It's been a 100 meter sprint here lately at my house--over, and over again. Just when I think I can sit down and breathe for a second "POW" that starter goes off again and I'm running to something else. Today we finally got to sit down to a family dinner; it felt like a week since all the stooges and the mom and dad were together. And since the budget is a little broke, we had a nice depression era dinner s t r e t c h i n g a few chicken breasts diced up with a thick gravy for the carnivores, and a nice lentil stew for me to pour over some potatoes that had to be radically peeled and boiled and mashed to be made good.
But there was conversation and laughing and I think only once did a teen aged boy say the word "moron" to his brother.
Oh, it was nice.
Then the very nearly 17-year-old made brownies, which is really nothing new for a chocolate fiend, but here's the thing; he cleaned up. I mean, he really cleaned up the cooking mess. He rinsed the bowl and added it to the dishwasher and then even started the dishwasher. And he wiped down the counter. All the fixin's got put away. I couldn't even tell someone had been baking.
Oh, it was really nice!
And the brownies were not just good, they were served with ice cream and dark chocolate sauce. Those kind of brownies have absolutely no Weight Watchers points, I call it.
The song that keeps going through my head is that old John Denver song with the line "Hey, it's good to be back home again". OK, so we fly out tomorrow at the crack of dawn for one last visit with family this summer, but home isn't at all where we sit and eat or where we bake our brownies. Home is us, it's our crew together and us just being us.
It's good to be back home again.