The baby bird sat at the edge of the nest, paralyzed with fear. His little talons clung to the bunch of mashed up sticks and feathers that had been the only home he had ever known. The nest had stopped being warm and cozy when his brothers and sisters flew away. It was hard, cold and smelly. His mother hadn’t stopped by with food for the entire day and he was hoarse from chirping out her name in hunger.
He knew that it was time to fly away, but he couldn’t bring himself to take the leap. It was just so high, terribly, terrifyingly high. He could hardly make out the ground below. Why hadn’t his parents chosen a nice low lying bush to make their nest? Now he was left with the difficult choice of plummeting to his death or starving.
With one last pitiful chirp, he closed his eyes tightly and flung himself out into the void. At first, he was falling straight down, plummeting to the death he’d imagined many times before. Then, without knowing exactly how, his wings started flapping and the awful sensation of falling disappeared. He was flying!
At first it was a bumpy ride, then he figured out how to work with the wind instead of against it. He began to glide through the air, buffeted up by the gentle breeze. He came to a beautiful field of wildflowers and swooped down to feast on a cloud of mayflies. His belly now full, he started to enjoy the ride and test out his new skill. He soared into the brilliant blue sky as high as he could go, singing with joy for all the world to hear.
This post was inspired by the Sunday Scribblings prompt: Soar.
Showing posts with label sunday scribblings. Show all posts
Showing posts with label sunday scribblings. Show all posts
Monday, May 19, 2008
Saturday, May 3, 2008
PTA Hopes
Sally looked over at the mixed crowd of parents, teachers, and various educational personnel scattered around her. Her palms were sweaty, no matter how much she wiped them on her nicely fitted 7 jeans; she couldn't get rid of that damp clammy feeling. She felt warm and wondered if she looked as flushed and disheveled as she felt.
Principal Edward Singer was up on the podium, droning on and on about the procedures they were going to put in place to prevent further outbreaks of lice at the school. To date there were four kids in two classrooms quarantined at home until they were lice-free. Sally made a mental note to check Madison's hair tomorrow morning then refocused herself on her impending moment of truth. The Glenwood Ridge School PTA meeting was about to come to the miscellaneous portion of the agenda. Sally quickly glanced at the thick stack of white notecards she'd been clutching to assure herself that she was ready to plead her case. She'd been readying herself for this moment for a long time.
It all began when Madison first started eating lunch at school. She tired quickly of Sally's wholesome brown bag lunches and started asking for lunch money. Initially Sally was happy to give her the few dollars a day, as it meant one less thing for her to prepare in the morning. However, Sally quickly became appalled by the poor food options available to the students. The healthiest option was usually frozen pizza, but even that was overshadowed by Doritos, french fries, and chili dogs. No wonder obesity was becoming a crisis in America! Madison's brown bag lunches made a quick comeback, but that did not quell Sally's discomfort with the situation. Glenwood was an affluent community; they should be setting the standard for public school nutrition, not being a victim of a statewide trend. A few months ago, during what she thought was a typically one-sided conversation with her husband Larry, he interrupted her rant about the sad state of affairs in the Glenwood cafeteria with a simple, yet powerful suggestion, "Sally, why don't you stop complaining, and do something about this already." He had stunned her speechless, but her mind started working overtime immediately. Of course she could and should do something. With her degree from the CIA (Culinary Institute of America) currently underutilized making Madison's brown bag lunches, she was the perfect person for the job. She would revamp the cafeteria offerings of the Glenwood Ridge Elementary School. It would probably open up a world of opportunity for her in consulting to other schools and maybe even catering! With that one little suggestion, Larry made her fall in love with him all over again.
For months, she studied the programs of cutting edge public schools around the country, beginning with Alice Water's program in California where the students grow their own produce. Now she was ready to start a food revolution right here in Glenwood. Sure, she was going to get the usual budgetary objections, and she certainly did not know how they were going to pay for any of her proposals. She did know her fellow Glenwood parents, always so proud and sanctimonious, and she was sure they would find it insufferable that other schools had superior culinary programs. Glenwood always prided itself on being one of the best schools in the state; they would not want to come up wanting in any category.
Sally was sure the people around her could hear her runaway heart thundering in her chest. The school secretary had just come to the podium to announce that anyone with miscellaneous items should raise their hand to be invited up to speak. Sally started to lift her hand, slowly, shakily at first, then higher and more confidently to gain the attention of the secretary. As Sally prepared to get up, she realized that she felt electrified and more alive than she had felt in years. She took a second to thank Larry silently again for his little suggestion. The secretary called out, "Sally Smith, you are welcome to the podium to bring up a miscellaneous item."
This was a beginning attempt at fiction based on the writing prompt MISCELLANEOUS. For more sunday scribblings on the same prompt, please visit the Sunday Scribblings blog
Principal Edward Singer was up on the podium, droning on and on about the procedures they were going to put in place to prevent further outbreaks of lice at the school. To date there were four kids in two classrooms quarantined at home until they were lice-free. Sally made a mental note to check Madison's hair tomorrow morning then refocused herself on her impending moment of truth. The Glenwood Ridge School PTA meeting was about to come to the miscellaneous portion of the agenda. Sally quickly glanced at the thick stack of white notecards she'd been clutching to assure herself that she was ready to plead her case. She'd been readying herself for this moment for a long time.
It all began when Madison first started eating lunch at school. She tired quickly of Sally's wholesome brown bag lunches and started asking for lunch money. Initially Sally was happy to give her the few dollars a day, as it meant one less thing for her to prepare in the morning. However, Sally quickly became appalled by the poor food options available to the students. The healthiest option was usually frozen pizza, but even that was overshadowed by Doritos, french fries, and chili dogs. No wonder obesity was becoming a crisis in America! Madison's brown bag lunches made a quick comeback, but that did not quell Sally's discomfort with the situation. Glenwood was an affluent community; they should be setting the standard for public school nutrition, not being a victim of a statewide trend. A few months ago, during what she thought was a typically one-sided conversation with her husband Larry, he interrupted her rant about the sad state of affairs in the Glenwood cafeteria with a simple, yet powerful suggestion, "Sally, why don't you stop complaining, and do something about this already." He had stunned her speechless, but her mind started working overtime immediately. Of course she could and should do something. With her degree from the CIA (Culinary Institute of America) currently underutilized making Madison's brown bag lunches, she was the perfect person for the job. She would revamp the cafeteria offerings of the Glenwood Ridge Elementary School. It would probably open up a world of opportunity for her in consulting to other schools and maybe even catering! With that one little suggestion, Larry made her fall in love with him all over again.
For months, she studied the programs of cutting edge public schools around the country, beginning with Alice Water's program in California where the students grow their own produce. Now she was ready to start a food revolution right here in Glenwood. Sure, she was going to get the usual budgetary objections, and she certainly did not know how they were going to pay for any of her proposals. She did know her fellow Glenwood parents, always so proud and sanctimonious, and she was sure they would find it insufferable that other schools had superior culinary programs. Glenwood always prided itself on being one of the best schools in the state; they would not want to come up wanting in any category.
Sally was sure the people around her could hear her runaway heart thundering in her chest. The school secretary had just come to the podium to announce that anyone with miscellaneous items should raise their hand to be invited up to speak. Sally started to lift her hand, slowly, shakily at first, then higher and more confidently to gain the attention of the secretary. As Sally prepared to get up, she realized that she felt electrified and more alive than she had felt in years. She took a second to thank Larry silently again for his little suggestion. The secretary called out, "Sally Smith, you are welcome to the podium to bring up a miscellaneous item."
This was a beginning attempt at fiction based on the writing prompt MISCELLANEOUS. For more sunday scribblings on the same prompt, please visit the Sunday Scribblings blog
Foul
Lindsay was in a truly foul mood. She was sitting in a creaky and uncomfortable white wicker chair next to the window of her 500 Euro a night room in Santorini. She should have been gazing out onto one of the most beautiful vistas in the world: the Santorini Caldera, a stunning volcanic crater jutting out from pristine blue waters dotted with quaint Greek fishing vessels; instead all she could see was grey fog. It was as if she was wrapped in a thick, damp, foul grey blanket.
Ironically, it made perfect sense that, after 4 days here, she had yet to see the dazzling white rooftops and scintillating blue ocean of Santorini. She didn't question her luck at being stuck in this freakish fog. She was supposed to be here on her honeymoon, relaxing on the black sand beaches with her new husband James, but as she had broken his heart by leaving him at the altar five days ago, it made sense that she would be punished with this foul weather.
James had refused to use the non-refundable tickets to Athens. She'd insisted that he take them and go with his best man, but he had muttered something about going to stay with his mother for a while. It seemed silly to let the tickets go to waste, so she had grabbed her bag and jumped on the plane. There had been no time in all the confusion to ask one of her friends to join her. Now she was sitting here, sick of eating Greek salad and moussaka, with no one to talk to and nothing to do except consider what she'd done.
It had all started so promisingly last July. They had met at Moran's Bar down by the water in Battery Park during a lazy summer happy hour. James was funny, smart, and good-looking in a good-guy-next-door sort of way. After a few mojitos, they'd grabbed some sushi and had ended up talking 'til dawn. By Thanksgiving, they were living together. He had proposed that New Year's eve, with champagne corks and fireworks popping all around them. She had immediately said yes, looking up into his brown eyes. It seemed quick but right. They were so in love.
Once the ring was on her finger, like a lead weight dragging her down, things changed. James' mother, Brenda, took a starring role in their relationship. Lindsey watched helplessly as her new fiance turned into a simpering momma's boy overnight. Her relationship with Brenda rapidly went from cautious polite to outrightly antagonistic. Brenda insisted on being involved in every wedding decision from placecard font to cake flavors. Each time the two women disagreed, James sided with his mother. Lindsey had even asked him angrily one night whether he wouldn't rather be marrying Brenda.
Miraculously they had made it to the wedding day, July 20, exactly one year after their first mojitos. Lindsey had been hoping that once the wedding was over, she and James could go back to the way things used to be, before his mother became a constant third wheel in their lives. She had been particularly looking forward to spending two weeks touring Greece with him alone. Neither had been before, and they had both been so excited to discover Greece together.
On the big day, she had stood outside the heavy mahogany doors of St Alban's Catholic Church, nervously fingering the smooth satin of her gown. She was alone. She had no siblings, and her parents were gone. She was so eager to put the whole wedding mess behind her and begin her life with James as she had imagined it before things got so hard.
The doors slowly swung open and she peered cautiously in the dimly lit church, blinded by the contrast with the sun outside. She could see many of Brenda's friends ogling her critically. She strained to catch a glimpse of James, up at the altar. When she finally spotted him, she paused. James was so intently staring at his mother, sitting in the front pew, that he did not notice his bride. At that moment, Lindsey knew that nothing would ever change. Brenda was part of the package. She realized that going through with the wedding would be a catastrophic mistake. The only easy part of the decision was knowing that Brenda had paid for the wedding and reception. She had to protect herself, even though it probably meant hurting James.
Now she was alone in grey Santorini and she missed the James she'd moved in with, the James she'd falled in love with, the James who was not his mother's son before he was her lover. She stared at the murky waters down below, hearing the sad tolling of the bells warning the sailors off the cliffs, and she wondered whether she would ever love again like she did last fall.
This fiction writing was inspired by this week's Sunday Scribblings prompt: FOUL. Check out how others used the prompt!
Ironically, it made perfect sense that, after 4 days here, she had yet to see the dazzling white rooftops and scintillating blue ocean of Santorini. She didn't question her luck at being stuck in this freakish fog. She was supposed to be here on her honeymoon, relaxing on the black sand beaches with her new husband James, but as she had broken his heart by leaving him at the altar five days ago, it made sense that she would be punished with this foul weather.
James had refused to use the non-refundable tickets to Athens. She'd insisted that he take them and go with his best man, but he had muttered something about going to stay with his mother for a while. It seemed silly to let the tickets go to waste, so she had grabbed her bag and jumped on the plane. There had been no time in all the confusion to ask one of her friends to join her. Now she was sitting here, sick of eating Greek salad and moussaka, with no one to talk to and nothing to do except consider what she'd done.
It had all started so promisingly last July. They had met at Moran's Bar down by the water in Battery Park during a lazy summer happy hour. James was funny, smart, and good-looking in a good-guy-next-door sort of way. After a few mojitos, they'd grabbed some sushi and had ended up talking 'til dawn. By Thanksgiving, they were living together. He had proposed that New Year's eve, with champagne corks and fireworks popping all around them. She had immediately said yes, looking up into his brown eyes. It seemed quick but right. They were so in love.
Once the ring was on her finger, like a lead weight dragging her down, things changed. James' mother, Brenda, took a starring role in their relationship. Lindsey watched helplessly as her new fiance turned into a simpering momma's boy overnight. Her relationship with Brenda rapidly went from cautious polite to outrightly antagonistic. Brenda insisted on being involved in every wedding decision from placecard font to cake flavors. Each time the two women disagreed, James sided with his mother. Lindsey had even asked him angrily one night whether he wouldn't rather be marrying Brenda.
Miraculously they had made it to the wedding day, July 20, exactly one year after their first mojitos. Lindsey had been hoping that once the wedding was over, she and James could go back to the way things used to be, before his mother became a constant third wheel in their lives. She had been particularly looking forward to spending two weeks touring Greece with him alone. Neither had been before, and they had both been so excited to discover Greece together.
On the big day, she had stood outside the heavy mahogany doors of St Alban's Catholic Church, nervously fingering the smooth satin of her gown. She was alone. She had no siblings, and her parents were gone. She was so eager to put the whole wedding mess behind her and begin her life with James as she had imagined it before things got so hard.
The doors slowly swung open and she peered cautiously in the dimly lit church, blinded by the contrast with the sun outside. She could see many of Brenda's friends ogling her critically. She strained to catch a glimpse of James, up at the altar. When she finally spotted him, she paused. James was so intently staring at his mother, sitting in the front pew, that he did not notice his bride. At that moment, Lindsey knew that nothing would ever change. Brenda was part of the package. She realized that going through with the wedding would be a catastrophic mistake. The only easy part of the decision was knowing that Brenda had paid for the wedding and reception. She had to protect herself, even though it probably meant hurting James.
Now she was alone in grey Santorini and she missed the James she'd moved in with, the James she'd falled in love with, the James who was not his mother's son before he was her lover. She stared at the murky waters down below, hearing the sad tolling of the bells warning the sailors off the cliffs, and she wondered whether she would ever love again like she did last fall.
This fiction writing was inspired by this week's Sunday Scribblings prompt: FOUL. Check out how others used the prompt!
Fridge Space
The house is dark and quiet with the exception of the occasional sleep whimper from little Jack. Juliette is snuggled up against my shoulder; her cheek still red and wet with tear tracks. Every few seconds she hiccups a quiet sob and clutches my side more tightly, as if to ensure that I will never leave her in that dark room alone again. I give her soft curls a caress, letting my free hand linger there as we begin to tiptoe down the stairs by the flickering light of the lamp post on the corner.
We get all the way down the stairs without tripping over the baby gate and go around the corner towards the kitchen. The cold tiles on my naked feet send shivers up my spine. The hardwood floor of the kitchen is a relief. I glance at the microwave clock: 2:16AM. With any luck, I can have her back to sleep and be back in bed by 2:30.
I pull open the fridge door, praying that I had the forethought to leave a bottle of milk ready. I glance around the well-stocked fridge shelves, taking in the lack of fridge space with satisfaction: 4 gallons of milk, 3 packs of fleur de sel butter, a big container of tomato corn chowder, a bowl of cut up strawberries and melon, and a Tupperware filled with cut-up roast chicken. I love a full fridge.
A bottle of milk is tucked up in front of the milk cartons in the door. I grab it and sleepily make my way back up the stairs. I tiptoe into Juliette’s room and settle in on her blue armchair to feed her the bottle. She’s asleep again after a few sips and I settle her limp body back in her crib. I tuck her cuddly pink blanket around her and walk out backwards, closing the door with a soft click.
With a few quick quiet steps I’m back on my side of the bed. It’s still warm. I peek at the clock: 2:26AM. I breathe a sigh of satisfaction, pull the covers over my head, and settle back into sleep as the comforting warmth surrounds me.
This post is inspired by the writing prompt "fridge space" on Sunday Scribblings.
We get all the way down the stairs without tripping over the baby gate and go around the corner towards the kitchen. The cold tiles on my naked feet send shivers up my spine. The hardwood floor of the kitchen is a relief. I glance at the microwave clock: 2:16AM. With any luck, I can have her back to sleep and be back in bed by 2:30.
I pull open the fridge door, praying that I had the forethought to leave a bottle of milk ready. I glance around the well-stocked fridge shelves, taking in the lack of fridge space with satisfaction: 4 gallons of milk, 3 packs of fleur de sel butter, a big container of tomato corn chowder, a bowl of cut up strawberries and melon, and a Tupperware filled with cut-up roast chicken. I love a full fridge.
A bottle of milk is tucked up in front of the milk cartons in the door. I grab it and sleepily make my way back up the stairs. I tiptoe into Juliette’s room and settle in on her blue armchair to feed her the bottle. She’s asleep again after a few sips and I settle her limp body back in her crib. I tuck her cuddly pink blanket around her and walk out backwards, closing the door with a soft click.
With a few quick quiet steps I’m back on my side of the bed. It’s still warm. I peek at the clock: 2:26AM. I breathe a sigh of satisfaction, pull the covers over my head, and settle back into sleep as the comforting warmth surrounds me.
This post is inspired by the writing prompt "fridge space" on Sunday Scribblings.
Oh What a Night
There’s a particular smell that takes me right back to college. One little whiff of it and I’m right back, 15 years younger, having a blast. It’s not the smell of new books or dusty libraries, nor is it the chemical smell of dry erase marker. It’s not the smell of burning microwave popcorn during late night study sessions, or of Noxzema on my roommate’s face. It’s the sickly sweet smell of spilt beer on a barroom floor.
Now that I’m a stay-at-home mom in the suburbs, I don’t have many occasions to step into a college bar. We go out on the weekends, but it’s generally not to places with sticky floors. But every once in a great while, I’ll go somewhere that has a hint of stale beer aroma. One hint of a whiff and I’m transported back to late nights dancing with a few of my closest friends in the Pub, our student-run campus bar. Everyone is dripping with sweat, “Oh What a Night” is blasting, and we’re all singing at the top of our lungs. We’ve all been screaming and dancing for hours; we’re hot and wasted; but we don’t care. We’ll stay at the Pub until it closes. It’s where everyone ends up on Saturday night. No one would dream of going home before closing the Pub. The following Monday, we’ll all be back in class together, working hard, but that night we’re all about the celebration, the pure release of letting it all out. Whenever “Oh What a Night” comes on the radio, even if I’m driving the minivan at 8AM with the kids bickering in the back, exhilaration courses through me. For the 90 seconds the song lasts, I’m back at the Pub having the time of my life.
This post was inspired by the prompt "time machine" on Sunday Scribblings.
Now that I’m a stay-at-home mom in the suburbs, I don’t have many occasions to step into a college bar. We go out on the weekends, but it’s generally not to places with sticky floors. But every once in a great while, I’ll go somewhere that has a hint of stale beer aroma. One hint of a whiff and I’m transported back to late nights dancing with a few of my closest friends in the Pub, our student-run campus bar. Everyone is dripping with sweat, “Oh What a Night” is blasting, and we’re all singing at the top of our lungs. We’ve all been screaming and dancing for hours; we’re hot and wasted; but we don’t care. We’ll stay at the Pub until it closes. It’s where everyone ends up on Saturday night. No one would dream of going home before closing the Pub. The following Monday, we’ll all be back in class together, working hard, but that night we’re all about the celebration, the pure release of letting it all out. Whenever “Oh What a Night” comes on the radio, even if I’m driving the minivan at 8AM with the kids bickering in the back, exhilaration courses through me. For the 90 seconds the song lasts, I’m back at the Pub having the time of my life.
This post was inspired by the prompt "time machine" on Sunday Scribblings.
Smorgasbord
This post was inspired by the Sunday Scribblings Post: smorgasbord.
A smorgasbord is really another European word for buffet. It somehow seems more decadent and bountiful than the more pedestrian buffet. One is Swedish, the other is French, but they can be used interchangeably to describe the same kind of meal. Smorgasbord is definitely more fun to say.
The most amazing buffet/smorgasbord that I ever attended was Sunday Brunch at the Plaza. The Plaza is currently in the final stages of being transformed into luxury condominiums. They may bring back the Brunch, but it will never be the same. The meal has become even more fantastic in my memory because it can no longer be replicated.
We were at the Plaza to bring my mother and my boyfriend's parents together for the first time. We had just moved in together and my mother was visiting from France. I should have been nervous about bringing our families together, and I probably was, but any butterflies in my stomach flew away the minute I spied the amazing spread at the back of the ballroom. Everything at the Palm Court was golden: the chairs, the painted ceilings, the accent plates, and the chandeliers. There was a string quartet playing with gusto in the corner. Once my eyes and ears tired of the opulence immediately around me, they were drawn to two large golden French doors at the back of the room. This was the gateway to the inner sanctum, where all the glorious food was hiding.
Our waiter came by to distribute mimosas and offer coffee and tea. He then gave us the go ahead to help ourselves to the buffet. My legs and hands were shaking with anticipation. Steve sensed my eagerness and got up to accompany me. Neither one of us could bear to wait for the polite parental get to know you chitchat to end. We had to see for ourselves the delights awaiting us. He took me firmly by the hand and we stepped past the giant golden French doors.
It was an awesome sight. There was a table with a towering array of shellfish: dewy clams and oysters on the half shell, pink shrimp, ruby red Alaskan king crab claws, and even lobster tails. Little ramekins of cocktail sauce and mignonette sauce joined by quarter lemons in adorable little cloth jackets rounded out the shellfish offerings. The usual New York offerings of bagels and lox were taken to the next level with five different kinds of smoked salmon, along with little bowls of caviar, and even a selection of foie gras and pates. There was a mountain of pastries from around the world: croissants, mini chocolate pains au chocolat, strudels, Danishes, brioches, blintzes, and a myriad of flavors of muffins. The sweet vanilla aroma of warm waffles drifted over to us from the waffle station. It mixed pleasantly with the tangy salty smell of the roast beef station. The feast continued with a wide array of savory lunch dishes like mushroom tagliatelle and veal Marsala. They looked good, but were no competition for the rest of the brunch fare. The typical breakfast offerings were like Olympic competitors here: eggs Benedict with either Canadian bacon or smoked salmon with gleaming fresh hollandaise sauce, fluffy silver dollar pancakes with blackberry compote warm on the side, Challah French Toast sprinkled with powdered sugar. My head was swimming trying to decide where to start. Then I looked into the next room and discovered the world of dessert. The room was filled with chocolate and vanilla layer cakes topped with clouds of buttercream frosting, glossy fruit tarts, Boston Cream Pie, German chocolate cakes, mocha mousse cakes, little crystal bowls filled with decadent chocolate mousse, buttery pound cakes, fruit cakes, brownies, and chocolate covered strawberries.
I briefly considered the possibility of just refusing to leave the room for the next week. Then I remembered that brunch ended at 2:30. I came to my senses, realized I was wasting valuable time, and went to work. It was time to take charge of what was sure to be one of the most memorable meals of my life. If I paced myself, I was sure that I would be able to sample the best and the rarest. I found Steve, compared notes, and together we set off to enjoy this momentous meal.
A smorgasbord is really another European word for buffet. It somehow seems more decadent and bountiful than the more pedestrian buffet. One is Swedish, the other is French, but they can be used interchangeably to describe the same kind of meal. Smorgasbord is definitely more fun to say.
The most amazing buffet/smorgasbord that I ever attended was Sunday Brunch at the Plaza. The Plaza is currently in the final stages of being transformed into luxury condominiums. They may bring back the Brunch, but it will never be the same. The meal has become even more fantastic in my memory because it can no longer be replicated.
We were at the Plaza to bring my mother and my boyfriend's parents together for the first time. We had just moved in together and my mother was visiting from France. I should have been nervous about bringing our families together, and I probably was, but any butterflies in my stomach flew away the minute I spied the amazing spread at the back of the ballroom. Everything at the Palm Court was golden: the chairs, the painted ceilings, the accent plates, and the chandeliers. There was a string quartet playing with gusto in the corner. Once my eyes and ears tired of the opulence immediately around me, they were drawn to two large golden French doors at the back of the room. This was the gateway to the inner sanctum, where all the glorious food was hiding.
Our waiter came by to distribute mimosas and offer coffee and tea. He then gave us the go ahead to help ourselves to the buffet. My legs and hands were shaking with anticipation. Steve sensed my eagerness and got up to accompany me. Neither one of us could bear to wait for the polite parental get to know you chitchat to end. We had to see for ourselves the delights awaiting us. He took me firmly by the hand and we stepped past the giant golden French doors.
It was an awesome sight. There was a table with a towering array of shellfish: dewy clams and oysters on the half shell, pink shrimp, ruby red Alaskan king crab claws, and even lobster tails. Little ramekins of cocktail sauce and mignonette sauce joined by quarter lemons in adorable little cloth jackets rounded out the shellfish offerings. The usual New York offerings of bagels and lox were taken to the next level with five different kinds of smoked salmon, along with little bowls of caviar, and even a selection of foie gras and pates. There was a mountain of pastries from around the world: croissants, mini chocolate pains au chocolat, strudels, Danishes, brioches, blintzes, and a myriad of flavors of muffins. The sweet vanilla aroma of warm waffles drifted over to us from the waffle station. It mixed pleasantly with the tangy salty smell of the roast beef station. The feast continued with a wide array of savory lunch dishes like mushroom tagliatelle and veal Marsala. They looked good, but were no competition for the rest of the brunch fare. The typical breakfast offerings were like Olympic competitors here: eggs Benedict with either Canadian bacon or smoked salmon with gleaming fresh hollandaise sauce, fluffy silver dollar pancakes with blackberry compote warm on the side, Challah French Toast sprinkled with powdered sugar. My head was swimming trying to decide where to start. Then I looked into the next room and discovered the world of dessert. The room was filled with chocolate and vanilla layer cakes topped with clouds of buttercream frosting, glossy fruit tarts, Boston Cream Pie, German chocolate cakes, mocha mousse cakes, little crystal bowls filled with decadent chocolate mousse, buttery pound cakes, fruit cakes, brownies, and chocolate covered strawberries.
I briefly considered the possibility of just refusing to leave the room for the next week. Then I remembered that brunch ended at 2:30. I came to my senses, realized I was wasting valuable time, and went to work. It was time to take charge of what was sure to be one of the most memorable meals of my life. If I paced myself, I was sure that I would be able to sample the best and the rarest. I found Steve, compared notes, and together we set off to enjoy this momentous meal.
Mysteries
I just don't get it, she thought, as she closed the door with a light little click. Why don't children ever want to go to sleep? Regardless of how tired they are, they fight for every extra minute awake. Ever since she had become a mother, she had been exhausted. She couldn't remember the last time she felt rested. Why didn't she sleep more back when she was single? Tonight, Jayden had bargained for precious extra minutes by introducing a difficult question during her last hug. "Mommy," she whispered, "Can girls marry girls?" Nina had taken a deep breath to compose her thoughts. There were so many ways to go with this question, and each could have repercussions. She could already imagine the annoyed phone calls from other moms asking why her child had been told about lesbianism by Jayden. But the question had to have some root beyond sleep procrastination and that couldn't be brushed off. She had ended up giving her a truthful but fuzzy answer about love. When Jayden had pressed on with, "but how can they have babies mommy," she had cut her off and told her to go to bed. Enough was enough.
She tiptoed past the baby's room and down the stairs, careful not to trip over various dolls and stuffed animals along the way. She found the remote in a bowl of half-eaten goldfish under the sectional. How long had it been there? That was a less controversial mystery. She sat down on the couch, noting the toys scattered around the room. Why don't kids clean up their toys, she wondered. Why don't they realize that would give them more space to play?
She started delicately dropping the goldfish crackers one by one in her mouth. They felt greasy to the touch and she kept wiping her fingertips on her pant leg without ever feeling clean. Why am I eating these disgusting crackers, she wondered as she popped the last one in her mouth. She tossed the empty bowl on the coffee table and wrapped herself in her cozy beige fuzzy blanket. The baby squawked on the monitor. Nina sat up, holding her breath and crossing her fingers. The monitor stayed dark; it seemed the baby had settled back down to sleep. Nina sighed, a mixture of relief and exhaustion. She turned on the TV and turned the channel to her favorite show: Lost. It was high time to start focusing on some adult mysteries for a change.
This post was inspired by the Sunday Scribblings prompt: I just don't get it Click through for more scribblings on the same prompt.
Compose
Jill was sitting at her desk, pencil in her mouth. She was chewing so hard that the unpleasant taste of lead was beginning to flood her mouth. She didn't really notice beyond a vague sense of being uncomfortable. She couldn't see beyond the blank baby pink page in front of her. She had to get the tone right. The first sentence was critical, particularly with a note like this one. She kept taking the pencil out of her mouth and putting it on the paper before sighing and putting it back in her mouth. Finally she glanced up at the clock and started writing furiously.
The sun was streaming through the window like a bright spotlight onto the paper, almost as though Jill were receiving divine intervention to assist her in this difficult task. Jill signed the note with a flourish, filled with relief at having completed this nerve-racking note. She restrained herself from adding a smiley face to the second L in her name and got up to check on her children outside. She was going to have to rush to get the note in Bianca's backpack before the bus arrived.
Jill strode out to the side yard and took in the sight of her two children swinging in the early morning sun. The sky was a dazzling blue and the brightness of the day was almost overwhelming. Jill picked up Bianca's pink backpack and opened the main compartment. She reviewed the note one last time before folding it up and placing it in the bag. She had really hit the nail on the head. It was perfect.
Dear Nancy,
I really enjoyed our conversation yesterday. As you suggested, I do have a few more questions I'd like to discuss. Would you be free for lunch next week? Or would drinks be more convenient? Let me know what works best for you.
- Jill
The bus driver pulled up to the curb and honked once, startling Jill out of her reverie. Bianca ran up to her and took the backpack from her mom. Jill gave both her children a quick peck on the head and waved to them as they boarded the bus. As the bus drove away, Jill chuckled to herself. She was certain that this was the first time a first grade backpack had been used for such illicit purposes. A summer of suburban dangerous liaisons was about to begin.
This post was inspired by the Sunday Scribblings prompt: compose.
The sun was streaming through the window like a bright spotlight onto the paper, almost as though Jill were receiving divine intervention to assist her in this difficult task. Jill signed the note with a flourish, filled with relief at having completed this nerve-racking note. She restrained herself from adding a smiley face to the second L in her name and got up to check on her children outside. She was going to have to rush to get the note in Bianca's backpack before the bus arrived.
Jill strode out to the side yard and took in the sight of her two children swinging in the early morning sun. The sky was a dazzling blue and the brightness of the day was almost overwhelming. Jill picked up Bianca's pink backpack and opened the main compartment. She reviewed the note one last time before folding it up and placing it in the bag. She had really hit the nail on the head. It was perfect.
Dear Nancy,
I really enjoyed our conversation yesterday. As you suggested, I do have a few more questions I'd like to discuss. Would you be free for lunch next week? Or would drinks be more convenient? Let me know what works best for you.
- Jill
The bus driver pulled up to the curb and honked once, startling Jill out of her reverie. Bianca ran up to her and took the backpack from her mom. Jill gave both her children a quick peck on the head and waved to them as they boarded the bus. As the bus drove away, Jill chuckled to herself. She was certain that this was the first time a first grade backpack had been used for such illicit purposes. A summer of suburban dangerous liaisons was about to begin.
This post was inspired by the Sunday Scribblings prompt: compose.
The Future of the Planet
Sarah placed both her hands on the door to the garage and gave a mighty shove. She grunted with exertion but it only budged an inch. She leaned on it with her shoulder and managed to open it another two inches. She reached down, grabbed the empty plastic bottle at her feet and and shoved it into the garage with a satisfying crunch. She knew it was meaningless, but she still got satisfaction out of separating the plastics for recycling. Even though the recycling pick-ups had stopped two years earlier, she couldn't kick the recycling habit. Throwing away the plastic bottles just felt so wrong, as if she were just giving up and accepting what the newscasters were clamoring about. She still couldn't come to terms with the fact that all the environmental measures she and millions of others around the world had adopted hadn't made an impact. The expensive light bulbs, the complicated recycling, the car pooling: all had been for nothing. Those products were part of a massive PR cover-up by Corporate America to keep us busy while they poisoned the earth to keep investors happy with growing profits. Didn't they realize that they were hurting themselves? Now the damage was irreversible.
Temperatures had recently gone as high as 112 degrees Farenheit in the shade in Maine in April. People had become like vampires, only venturing out after dusk for fear of vicious cancer-causing ultraviolet rays. Sarah felt like a prisoner during the day, trapped in her warm suburban home. Even at night, when the deadly sun was not an issue, the exorbitant cost of gas made every trip a luxury. Things had gotten bad so quickly, it was hard to believe the reports of worse to come.
Sarah shut the door with a sad little click. She sat back down in front of her solar powered computer screen and flicked a switch to turn it on. She was eager to get the latest scoop on Britney Spear's botched face lift.
This post was inspired by the Sunday Scribblings prompt: The future of the planet.
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