television on for myself during the day.
Sarah is at that in between place where childhood entertainments are beginning to seem to babyish, but the next step, which has her endlessly intrigued, is still a little too...tarty. We settled on Bride Wars. Who doesn't love a bride? It promised promised hijinx! And pratfalls! And blue hair! So we huddled under a blanket on the couch together and ordered it up on pay-per-view.
I generally don't like chick flicks, and would have never chosen to watch this on my own. The plot was facile, the comedy too broad, the characters were caricatures. I know that is the point of a formula film such as this.
But the experience of watching it with my daughter, on a day when she was supposed to be in school, made the experience so...delicious, that I found I enjoyed, if not the film, certainly the experience. Letting my critical, intellectual faculties go, taking at face value that this was a mindless entertainment, not high art, liberated me.
I'm sure the company helped. Perhaps the inclusion of a companion--even who who is still a bit too young understand the phychological nuances--is the appeal of the chick flick, and the essential quality which has eluded me all these years.
Sarah is at that in between place where childhood entertainments are beginning to seem to babyish, but the next step, which has her endlessly intrigued, is still a little too...tarty. We settled on Bride Wars. Who doesn't love a bride? It promised promised hijinx! And pratfalls! And blue hair! So we huddled under a blanket on the couch together and ordered it up on pay-per-view.
I generally don't like chick flicks, and would have never chosen to watch this on my own. The plot was facile, the comedy too broad, the characters were caricatures. I know that is the point of a formula film such as this.
But the experience of watching it with my daughter, on a day when she was supposed to be in school, made the experience so...delicious, that I found I enjoyed, if not the film, certainly the experience. Letting my critical, intellectual faculties go, taking at face value that this was a mindless entertainment, not high art, liberated me.
I'm sure the company helped. Perhaps the inclusion of a companion--even who who is still a bit too young understand the phychological nuances--is the appeal of the chick flick, and the essential quality which has eluded me all these years.
05 May 2009
The quiet time
I adore silence. I like to ease into my day slowly, and if it were up to me, no one would speak to me for an hour or so.
I enjoy gabbing, but I could go hours without speaking and be utterly happy. When I went on retreat during my first yoga teacher training, we would have silent mornings, where we did not speak from the time we woke until after breakfast, when the day's lessons began. This made some people uncomfortable, but oh, the joy it brought me!
I didn't know this about myself until I had children. My, how they talk your ear off! And while so much of what they say is adorable, and fascinating, at a certain point in the evening, I JUST WANT IT TO STOP. I try to wake 30 minutes before my children, to have a cup of coffee, and soak in the silence. I listen to less music than I thought I ever would at this point in my life, not because don't enjoy it, but because given life in a household of five, the opportunity for complete silence is rare and beautiful.
Tonight, as I was cleaning up dinner my son was flummoxing me by trying to make me solve relatively simple multiplication problems in my head. Maths have never been my strong suit, and all the calculation was making my brain ache. But when Gabriel gets tired, his chatting switch flips quickly. When he's in that woozy zone between wakefulness and sleep, he will turn to me and say, "Can we not talk anymore?" That's my boy!
My daughter, on the other hand, can talk a blue streak. And I mean indigo, moving into violet. Tonight, she regaled me with the plot of an episode of the Simpsons she'd been watching, in TREMENDOUS detail. Sarah is old enough to now to understand that as the day winds down, I simply run out of wind for conversation. She can sense this, and sometimes will ask me, mid-stream of consciousness, "Is this time when you can't speak anymore?" But she can't quite help herself, because even as I nod yes, she resumes her story. She's learning.
Because she knew I didn't want to talk anymore, tonight she left me with an assignment; in the morning she wants me to explain the difference between furthermore and fluidity.
Right now the roomba just finished cleaning the dining room rug, and my son is snoring sweetly next to me (sometimes he passes out on the couch during reading time).
Aside from that 30 minutes alone in the morning, the time I look forward to most is when the children are all asleep, and I can sit on the couch with my feet on David's lap reading in companionable silence. Then at some point, we will look at each other, gesture toward the stairs, gather our books and move to the bedroom, hopefully, without saying a word.
I enjoy gabbing, but I could go hours without speaking and be utterly happy. When I went on retreat during my first yoga teacher training, we would have silent mornings, where we did not speak from the time we woke until after breakfast, when the day's lessons began. This made some people uncomfortable, but oh, the joy it brought me!
I didn't know this about myself until I had children. My, how they talk your ear off! And while so much of what they say is adorable, and fascinating, at a certain point in the evening, I JUST WANT IT TO STOP. I try to wake 30 minutes before my children, to have a cup of coffee, and soak in the silence. I listen to less music than I thought I ever would at this point in my life, not because don't enjoy it, but because given life in a household of five, the opportunity for complete silence is rare and beautiful.
Tonight, as I was cleaning up dinner my son was flummoxing me by trying to make me solve relatively simple multiplication problems in my head. Maths have never been my strong suit, and all the calculation was making my brain ache. But when Gabriel gets tired, his chatting switch flips quickly. When he's in that woozy zone between wakefulness and sleep, he will turn to me and say, "Can we not talk anymore?" That's my boy!
My daughter, on the other hand, can talk a blue streak. And I mean indigo, moving into violet. Tonight, she regaled me with the plot of an episode of the Simpsons she'd been watching, in TREMENDOUS detail. Sarah is old enough to now to understand that as the day winds down, I simply run out of wind for conversation. She can sense this, and sometimes will ask me, mid-stream of consciousness, "Is this time when you can't speak anymore?" But she can't quite help herself, because even as I nod yes, she resumes her story. She's learning.
Because she knew I didn't want to talk anymore, tonight she left me with an assignment; in the morning she wants me to explain the difference between furthermore and fluidity.
Right now the roomba just finished cleaning the dining room rug, and my son is snoring sweetly next to me (sometimes he passes out on the couch during reading time).
Aside from that 30 minutes alone in the morning, the time I look forward to most is when the children are all asleep, and I can sit on the couch with my feet on David's lap reading in companionable silence. Then at some point, we will look at each other, gesture toward the stairs, gather our books and move to the bedroom, hopefully, without saying a word.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)