A Cat Eating Cake Like a Pig

"Draw a picture of a cat eating cake like a pig."

It was hard to hear Peter's quiet whisper as he sat snug on my lap during the sermon in church this morning, but I did catch "pig" and drew one for him.

"No, draw a cat eating cake like a pig."

I tried. I'm not sure quite what that looks like, much less how to render it in ballpoint pen with my level of skill, but I think Peter was satisfied.

"Draw a boy in a bathtub."

I started with the bathtub, then begin drawing the  boy's head and arms.

"No, boy not in bathtub! Cat in bathtub, eating cake!" (excited whisper, but still very quiet)

Suddenly, the light came on and I realized that Peter's ideas weren't coming from a hyperactive imagination, but rather from a book I had read to him last week: "The Cat in the Hat." I had to draw the cat in the bathtub eating cake, the boy outside the bathtub turning off the water, lots of snow outside the window, and the girl outside looking in. And other cats with other hats, and the big cat beating the bed with the broom. And then I turned the paper over and started drawing something else, fearing that after one reading of the book Peter would be able to remember every image and want me to replicate each one!

Jewel

The pre-dawn sky looked clear, and the air coming in the open window at the foot of my bed was not very cold. Peter's sleep breathing rose and fell from the bed across my room. I watched him for a while, a dark shape in the morning dimness of my room, stirring as his sleep lightened with the end of the night. I got up and started making noise in the room; he stirred more frequently and then suddenly, he was awake, rubbing his eyes and saying, "How 'bout you go downstairs, get book, we read story." I snuggled him, read to him, and snuggled and chatted some more. As the rest of the family passed by in the hall, each one peeked in the open door and was enchanted by Peter, smiling good morning to him and also to me. His imagination took flight and we made up silly stories together. Finally, I said we should probably go downstairs to get him dressed.

He was going to the quiz with Papa and Nana and Uncle John, so he had to hurry to get ready and eat his heaping bowl of "moatmeal" (oatmeal) with nectarines and pears. We gathered around the table and ate together, then Heidi and I went out to the driveway in our pjs to wave goodbye to the quizzers. Back inside, we dressed, cleaned the kitchen, and fed Lucy when she woke up. The sun was in full force outside, and when we let the dogs out the frisk of the morning enchanted them and they ran off into the woods. Hands dripping with dishwater, I kept going out onto the deck to shout, "Sophie! Rosie!" The air was cool but mild, and the blue of the sky was bright and unmarred. I felt frisky, too! I told Heidi if we waited they usually returned, and the dogs did not disappoint me.

After the cleaning, feeding, and dressing jobs were done, I made caramel whipped cream to frost a ginger cake for a church baby shower, spreading it in smooth, chunky swipes across the top and drizzling more caramel over the finished cake. I tucked it in the fridge on its glass plate, and then Heidi and I both worked on sewing projects. Lucy wandered around our table in her pink and green plaid jumper, exploring the sewing cords and baskets, carrying her favorite toy cup and fork, reading, and holding up her hands to come up for a snuggle with Mama or Aunt Julie.

At 10:30, it was time to leave for the shower. We turned off the sewing machine, gathered gifts and cake, and loaded into Heidi's car. As a girl, a shower signaled Special Occasion to me, and I retain a lingering sense of privilege and excitement when I am invited to one. I enjoyed the beautiful details of the party, and the fun of time with many dear ladies and girls from the church, and the generosity of the gifts showered on Karen and her soon-to-come baby girl. Heidi, Lucy, and I were among the last to leave. Heidi and I had sister chats on the way home, and Lucy started her delayed nap (after she was caught eating an envelope she found in my purse, which she was rifling through from her car seat).

Heidi carried the sleeping Lucy upstairs to finish her nap at our house; then she loaded up her things (sewing supplies, overnight bag) and went home to catch up on some housewifely jobs until it was time to come back and pick up Peter after his day at the quiz and Lucy after her nap. After a busy and social week, I was suddenly alone in a sunny house with a sleeping baby; I decided to open my window and curl up on my own bed for a few minutes. Refreshed, I went back downstairs to sew and delighted in adding ribbons and lace as the finishing touches to my project. Lucy slept on; the quizzers hadn't returned home yet.

I puttered amiably: cleaned up my sewing machine and all the little threads and implements scattered on table and ironing board, replaced the table cloth, set the table, soaked the dogs' food, checked on Lucy, walked out on the deck barefoot to breath in the sweet air. The grandmas arrived from the quiz, and before they were inside, Mom, Dad, John, and Peter followed them in the driveway. We were just inside when Heidi drove up to get her children, who were both sleeping -- Lucy upstairs, Peter in his car seat. Suddenly all was a buzz of activity: Mom was adding peas and parsley to the soup in the crockpot; Grandma was mixing her salad; Heidi waking her children (and then mothering her tired boy, who started crying the moment he saw her for no apparent reason); John was feeding the dogs. When the dust settled, we ladled hot lentil soup into our bowls and gathered around the table with the grandmas, filling our bodies with nutrients and our souls with the sight and presence of each other. We finished with Grandma Jane's chocolate cake and Dad's coffee. The grandmas left to make their long drive home, and we were a foursome.

Our activities were diverse: listening to an old Imperials song (Grandma had randomly started singing it when a phrase someone said triggered her memory and then Dad wanted to find it); doing the dishes; prepping for John's birthday dinner tomorrow; browsing website building and tracking info with Dad; having a girl chat on the couch. But we were together. And we still had some party left in us, which translated to downloading a "Leave it to Beaver" episode, chatting in the living room, and a rousing set of Boggle matches serenaded by classical music.

And then, shortly after ten, it was time to head towards bed to get ready for the day tomorrow. Mom called Sophie, wanting to zip her into her kennel for the night; Sophie bounded out from under table with so little thought for her surroundings that a dining room chair banged to the hardwood floor behind her. We secured dogs and doors and headed up the stairs, calling the last questions and thoughts from the day to each other down the hall, and then saying our goodnights.

In the midst of the rain, clouds, and shivery mornings of September, a clear, warm day: a jewel.

Cascade Pass: Memorable Moments

As Dad, Mom, and I climbed the switchbacks to Cascade Pass, we wondered if John would be waiting for us at the top. He was hiking out from his summer home in Stehekin to meet us for a few days in the wilderness together. The thought of seeing his friendly face spurred our steps, and when we heard a whistle that sounded like an imitation of Dad's, there was excitement among us. Then, he appeared around the next switchback, grinning and carefree with a bear tooth around his neck. He offered to take a pack (several times, until Mom finally obliged him) and hugged us and led us up the mountain as he told us stories and news of his life. 

At Cascade Pass

 One afternoon, sunny and showery by turns, we had returned from our short day hike to Horseshoe Basin and John stirred up the coals left from the morning's fire. We dried brush-wetted pant legs, boots, and socks by the fire and then Dad and John set out to catch some brook trout. Mom and I sat on stumps and logs by the fire and journaled and read. To keep from getting stiff, we gathered fuel and broke the branches over our knees to feed the fire or, when the rain revved up, hunched under our raincoats and tried to protect our books from the drops so we could keep reading. The boys came back happy and hungry with four beautiful fish strung on a green alder twig. The fish rested in the creek until we had roasted our potatoes in the fire; then we fried them with oil and garlic on foil over hot coals and ate our dinner with great delight.

View from Horseshoe Basin

Though the weather on Friday was foggy and misty, we decided to start up Sahalie Arm and see what views could be found there. The hillside was vivid with verdant flora, and everything wore dewdrop jewelry. The mountains drifted in and out of fog and clouds. Mist turned to rain which turned to ice bits. We tucked heads into hats and hoods and hands into gloves and pockets and took it all in.

On Sahalie Arm

The third night, John and I set up our tarp very low to the ground so it could be as wide as possible (so we could be as dry as possible, which we knew from our experiences on the previous two nights was not a given). At the peak, and at the high end, it was perhaps 18" off the ground; it was quite a snake-slither to get in and out. Rain spattered and dumped on our siltarp much of the night. I mostly slept and was mostly warm, but my feet were a little chilly and I was thinking about the little Hotties I knew John had in his pack (which also happened to be his pillow). One time when I heard him stirring, I asked, "Is it close to morning?" The sleeping bag-encased collection of lumps that was John mobilized and hands and head emerged. He patted around for flashlight, then looked for his watch. "It seems like it's getting lighter," he said. "Oh. It's 12:30. Why is my sleeping bag so wet?" Then, "Ralphie?" he said, using my pet nickname. "Do you want a little Hottie?" Since it was only 12:30, yes, I did want a little Hottie or two. He fished them out of his pack, opened and shook them for me.  I tucked them into my socks. The raindrops surged louder, and we burrowed into our bags and slept again. An hour later, the sky was definitely light and he looked at his watch again when we heard Mom and Dad stirring under their tarp. "I must have been looking at the wrong time zone," John said, pushing a few buttons. "Oh, it's now 6:30."

Warming up & drying out on the last morning

As we packed up camp on the last morning, I heard a whistle above us. John had already headed out on his fifteen mile hike back into Stehekin, and I looked up to the main trail above Pelton Basin, where we had camped. There was a tiny figure, flashing through the brush. "Goodbye, John!" I called up to him.

Climbing out of Pelton Basin towards Cascade Pass

Smoothies

Peter came running in ahead of his family on Sunday night -- they called to see if they could come over to hang out with us, and showed up on our porch about half an hour later. After our greetings, Peter thought maybe I would watch the screen saver on the computer with him, but I had another idea: making smoothies for dinner together. When I made the suggestion, he changed directions mid-run and made a beeline for the kitchen, where I gave him a seat on the counter beside the blender. He unwrapped frozen bananas, dumped in bags of pineapple chunks, and fished frozen strawberries out of the bag, giving his fingers a good licking in between each fruit to avoid cross-contamination. Then I cut open plums and peaches and he took the pits out. His rule of thumb for the plums was for every pit he removed, he got to tear off a little corner of fruit for a snack; the rest went into the blender. He has a slight fear of blenders, so he cozied up to the wall when I was ready to turn it on, but he remained courageous enough to stay on the counter. Once it was blended, of course we had to taste it! Peter thought it was good, but he really needed another little taste to do his job right.

After we finished our popcorn and smoothies ("copcorn and soothies"), Peter played on the couch for a bit and then it was bath time. When he was all clean, he had yet another plan: "We go downstairs, you read Peter story for bedtime. No Bible here, you read Peter story." I told him we actually DID have Bibles here, just not the one that he usually reads at bedtime. So he found one of our Bible story books on the shelf and took it to an empty rocking chair. "We sit here all-gether," he said, climbing in and scooting over to one side. I wedged myself in beside him and, snuggled close, we read two stories. He was still, listening, taking in every picture and word; I was still, too, taking in every bit of this dear, eager boy.

Family

Wednesday night, my first night home, Mom and Tim and I went over to Aaron and Heidi's after dinner, just because we could. When we started up the walk, Peter appeared in the big picture window, standing on the couch; anticipation showed in his clenched hands, scrunched shoulders, and sparkly grin. Lucy was visible just behind him, as usual more calm and reserved. I dashed up the steps and knocked on the door so Peter would come and open it. Then I took him, sturdy and solid, in my arms. He was full of eager questions and news doled out in his stilted sentences. "You called in German?" he asked. I said I was also called "Julie" in German. "No, you called Tante Julie in German!"

Tim took me out to breakfast on Thursday morning, our only day of overlap at home together before he left for school. He drove me to the Fall City Grill and lingered with me over a hearty breakfast, sharing some stories of his summer (most notably the Bear Hunt Story), encouraging me to start a bakery, talking about ideas for his future.

Aaron and Heidi came over with the kids on Thursday night in honor of Tim's last night at home; we played a game and ate popsicles and laughed together. Peter and Lucy spent the night, and I loved hearing his hearty snoring when I went into my room to go to bed. In the morning, I was down the hall when he woke up. "Mama, Peter get up?" When I went in to answer his sweet call, he sat up and adjusted the pillows and told me his plan: "You get book off shelf, you read Peter story!" Mom and I took turns running and watching Peter and Lucy (feeding them oatmeal, dressing them, answering Peter's questions, snuggling Lucy) and then drove them to the blueberry farm to meet Heidi. When we asked Peter what we would do at the blueberry farm, he had two good ideas: Pick and neat [eat]!

He was an independent and cheerful little picker, and often we would call to him and hear his little voice from several rows away. "Yes? I almost to end!"

Lucy was a good sport in the Ergo, but towards the end the blueberries we popped into her mouth weren't making up for the branches switching her in the face, and she was ready to get down. We have been enjoying a handful of fresh blueberries with most of our meals since Friday morning: in salad with chicken and curry dressing; with nectarines and yogurt on granola; sprinkled over gingerbread and lemon sauce.

This morning at breakfast Dad, Mom and I talked about issues of the heart. There were even a few tears, and I loved how we were soft and open to receive the Word from Daily Light as Dad read to us, and how earnestly we prayed together.

Today Mom and I spent lots of time in the kitchen and browsing cookbooks. Our big project was getting the food ready for our four day hike starting next Wednesday; then we did some menu planning for a couple of company meals coming up in the next few weeks. The sink was emptied of dishes many times; we had the dehydrator, the flour mill, and all manner of pots and pans out; we chopped and measured and toasted and baked. I love all the flavors and textures and possibilities -- the creativity; I love that we can make something we have to do (eating) into a delight; mostly I loved being together with Mom and working and playing and sharing and laughing together.