I’m feeling nostolgic about how I used to communicate with far-away friends.
Also, I’m dreaming about writing a book based on correspondence. Letters. But would people actually be interested in reading letters written back and forth from two homeschooling mothers twenty years apart in age . . . ?
I’m making soup: chopping onions, garlic, carrots, parsley. He is right next to me on a chair, up at the counter, putting baby potatoes into a bowl, transferring them into another bowl — back and forth — and stirring them with a wooden spoon. He adds sprigs of parsley, saying “chop, chop, chop” in his deep, confident voice. This little kitchen work keeps him occupied for many minutes. I finish putting everything into the soup pot and am surprised to see that he is still happily busy with his potatoes and parsley.