Clean

We walked in to the empty house and dust danced in the sunshine pouring in through the dirty windows.

It was beautiful, at first. All those twinkling particles, all that emtpy space just waiting to be conquered, to be scrubbed until shiny, new... ours.

I bought a mop. I bought some sponges and some spray cleaners with a fresh lemony scent and I got to work. Wetting, scrubbing, rubbing, and vacuuming. And then I did it some more.

Then the furniture arrived, and I did it all over again. More vacuuming, dusting, mopping, and scrubbing. As soon as I finished, I began again, vacuuming after the litttle trails of dried out pasta, cookie bits, and mushy half-eaten grapes the kids left in their wake. Scrub, vacuum, mop. Scrub, vacuum, mop.

The novelty wore off quickly. The dust piled up on top of the newly hung picture frames. The soap scum caked the sinks. And the toilets... oh, the toilets, well let's just say that they made porta-potties look clean.

Then they arrived. Four determined Polish angels. After a quick tour, they got down to work, ripping old sheets and towels into cleaning rags. They scoured the house for hours, climbing on chairs to dust up high, replacing chaos with order, and sticky dust with shine.

When there was nothing left to clean, I handed them a wad of bills and set a date for their next visit, but I really wanted to hug them. Then I lay down on the kitchen floor and closed my eyes, breathing in the fresh clean smell and falling in love with the house all over again. The sun felt warm on my face, and it was beautiful, especially without dancing silvery dust.

Haven't done Sunday Scribblings for a while, but this week's prompt: CLEAN, inspired me. Head on over to see how it inspired others.

The Dragon of Time

Time is the dragon in my life.

Even without seeking it out, without glancing at my watch or any of the luminous dials in my house or car, I can feel it breathing hot, sulfuric breath hot on my neck.

Time even flies like a dragon, sometimes with dizzying speed, and other times flitting up and down whimsically, batted around by the wind. It's inconsistent, unreliable, and treacherous.

Our calendar is riddled with project deadlines, class parties, and the to do list grows. Summer used to be an idyllic suspension of time, a succession of long lazy days in the sun, but this year, the dragon has laid waste to the peace, filling it with summer camps, car pool arrangements, and the stress of a growing freelance workload.

I've tried in vain to slay the dragon. I've banished my watch to a drawer. I've set the alarm earlier for a little breathing room. I've canceled classes and turned down commitments. But the dragon always returns, bearing down on me, threatening to engulf me with flames.

Where is the brave knight that will slay this dragon letting us enjoy the meadows in peace once again?

I haven't partaken in Sunday Scribblings prompts in a while. This week's prompt is the Dragon.  The terror of the end of school inspired this post.

What Are your Superstar Demands?

Tonight's Sunday Scribblings prompt is exactly what I needed: an invitation to daydream, to pretend to be a superstar on tour making demands for the set up of their fitting room.

J Lo apparently requests that hers be all white while Britney asks for Doritos. Considering I spent three hours this morning on my hands and knees, sorting through my kids' toys in the basement, I'm definitely in the mood to make some demands of my own!

So let's pretend for a minute that I'm on top of the world, a woman in demand, with nationwide sold out shows to thousands. My whims have become dire necessities to keep me energized and at my peak. Although like Steve Carell and Paul Rudd, I have a reputation as a "nice" star, my staff is still extremely eager to meet my every need, and thrilled that they are not so complicated. In fact, they find it easy to have:

• A chilled bottle of Riesling on ice with two delicate Riedel crystal balloon wine glasses. 
• A small box of truffles from the Maison du Chocolat.
• A half dozen local perfectly ripe strawberries, only when in season.

And of course, a heated massage table with 200-thread count sheets must be set up so that my skilled masseuse can knead my sinewy body back to perfect relaxation in time for the curtain call.

I can hear the crowd now. I think I'll close my eyes a few minutes to hear them chant my name a little longer and to avoid the teetering pile of laundry I need to fold. Or better yet, maybe I'll just ask my assistant to take care of it while I sip a little more Riesling.

Happy Sunday Scribblings! What would your demands be if you were a superstar?

the Book that Started Everything

My mother's copy was dog eared and stained with a dozen delicious batters. They yellowed her pages with the remnants of delicious desserts. Many of those stains were made by me as I breathlessly whipped egg whites and boiled sugar to a magical temperature in my mother's kitchen, giddy with the responsibility of preparing a dessert worthy of closing one of my mother's meals.

I would have been terrified had I not been in Lenotre's hands. With his formal, almost clinical, instructions, he demystified the fanciest French confections. From brioche to the Concorde, all seemed within reach, carefully measured and meted out. Armed with this bible of baking written by one of the forefathers of French patisserie, anyone could achieve greatness.

As I packed for college that night, my mother came to find me with a small parcel wrapped in brown paper. She tucked it into my suitcase and asked me to wait until I got to the States to open it. I was surrounded by piles of clothes for every season, wondering how I would fit my fall, winter, and spring clothes in the two suitcases the airline alloted me. I gave her a quick smile and returned to my packing.

Twenty-four hours, and a lifetime later, I found the package again. I sat atop of my stiff new bed in my sterile dorm room, and imagined my family sleeping in their beds in the middle of the Parisian night. When I finally choked back my homesickness enough to rip the brown paper open, I beheld an old friend. Gaston Lenotre, beaming at me under his white toque, atop of my very own, brand spanking new, copy of Faites Votre Patisserie Comme Lenotre.

And although a communal microwave was the only cooking facility at our disposal in my Freshman dorm, I clutched my very first cookbook to my chest like a fine treasure. Then I proudly displayed it on my shelf, a promise of all the meals I would prepare in my new life. It represented home and family, more than any picture or mementos. And now, close to twenty years and over a dozen moves later, it still is the first book I place on my bookshelf, the one cookbook I could not live without.

Tonight's Sunday Scribblings prompt is: the Book that Changed Everything. An interesting prompt... give it some thought... and then please share!

Capturing the Filaments of my Dreams

A few months ago, Caroline, one of the women in my New Jersey writing group gave us an interesting writing challenge. "Catch the pieces of your dreams. Write them down right when you wake up and then use your dreams as writing fodder."

I've actually been doing that ever since, jotting a few colorful details down on a pad on my nightstand as soon as the alarm rings. It's a little like trying to trap the water of a receding wave between your gaping fingers. I scribble the images on the page: scarlet skirt, bleeding dog, missing scarf, keys lying at the bottom of the toilet bowl, and then trudge up to face the day. Often when I return a few hours later, the images are no longer connected to the dream, and they stare at me from the pale pink notepad page, vivid splotches of forgotten nonsense.

Sometimes though, the words manage to trap the magic of the dream and I can stand there, wide awake, but be transported back to that richly creative world where women fly, pigs talk, and anything is possible.

Regardless of whether or not I remember the actual dream, these filaments of my nocturnal wanderings make the richest, most interesting writing prompts. With their help, my pen runs across the page, helping me dream big, awake. When I put my pen down, ten, fifteen, twenty minutes later, I feel rested, whole, and at peace.

Why don't you try to catch your dreams in the next week? You'll be surprised by the rich life you lead at night.

Tonight's Sunday Scribblings prompt is Big Dreams.

What I Swore I Never Would Do as a Perfect Mom to Perfect Kids

I always knew I wanted to be a mother, but it took me a long time to be ready to have children.

I needed time to spy on kids with spaghetti-sauce covered faces at nearby tables in crowded restaurants, to make chocolate chip cookies with my niece, to smile at shy little girls hiding behind their mothers' knees in elevators. And mostly, I needed time to draw conclusions, to come up with a parenting strategy, to make lists of things I would never do as a parent.

The list went on and on. I wish I had written it down. But from the dregs of my memory banks, I can still easily recall the top ten things I swore I would never do as a parent. Hell could freeze over, pigs could fly, but I would never be caught dead doing those things.

• I would never drive a minivan. 
• I would never let my children pollute their body with McDonald's.
• I would never let my child answer the phone, leaving the person on the other end of the line in the awkward position of making conversation with a toddler.
• I would never make an adult change seats because of my child's tantrum.
• My children would never have tantrums.
• My children would always be well-dressed, their clothes would be free of Disney characters, and polyester-free.
• My children would not be spoiled and would not have too many toys.
• I would not bore others with talk of my child's bodily functions.
• I would not address my husband as "Daddy" to his face, especially not in a passive aggressive tone. eg: "Well, if Daddy would only help Mommy clean up every once in a while, we could all have more time to play."  

Oh, how I have eaten my words. I have learned that in times of exhaustion, deep annoyance, or extreme whining, I will break all of the above rules, and many more that are not on the list.

I have let my kids wear pajamas to the supermarket, have fed them mac and cheese for breakfast and cereal for dinner. And I have discovered that if my children whine long enough in a certain pitch, I will get in the car and drive them to McDonald's, even in the pouring rain, just to let the Happy Meals work their magic. But mostly, I have learned to not pass judgment and to never say never.

Today's Sunday Scribblings prompt is.... When Pigs Fly.

What did you think you would never do?

Letting Go of the Guilt

I've been trying to let go lately. Not let go of my friends, my life, or my family. Not at all.

I've been trying to let go of the guilt.

I take on guilt like a large sea sponge at the bottom of the ocean takes on water. I soak it up until I'm filled to the brim, and then I try to drink in some more.

I feel guilty when my children are cranky, or hungry, or tired. I berate myself for not anticipating their need, for not being better prepared. I feel guilty when my children tire quickly of their new toys on Christmas morning. I regret spoiling them, not giving them more moral fiber, not having been tougher on them. I feel guilty for not being a better mother.

When a cookie wrapper flies out of my minivan at preschool pickup and the teacher opens the door, I feel guilty for being such a slob. When my husband is tired, I feel guilty for not having nagged him more to go to bed the night before. When he walks through the door and dinner is still a full thirty minutes from being ready, I feel guilty that I am not better organized.

And mostly, I feel guilty about my blogging and my writing. It's not enough that I blog here every day. I should also be journaling more, writing more horrendous rough drafts in my notebooks. I should also be blogging more on my review blog and rejuvenating my abandoned writing blog by beginning to post writing prompts again.

The guilt is crippling. It sends me to bed every night with a heavy heart. Another day gone. Another missed opportunity to complete the ever growing to do list.

But for the last few weeks, I've been trying to let go of the guilt that paints bruised shadows under my eyes every night. I've been resisting the temptation to stay up late trying to complete one more task, and then another task after that. I've been shutting down the computer before midnight and climbing up the stairs focusing on what I did accomplish instead of what remains to be done.

On some nights, the accomplishments don't sound like much. Doing a congo line around the kitchen with all three kids with Taylor Swift blasting. Losing to Bella in the Game of Life and hearing her belly laugh that I named my kid Grover. Reading Purplelicious to Juju with really mean voices for the cool girls who like black. Those actions are intangible and don't get checked off any to do list.

But strangely enough, the more days I have filled with intangible moments of laughter, the easier it is to stave off the heavy guilt. And suddenly guilt-free, or at least working on it, frees me up to really be creative and get my pen flowing during my moments of free time.

Give it a try... let go of the guilt. I dare you.

Once again, Sunday Scribblings and Write of Passage have prompts this week that tie together. On Write of Passage, Mrs. Flinger asked us to write about a post with a clear plot, a point which you are trying to make. And Sunday Scribblings' prompt is message.

The linky below is for Write of Passage, should you want to join in the challenge of putting the focus back on creative writing to the momosphere.

Stone Markers Along the Path

I park the car in my usual spot, in that deserted parking lot overlooking the river. I reach into my purse to extract my cell phone and my car keys, leaving behind the rest of my daily baggage in my crowded purse. I toss it on the passenger seat and fling my coat carelessly over it to shield it from prying eyes.

As I step out into the freshness of the day, my breath escapes from my mouth in little puffs of white. I breathe deeply, filling my lungs with the peace and quiet of the moment. The car emits a chipper little beep as it locks, and I shove my keys deep into the pocket of my sweatshirt.

All material things now taken care of, nothing stands between me and the pounding of my feet on the path. I stretch, lifting my legs one at time to the back bumper of the car, pushing my muscles until they waken with a slight twinge of pain. My body is ready. Humming. Awakened from the torpor of the day.

And so I begin. Transitioning quickly from walk, to jog, to all out run. Delighting in the effort of putting one foot in front of the other, pushing my legs to pump faster and faster, straining for the milestones ahead. As I run, I pretend not to notice the stone markers along the way, ticking off the distance I'm achieving. But each marker validates the burning in my lungs and lessens the heaviness of my feet. As the numbers climb, I feel lighter, faster, capable of anything.

I am running, faster and faster, wind whipping at my face, sweat pooling on my brow, heart thumping in my chest. I am alive. Soon my run will be done and I will resume my place in the car pool pick up line, but the milestones will remain, silent testaments of my solitary accomplishment on this glorious, chilly winter's day.

Tonight's Sunday Scribblings prompt is Milestone. It happens to be the 200th Sunday Scribblings post. What milestone have you crossed lately?

Lament Under a Blanket of Gray

The sun is gone. For days now, he has been invisible. The sky has been a blanket of gray, sometimes dark and menacing, sometimes light and soft, but always gray. An impenetrable blanket of gray.

The snow has been falling on and off since Christmas, and without interruption for 4 days, a continuous soft, silent shedding from the sky. The flakes dance down, changing only their appearance, sometimes fat cotton balls, sometimes tiny flecks. But they continue to fall, covering the ground with its own blanket, this one white with patches of gray.

It seems impossible that we ever wore shorts and sandals. It seems ridiculous that we ever lathered ourselves with suntan lotion to guard against burns instead of moisturizing cream to minimize the chafing and eczema. But yet the evidence remains, in the dusty flip flops thrown carelessly in the corners of the kids' closets and the ruffly bikini top Juliette put on to dress up yesterday.

I wish I'd thought to take the time to put my face up to the sky the last time it was blue. Instead of running to finish errands or pick up the kids from school, I should have taken a minute to give the sun the chance to gift my cheeks with its winter's kiss.

But I didn't.

And so now I dream of a day when I will see the sun again, when the weather will stop being so extreme, and the sky will shed its blanket of gray and give me back my blues so the world can shine a little brighter once again.

Tonight's Sunday Scribblings prompt is EXTREME. It seems the weather in Europe is as rough as it has been here. Head on over to see what others did with the prompt.

2010... the Year of More

Last year I was quantitative about my resolutions. I had goals. They were clear. One was met, and two were not, but life went on.

Even though I did not run a race, I ran ...a lot. I craved it, longing for the burning in my legs, and the pulsing of my heart at the top of a hard won hill. No medals. No crowds. No finishing time. Just me strapping on my shoes and going as far as I could. And I felt good about that.

And even though I didn't make much time for my fiction writing, I do have 10 pages written of a novel I've been talking about since college. They're not edited. They're probably pretty crappy. They're not much, but they are the beginning of something. And I feel good about that.

And so this year, I'm doing my new year's resolutions conceptually instead of quantitatively. I'm declaring 2010 is going to be my year of MORE.

more joy
more belly laughs
more butterfly kisses
more grins
more spontaneity
more bizarre dreams
more feverish writing
more passionate cooking
more ambitious running
more sweating from every pore
more relaxing
more being in the moment
more family game night marathons
more naps
more cuddling
more snuggling
more hugging
more kissing
more dancing
more loving
more living

A new decade. A new start. A new attitude.

Tonight's Sunday Scribblings prompt is a new leaf. What are you turning over this year?

This week's Write Well Challenge is similar. It is "resolutions." See what others have posted in reply:

You Never Know When the Interview Will Strike

In my old lives, interviewing used to be so simple, so cut and dried. I would hear about a job that sounded interesting. In college, it would be by glancing at the career services bulletin board on my way to class. At work, it would be through whispered conversations with headhunters or by reading the colorful internal postings newsletter. Either way, the next step was the same.

I would submit my resume, one little sheet of paper summarizing my life's achievements. And that same little piece of paper would then either serve as the framework for the resulting interview or would join other pieces of fancy paper lining the trashcan.

In my new life as a freelance writer and blogger, interviews are a more nebulous affair. They can crop up at any time, in the most unexpected places, with the most unlikely people. I've made contacts about potential writing gigs at playgroup, at the coffee shop, and even at a football game. You never know who might need a writer or might know someone interested in food or parenting content.

I used to be shy about my budding career on the fringes of my life as a suburban mom. I used to keep quiet about my blogging, my writing, and my dreams. But I've learned that a name of a common acquaintance can help a query stand out in an editor's overflowing inbox.

I no longer keep quiet about my double life. I carry business cards in my purse proudly labeling myself as a freelance writer, blogger, and foodie mom. I don't hesitate to pass them out, always ready for that impromptu interview, for that unexpected contact, even when I'm sweaty and smelly in old workout clothes.

As you may have guessed, tonight's Sunday Scribblings prompt was "interview." Head on over to see what others did with it.

A Lonely Adventure

When I agreed to move our family to Ohio, I worried about how the kids would fare on this adventure. I worried their social skills and confidence would suffer. I worried that they would be forever altered by this disruption in their lives.

But the kids are fine. Better than fine. They are flourishing. They love their new schools and have armies of new friends. My oldest, about whom I worried the most, has actually blossomed as a result of the move.

I should have spent more time worrying about myself.

I underestimated how long it takes to form real adult bonds. I didn't expect to struggle to connect with people whose background and interests are so different from mine. I never imagined that four months after relocating, I still wouldn't have found someone to share a glass of red wine with and laugh about the kids' antics.

In four long months, I've become one of those lonely women. I'm the one who holds up the check out line with too much banter with the supermarket clerk. I'll keep you trapped on the phone for thirty minutes when you called to set up a playdate. And I'm the one who stalks my East Coast friends and family with dozens of "just calling to say hi" messages on their machines.

I signed up for this Midwestern adventure, willingly, and still don't regret it. I love discovering this different world. But the loneliness is tough. Intellectually, I know that I'm growing from this hardship, learning new things about myself, who I am and who I want to be. But that doesn't make it any easier when I catch myself stalking a friendly mom in the pick-up line like a desperately lonely loony!

This sad post was inspired by today's Sunday Scribblings post: adventure.

The Shame of Losing

Tonight's Sunday Scribblings prompt is Shame.

I ran into the club, holding my racquet case over my head in a vain attempt to stay somewhat dry in the pouring rain. Once I walked through the doors, the rain stopped, but my sense of unease remained. I walked up to the counter where an unfriendly woman pointed me to the back to find the rest of my team.

My team.

Sounds nice. Like a cohesive group of women who've known each other for years. Kind of like the group of women wearing black tops sitting around the coffee table laughing at a shared joke. I looked at them as I walked around, searching for anyone else wearing a red top like me.

I didn't recognize the woman with the red t-shirt walking into the bathroom. I walked up to her, introduced myself, and asked her if she knew where I should go. I explained my ignorance apologetically, "I'm new. I've never played match before." She shrugged and pointed towards the courts on the left.

"I'm just a sub but I think the other girls are over there. Check the sheet at the sign in desk to see who you're playing."

A few minutes later I was on the right court, having introduced myself to my partner and my opponents. After some firm handshakes all around, the mood on the court was all business as we began hitting balls to get warmed up.

Although I've been playing tennis for three years now, I'd never played a "real" match, only casual games with friends. I was completely unnerved by the tension of my teammate and the naked competitiveness of the two women on the other side of the net.

Things began to go badly during the warm up. I hit wildly, sending most of the balls they hit to me way out into the other courts. At first the other team looked annoyed, but soon they were smirking at each other and whispering. Ten minutes later, when we spun for the serve, my hands were shaking.

We lost the first set 6-0. After a close first game that went back and forth at deuce, the other five games just whipped by. During the water break between sets, I was apologizing to everyone, to my partner for playing so poorly, to my opponents for not giving them a good workout. I was mortified. I looked at my watch and counted the minutes until I could bury myself under the covers, forgetting my shame in the warm comfort of my sheets.

When the second set began, the blonde in the fuschia skirt hit a volley at my knee. It hit me hard, and when I looked up, she put a hand to her mouth, shielding her smile. Anger replaced the hot pain and fueled me through the next two games.

The smirks disappeared from the women's faces. I was on fire, making shot after shot. The last point was won with a volley planted right between blondie's legs. It was the beginning of a comeback worthy of a Lifetime movie.

And then it ended. We lost one point, then another, and suddenly the second set was lost. 6-2. We shook hands limply. I was unable to meet the other players' eyes as I uttered the words, "good game."

They walked off the court without looking back, laughing loudly.

The defeat was complete and utterly humiliating. I began apologizing to my partner, explaining my state of mind and my surprise over the intense competition of the match. She looked up at me and said, "As long as you played your hardest, it doesn't matter that we lost. We have the court for another hour, do you want to hit some more?"

And for the next sixty minutes, on the far court of this unfriendly club, we played and practiced, gearing up for the next match. Next week, I'll be ready.

Until then, I'll chalk up this complete defeat to a lesson in humility.

Writers Come in all Shapes and Sizes

When I stepped into the room, I almost walked right back out. Half the chairs around the table were filled with men and women in their late 80s. I thought that there was little chance that I would find my new writing group here, amongst this crowd. How could people of such different backgrounds, such different age groups, possibly have anything in common with me?

I swallowed my disappointment and took my seat for the presentation. I hadn't come for the topic, Writing in Cyberspace, but I found myself captivated watching the youthful speakers explain the power of the blogosphere to an audience interspersed with people who could remember a world without television.

When the group's organizer stood up to make the concluding remarks, I was thinking about the long ride home ahead of me. He asked what he said was his usual question, whether anyone had any successes to share.

The woman in the pale pink suit who raised her hand seemed to be the oldest in the group. All eyes turned to her as she started to speak, her voice shaking with emotion. She held up a glossy magazine called Cappers and announced that they had published one of her stories. Her right hand rubbed reverently the letter Cappers sent her along with her $35 payment. Her face glowed as she told us, "I was ever so thrilled to get that check with my name on it."

I found myself choking up as I listened to her success story. I realized that all writers, regardless of age, gender, or background, share the same hunger. A hunger to share our words, to be heard, and to be recognized. A hunger to be published. We are bonded by our insatiable drive to commit what we see, what we feel, and what we imagine to the page.

The hunger to write can strike at any point in our lives. Some of us have felt it since we were children, writing feverishly in our diaries after lights out, while others picked up the pen later in life. We may look and sound incredibly different, but we share an understanding of the work, a reverence of the words, and when we come together, we give each other the recognition and support to continue to strive to be writers.

Tonight's Sunday Scribblings prompt is hungry. Head on over to see what other's did with the prompt.

Tattoo Temptations

I'll admit it, I was tempted.

In my rebellious teens, when the sounds of AC/DC and Def Lepard channeled my anger at the world, I coveted a tattoo.

Nothing too large or too gawdy,just a single red rose on a thorny vine on the inside of my left ankle. The fresh blossom would have been barely open, a bright spot of dewy red.

I imagined legions of cute boys driven wild by the simple sexiness of my flower, depositing large bouquets at my feet.

Of course I never got the tattoo. My body mutilating acts of rebellion were limited to piercing my ears. That act alone got me grounded for weeks and labelled "as brazen as a prostitute" by my mother.

Today, when I spot tattoos on aging ankles, sagging arms, and droopy backs, I thank my mother silently for scaring me out of hasty permanent decisions. If it weren't for her, my rose would now be winding around my varicose veins, a scarlet blotch in sea of purple.

Today's Sunday Scribblings prompt is tattoo. Head on over to see what other's did with the prompt.

The Poetry of Six Word Memoirs

This week Sunday Scribblings has challenged their readers to write poetry.

Poetry stresses me out so much that it gives me serious stomach cramps.

Iambic pantameter was a rhythm I never understood. Rhyming is a skill I never acquired... in either my native tongue of French or English. Mad/Glad/Bad/Sad is about the limit of my rhyming prowess.

So rather than trying my hand at a true poem and covering myself in ridicule, I thought I would do a six word memoir, a form of poetry in its brevity.

Six word memoirs are featured at Smith Magazine. It's worth heading over to read some of the truly hilarious ones there. My favorites include the book title, "Not quite what I was planning," Hemingway's famous opening line, "For sale, baby shoes, never worn," and the romantic, "We were roadkill on love's highway."

And so... without further ado... here's my 6 word memoir:
"Would rather be late, than bored."

What's yours?

Fantasy Dinner Party

Tonight's Sunday Scribblings prompt is Fantasy Dinner Party. It is more guided than usual, asking the question, "who would you invite?"

I've been reflecting on this all day, composing mental guest lists in my head. Guest lists are definitely my achilles heel, as I suffer great anxiety trying to create pairings to promote guest chemistry.

As this is my fantasy, we'll just assume that the guests will gel, regardless of difference in interests, living periods, or any other potential conflicts. I would gather a small group of Americans who share a love of Paris around my table. I'd love to have some literary giants like Hemingway and Fitzgerald, just to have a chance to hear them talk about their craft. I'd also love to break bread with Julia Child and to hear her down to earth laughter. To take most of the conversational pressures off of me, I would invite a couple of living powerhouse francophiles living today such as Adam Gopnik and maybe even David Sedaris.

When everyone was assembled around my farmhouse table and the steaming bowl of Boeuf Bourguignon Soup had been placed in the middle, next to the crusty baguette, the shiny green salad, and the brimming red wine goblets, I would just sit back and take it all in, luxuriating in being a quiet spectator.

How about you? Who would you invite?

Staking our Claim

So much is new here...
the town,

the street,

the friends,

the food,

but amidst all the newness,

we hung the old and familiar,

Claiming our new home with every nail planted in the freshly painted walls.

Happy Sunday Scribblings! Today's prompt is "new".

The Plan

The plan was simple: 26 days, a blue soft-top jeep, a broken-up couple, and the open road.

The day after graduation, my mother handed me a new Rand McNally atlas inscribed with one sentence: "try not to fight too much". She had just asked me once again whether I was really sure that I wanted to go ahead with the planned trip even though Joe and I were broken up.

Both the atlas and the advice served us well that June as we criss-crossed the United States, coast to coast and back again in 26 days. In those days before cell phones, you really could cut yourself off from the world, just drop out for a while. Every morning, we would open the atlas and choose a destination. Sometimes we made it, sometimes we didn't.

We sped along long deserted stretches of American highway, top down, my long hair flying in the wind. By mutual accord, we didn't talk about the past or the future. Only about the present, the America we were discovering together. We both knew instinctively that it would be the last experience we would share together.

In Texas I tried Rocky Mountain oysters. In Utah we drove the jeep onto the salt flats. In New Mexico we drove out into the dessert and visited an ancient Indian village built into the mountain that was still inhabited. The little hand painted bowl I bought sits on my shelf, the only memento of that brief period of freedom in my life, the only time I took a break from my master plan, my career path, and just lived in the moment, day by day without a plan.

Tonight's Sunday Scribblings prompt is Plan. Head on over to see how that inspired others.

A Small Indulgence

The ice cream is melting slowly, forming a pool of vanilla cream around the rich midnight brownie. A dollop of hot fudge is dripping down the sides of the scoop of ice cream, like thick fingers of chocolate.

I cradle the small bowl in the palm of my hand, savoring the sugary promise of the brownie sundae. I pick up the dessert spoon and slowly push it in through the layers. It's essential to have a good ratio of brownie, ice cream and fudge in every bite.

I bring the small spoon into my mouth, swirling the warm cake, warm fudge and cold ice cream around my tongue. The combination is perfect, the creamy vanilla balancing the intense rich chocolate just right.

A few bites later, the bowl is empty but my mouth is still echoing with the symphony of vanilla and chocolate. A small but rich treat is all I need to fulfill my indulgent cravings.

Tonight's Sunday Scribblings prompt is indulgence. What's yours?