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For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.
— from Daffodils, by William Wordsworth

Well, hello there, friends.  Is it really possible that, after blogging nearly every day for the month of February, I let nearly all of March go by without writing once?  Indeed it is.  Things were a little rough around the homestead and in my family at the beginning of the month, and I was dealing with a lot of things that aren’t entirely mine to share, but because they were/are so big, it often felt impossible to write about anything else, so . . . I just didn’t write at all.

Anyway, things on the homefront have improved a bunch, and while things in my family remain unsettled, I feel like I have some space and distance to be able to focus on other things.

If we’re pals on Facebook, you know that one of the biggest house issues got solved last Friday – we finally got seating for the great room!

I love them so much I could cry.  We’d looked everywhere we could think of for furniture and we found at least one L-shaped set up that we loved but that was way too big.  Then, a few weeks ago, my brother was here, and out of the blue I asked him, “Where else can we look for furniture?”  He said, “Bassett.”  Which we hadn’t even remembered existed.  We found one nearby, went that day, picked out this set up, came home and taped out the dimensions on the floor to be sure they would fit, and went back and bought it, just before the end of a 15% off sale.  They are so super comfy, and I haven’t spent an evening downstairs in the family room since these arrived.  I can’t wait to find a rug to really tie the room together.

A couple of weekends ago, Karen and I took an overnight trip to Virginia Beach, just because.  We got a room right on the beach, and I finally got to fly the kite that’s literally been in my trunk for going on 6 years now.

After we sat in the hot tub for a while, we got dressed up and headed to Macaroni Grill, where Karen had almost TWO whole alcoholic drinks, made besties with our waitress, and flirted shamelessly (and expertly) with every male employee her BFF (our waitress) called over to our table.  I haven’t laughed so hard and so long in a really long time.  It was awesome.  We also saw a ton of high school juniors dressed in prom gear eating dinner before heading to a ring dance, which made us feel about 100 years old because they looked like babies.

So that was my March.  How was yours?

Forgiveness is the fragrance the violet sheds on the heel that crushed it.
— Mark Twain

Wednesday’s Writing Group prompt: What is the most difficult thing you have had to forgive?

I am not going to go into details on this (so maybe I’ve picked the wrong thing for this prompt?). Something happened to me – or, more accurately, someone did something to me – many, many years ago. It fucked me up in a lot of ways for a really long time, and probably still does, to an extent.  But the person responsible is not a monster; I don’t hate this person, and I’m not angry at this person. I forgave this person a long time ago and, honestly, it wasn’t even that hard to do.  I’m responsible for me, and any anger or hurt or resentment I carried over what happened only hurt me, kept me from moving forward, so it had to go. And that was the end of that.

“I’m the most terrific liar you ever saw in your life. It’s awful. If I’m on my way to the store to buy a magazine, even, and somebody asks me where I’m going, I’m liable to say I’m going to the opera. It’s terrible.”
— Holden Caulfield, in The Catcher in the Rye, by J.D. Salinger

Tuesday’s Writing Group prompt: Tell us about a lie you’ve told.

I am a terrible liar and so, as a consequence, I rarely lie.  As an adult.  As a kid? Different story.

The very first lie I can remember telling happened when I was 4.  I was in pre-school and some of the other kids were talking about some tv show – a cartoon, I think – that had recently aired.  I hadn’t seen it, because I wasn’t really allowed to watch tv, but I desperately wanted to be part of the group, so I said, “Well, when I saw it, . . . ” and proceeded to make up something that probably didn’t make any sense.  I don’t remember what I said happened, but I know the other kids were not buying it.

I am fooling around with categories trying to make things more accurate.  When I change categories (or anything else, including typos) on posts that went up before February 2012 (when I bought my domain name), they repost in readers as new posts.  My apologies, but a talk with WP last year confirmed there’s nothing I can do about it.  Just take it as an opportunity to revisit some old posts!

And suddenly the memory revealed itself. The taste was that of the little piece of madeleine which on Sunday mornings at Combray (because on those mornings I did not go out before mass), when I went to say good morning to her in her bedroom, my aunt Léonie used to give me, dipping it first in her own cup of tea or tisane. The sight of the little madeleine had recalled nothing to my mind before I tasted it; . . . . But when from a long-distant past nothing subsists, after the people are dead, after the things are broken and scattered, taste and smell alone, more fragile but more enduring, more unsubstantial, more persistent, more faithful, remain poised a long time, like souls, remembering, waiting, hoping, amid the ruins of all the rest; and bear unflinchingly, in the tiny and almost impalpable drop of their essence, the vast structure of recollection.
— from Remembrance of Things Past, by Marcel Proust (aka The Cookie)

Today’s Writing Group prompt: Do you have any foods that are tied to specific memories or emotions?

Huh. The title of this prompt was Eat Your Feelings, which is an actual thing that I do, so at first I was thrown by the substance of the prompt. But then I remembered that just last Sunday, on my birthday, driving home from dinner at the tapas restaurant where David and I had our first date, I posted this on Facebook:

It’s amazing how a piece of crusty bread with chorizo and manchego can so thoroughly transport me back to Spain. Proust was on to something.

So of course there could be no other quote to head this post. I’m telling you, I sighed audibly when I took my first bite last weekend. And really, I don’t even need the chorizo or the manchego.  Sometimes just olive oil, with a little salt and pepper, for dipping.  And sometimes just the bread is enough to send me back, especially when it’s still warm.

One of my favorite things in the whole world to do with the crusty bread is something I discovered in Spain: pan con tomate (I almost wish I  could reuse the quote from that post for this one – too perfect).  Trust me on this one. This is the dish that brings me most immediately back to Spain – to so many tiny restaurants in Barcelona where I had it for the first time, to Salamanca where I made all my new study abroad friends try it and felt like a native, to a private room at a restaurant way up in the hills way outside Barcelona with one old friend and 12 new ones where I had it for the last time in Spain. I’m tearing up just thinking about the last one now – I remember sitting there that night, listening to five different conversations floating around me – in both Spanish and Catalan – drinking wine, sharing bread (I don’t even remember what else we ate), laughing so loud, thinking how lucky I was and how I’d always remember that moment.