Update

Lately, my go-to breakfast has been one I thought I created myself: a slice of homemade sourdough toast, a smear of burrata, and a pile of local peach slices topped with just a sprinkle of cinnamon sugar. The invention is heavenly; each bite tastes like summer itself. 

This morning, as I prepared my usual meal, I realized that the dish was just a slightly elevated version of a classic sandwich my mom made for us when we were kids. Hers was cream cheese on white bread with peach jam made from fruit we had picked ourselves at a nearby orchard. 

Good stuff then, good stuff now.

Members of the Club

When the steady rain tapered to a drizzle this afternoon, we leashed up Lucy and set off for a loop around the neighborhood, with a stop at the garden. At the top of Superman Hill, we heard the far-off electronic strains of Pop Goes the Weasel, and we knew the ice cream truck was near. Of course, the four little girls in bathing suits dashing down a nearby driveway to wait excitedly on the curb only confirmed our observation. 

I was smiling when the big white van pulled up to serve anycomers, and when I looked up, I saw a young man hurrying over to join the crowd. He paused, and I did, too; there was something familiar about his eyes. "Do I know you?" I pointed.

It was only then I registered his shirt. A faded dolphin jumped from the waves above the words Dolphin Team 2018-19. "Weren't you my English teacher?" he said.

"Yeah!" I answered. "I can't believe you're still wearing that shirt!" 

"I know," he agreed. "I can't believe it still fits!"

In truth, the shirt was a little tight over his chest and biceps, but not necessarily in a bad way, and I was touched that he wore it at all, five years after sixth grade.

It still looks good!" I told him. "Enjoy your ice cream."

Gotta Get Down on Friday

"Do you have any plans for the weekend?" Heidi asked our neighbor this morning.

"Not really," he shrugged. "We are going to Costco this evening, though." He seemed genuinely excited, more than your typical mid-30s guy he was.

"That's always fun," I laughed.

"I like to call it 'clubbing'," he joked. "To be honest, it's as close to any club as we've been in a while."

"That's funny," I said. "Do you remember it used to actually be called Price Club before it was Costco?"

He shook his head. "I never heard that before."

"Well," I told him, "the history only adds to your experience. You're going price clubbing tonight!"

I'm Calling It

Okay, look. 

Yesterday, President Biden called Defense Secretary Lloyd Austin "the Black man" during an interview with BET.

No way that guy will stay in the race.

Macro Economics

We have been taking advantage of summer by increasing our workouts. In addition to yoga in the morning (me), personal training sessions three times a week (Heidi), and a daily trip to the pool to swim and tread water, we have been doing cardio at the gym and playing pickleball. As a result?

I am tired and

starving!

Nothing we EVER have in our house is what I want to eat, either, so I end up being cranky every afternoon. 

Today, I tossed aside the book I was reading and stomped into the kitchen. Finding the usual nothing, I decided to go to the grocery, ostensibly to shop for dinner. "Maybe you can look at snacks while you're there," Heidi suggested as I practically stormed out the door.

At the store, I was drawn to lunch meat, cooked seafood, and cheese, so I filled my handbasket with an assortment of those items, none of which were on my list. Back home, I made an announcement: 

"I think I need more protein!" 

And once I gobbled down a little grilled chicken? I felt much better.

Not What I Have in Mind

"How are you enjoying retirement?" a neighbor asked me yesterday. We were on our way to the farmers market, and she was walking her dogs.

I shrugged. "It just feels like summer so far," I laughed. "How's yours going?" I asked, knowing that she had retired about a year ago.

"My definition of 'accomplishment' has definitely changed," she reported. "I used to be go-go-go, busy all day, and now I'm happy when I unload the dishwasher," she sighed.

My eyes widened, and she nodded. "Anyway, enjoy!" She waved and continued walking.

Just a Number

Back when Treat was three, and his older brother was six, he hatched a plan to become the senior sibling simply by saying so. When anyone asked the adorable toddler how old he was, he would answer, "I'm seven."

In the inevitable confusion his response caused, my brother taught him to add, "Technically, I'm three, but I'm really seven."

Treat turned 29 a few days ago, but he told us he considers himself 30, a notion which has something to do with realizing a couple of years ago that 27 was not really mid-, but rather late-twenties. He does, however, plan to be 30 for a couple of years or so, or at least until "mid-thirties" is unquestionably accurate.

Because, honestly? Who cares?