I feel like maybe I’ve run the sympathy well dry over here with all that ails me. I’ve tried to limit my complaining, but seriously. This was a nasty bug. Perhaps if I had just settled into the fact that I had a nasty bug, tucked myself into bed for a few days, and gotten over myself things would be different. But instead I worked most of yesterday and thirteen hours straight today, all on about three bites of food since Monday night. Which is where I will say that those were the three best bites I’ve had in days. You can take that as a good recommendation or not, but if it leads you to this cake that’s a good thing.
Peach cake, from the latest Cooks Illustrated, and topped with homemade vanilla ice cream (that I didn’t try, but heard was good.) That makes the recipes tried from this issue 3 for 3 – the lighter corn chowder was so good we’ve already made it twice. And in the summer, of all things. It’s that good. Sorry – I lost focus.
Peach cake. I made this Monday evening a good eight hours before I fell ill, so I’m pretty sure it’s not toxic. I’m super crazy clean lady when I cook for others anyway, but I will say that it felt a little strange to show up to work so sick and carrying a cake. It was for a sixtieth birthday, a celebration that I didn’t even stick around to celebrate, but I finally managed to try a few bites of it this afternoon, and it was delicious. I’ll try to post the recipe soon (once I’m off my deathbed) – it’s not difficult, but has some interesting twists to boost the flavor of the peaches and keep them from becoming a soggy mess. They worked.
I’m hoping to resume eating again tomorrow, but I’m afraid the leftovers will soon be gone. Which is okay really, because I know someone else who’s turning sixty in a few days…
This past weekend was a tough one. The big one was away, and the little one was a force to be reckoned with. She tossed and turned at night, waking up multiple times in addition to the noisy thunderstorms outside, and she really tested our patience out. Mid-afternoon Saturday she unloaded her entire breakfast and lunch (bacon and Gruyere pastry and a pint of farmers’ market blackberries) onto herself, the floors, the walls. Sunday night wasn’t much better, and Monday morning rolled around and I really thought we might die of exhaustion.
Fast forward to this morning, 2:30am, when I woke with a start. For a split second I thought my body had just forgotten how to sleep through the night, but about thirty seconds later it hit me. A wave of nausea far stronger than any that I endured during either pregnancy. I never went back to sleep it was so strong. E woke up feeling the same way around six, and we proceeded to fill up the toilet and the tub with our crummy feelings, and I knew she couldn’t go to camp, but I really needed to go to work – at least to finish off something for a meeting this afternoon. My eyelids hurt to blink – you can imagine how the rest of me felt sitting at a computer.
It’s almost seven at night, and E is sleeping next to me in my bed. We both have high fevers and feel altogether miserable. The weight of my skin on my bones hurts. If I think too hard, my brain hurts. It might be a long night. But as soon as I’m feeling better I’ll make sure that I scoop that baby up and let her know I feel her pain. As parents we think we are so in tune with our children, but sleep deprivation can do tricky things to your mind, and convince you that your toddler is out to get you with their cunning ways. Last night she slept all thirteen hours without a peep, except for the ten minutes or so that she sings herself to sleep in her crib. She slept through the sickfest of her mom and sister, she slept like a baby. I’m hoping for a night like that any day now.
I forgot about these photos, but stumbled upon them again yesterday. There were some little cardboard puppet stages set up for the kids to play with during the puppet show intermission, and E jumped at the chance to try it out. F, on the other hand, didn’t seem to get the concept. First, she thought the puppets that appeared were for her, and she tried to grab each one and take off with it.
After telling her to go behind the stage about two million times, she decided to check it out. At that point she forgot completely about the actual puppets, and just stuck her bare hand into the story. If you haven’t yet seen “The Hare and the Hand” I highly recommend it. Just be warned – the cardboard stage will come hurling at your feet with a toddler sprawled across it at least once during the performance. Which just adds to the show.