My father was a farmer, not a foodie. He ate and drank normal things most of the time, of course — steak a favorite, maybe a Beck’s beer. Or at night, a blackberry brandy. Or a blended Scotch like Dewar’s. But between the margins lived very curious choices of food. He’d eat whole cloves of garlic, raw. Munch, munch, munch. The resultant breath potent enough to punch a hole through a vampire’s breastbone and turn his heart to strongly-scented ash. Horseradish could be grated onto anything. He’d also eat that... Read The Rest →
It's been an awesome year in the truest sense of the word. Just as he's different than from when he emerged into this world, I'm different from when he emerged. IEverything has changed and it has changed for the better. As Jonathan Coulton sings, "You ruined everything -- in the nicest way."
This week, the calendar pages come fluttering off the wall, and Baby B-Dub reaches nine months of age. Which means he's been out as long as he was in. And it's becoming increasingly clear that we're screwed. But that's okay. We like it. Happy nine months, kiddo.
Christmas came and Christmas went, and in the wake of Santa Jesus we found the flotsam and jetsam of a child's joy --what I'm saying is, our living room exploded and gave birth to a metric ass-ton of baby toys. And now, over a week later, I'm left rocking back and forth. In the corner.
Looking back, staring forward. Standing on this head-of-the-pin moment between two years -- an arbitrary distinction, perhaps, from when one calendar becomes useless and a new one must be hung, but a distinction just the same and a fine enough moment to pause and reflect.