I maxed out on excitement this weekend courtesy of the circus, among other things. I took the boys by myself, which is nothing I haven’t done before. And I’m not saying it was awful, because no one complained of boredom, no one got lost and both went into the men’s bathroom and came back out holding hands (my rule when they have to go in alone). But I’ve learned something about myself and entertainment with a thrill factor: we two don’t mix very well. I get a little faint watching the girls swinging thirty feet above the ground… by one foot. And my heart skips a beat or two when there are flaming juggling pins flying through the air.
This was the point when Jonathan leaned over and whispered (very loudly) “Mommy, I smell barbeque!” I didn’t even know he knew what that was.
I came out a little more stressed than I went in, but it was still okay. And then I got home and started to cook dinner. It was a recipe with quinoa in it. I have a fairly brand new relationship with quinoa, so I had no idea that sometimes you get a bad luck bag that’s as full of little black rocks as it is with quinoa. And apparently the only way to get them out is to sit there and pick through the grains by hand.
There I was when Caleb got home. hunched over a huge mound of uncooked quinoa kernels, with a spoon in one hand and a collection of grit in the the other. On any other day it might have been humorous. Instead I burst into tears and sobbed into my bewildered husband’s shoulder about the evils of edible seeds.
It’s funny how you associate various foods with different experiences or the way you felt when you ate it. Like “Remember that veggie dish? The one I burned that one time?” Well, the quinoa turned out to be a hit and it will also forever be known as the dish that made me cry.
Bits of the weekend that weren’t as rocky: