For today's post, I'm stumped.
I don't know what to say about last Sunday except that it was most warm, most sunny, most wonderful, most lovely. We went to Stone Barns and dined at Blue Hill. We ran into the Friedmans, Douglas' cousins.
Levi sat through five courses like a true gourmand, munching on yellow flowers, licking kale salt and sampling foamy dishes that were deconstructions of their given names. Levi sat through five courses sitting with us on a regular chair with a pillow for elevation. Levi was not the picky eater that rejects grapes and bananas. He sat there, trying everything. I could not believe my eyes.
After the meal they awarded gave us a potted Viola, an edible flower.
I cannot wax poetic about being a mother because this is pretty much the entire blog--the experiences of raising a little person is noted to the best of my abilities, along with the joys and the tribulations (okay, not too many tribulations because that is the perspective I choose). I feel that anything I say about motherhood would come across as corny, cheesy, canned, (why are all those words food-related?).
Unless I go the other way and talk about the tough moments of motherhood (like the time trying on a dress for a wedding sent me straight into despair and a jar of almond butter, instead of the gym). But I don't want to.
I'd rather remember those moments in the photos.
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