Ice Skating on Creme Brulee

Today, my belly is round from all of the eating out that I did over the weekend; the highlight was the creme brulee (sugar ice over a pond of custard--I always tap my spoon against the hard top and imagine an ice skating rink) at McCormick and Schmick's in D.C.

My boys gave me a stack of cards, complicated ones with folds and springs for that 3-D effect. They piled on top of me--a mommy sandwich--and argued over who would get to hold my hand during our walks downtown (a hand that is usually held in limp contempt, I might add). We traded off back tickling, the summation of which, of course, was me balancing a boy on each of my knees, sketching fingernail pictures against small, pale backs.

It was a weekend of books--I received an Amazon order on Friday morning, and from there, I was consumed by A Dangerous Woman by Mary McGarry Morris (brilliant characterization), Floor Sample by Julia Cameron (oh, the honesty about her life), and The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath (just beginning to make a dent in her graceful yet razor-sharp prose). Apparently, I do not know Limit (he and I are acquaintainces, but we can pass by each other in a crowded room with as little as a nod; at least, when pressed, however, we will speak to one another, which is more than I can say about his sister, Patience); at the library, I paid my most recent fines and checked out a pile of 14 new books (Carson McCullers: A Life; The Friend Who Got Away; Girl Sleuth: Nancy Drew and The Women Who Created Her; Ava Gardner (a biography); Edgar Allen Poe & The Juke-Box (poetry, drafts, and fragments by Elizabeth Bishop); The One-Minute Meditator, etc). On Sunday, I chose a dewey, windshield-wiper drive to our local, used book store, where for once, I just browsed, then the hazy trip back home where I ran a hot bath and climbed into it with a few of the books I'd already acquired. A spa for books, a few of whom lounge on the edge of the tub, wrapped in fluffy towels, discussing politics and existentialism.