luck of the irish
I sit on a lounge chair and the sun pours onto my leg from the window outside. I turn a page of my book. I think that maybe I should get outside, get some exercise, or do something productive. A voice inside of me says: “No, just be.”
I look across at my mother, who has stopped reading her book on the sofa across from me and started napping.
It has been a peaceful weekend, full of family, food, sleep, laughter, and moments to “just be”.
I took the train from Toronto down to Port Hope Friday night, to see my grandparents, my brother, and my mother who’s on her way back to Vancouver from France.
My brother, mother and I make a good team. We're all dreamers with a dirty sense of humor and a sense of adventure. Together we make fun of each other constantly, laugh like fools, and act more like close friends than family.
Last night after a rich turkey dinner we walked down to the corner store to stretch our legs. My mother suggested we buy lottery tickets, and we headed home with a ticket each. As I was dancing down the street and singing Mariah Carey I found a 10$ bill, and started feeling lucky. Back at my grandparents place we scratched, and my mother won enough to buy us more tickets. We walked back down to the corner store (“It’s us again!”) and headed home with more hopeful loot. We scratched, lost for the most part, and headed back with one winning ticket and my lucky 10$. This time, we all lost, but were far from let down. My grandmother shook her head, “You guys are crazy.” If I had a penny for all the times my grandparents called me crazy, I wouldn’t need lottery tickets to be rich.
My brother came back tonight for a re-vamped turkey dinner. Using the turkey leftovers, I stewed the meat into a rich turkey cacciatore, and we feasted once more. I love cooking dishes like this: heavy in garlic, Mediterranean vegetables and wine. “It’s not horrible,” my brother said, digging in for seconds. “When are you moving in so you can cook and clean for us all the time?” Grinned my grandfather across the table.
After dinner I asked my grandmother for her Irish soda bread recipe. With no recipe in hand, she took her strong Northern Irish hands and dumped flour into two large bowls, stirred in buttermilk, and made sure I didn’t miss a beat or make any bad measurements in her famous bread.
As I write, the smell of the freshly baked bread, one whole wheat, one sweet with dried fruits, tempt me to go into the kitchen to steal a piece before crawling into bed with my mother, or heading back to my book. Life is good here.
Maybe I didn’t win the lottery this weekend, but I feel too damn lucky to care.