Growing the Good Will Pile

Today is breezy, and after the rain stops there is a nip in the air. It's the weekend, when what I wear leans more toward comfortable than stylish...or flattering.  I put on pants and reach for the old faithful long-sleeved, high-waisted, slightly faded, knit top that hangs from my chest to below my hips. I even think as I look in the mirror - hmmm, this always makes me look a little pregnant, but I don't care what other people think. Comfort is king. Wrap a scarf around my neck and off I go. 

When I flag down a sales lady at the middle-aged-lady's shop that I occasionally make purchases from  she takes my selections as she says, "When are you due?"  This is so out of context and outside of my thought process that I don't take it in until she opens a dressing room for me and says, "Oh, July? Here you go, let me know if you need anything." Does she mean, no she couldn't possibly. OH MY GOD SHE DOES. Waves of emotion wash over me. Speechless, flabbergasted, MORTIFIED, I can barely stand and nothing looks good on me, in fact all of my choices are too big. As I sneak out of the store avoiding the sales lady, 

a big smile crosses my face. She actually thought that I looked 

young enough to be of child-bearing age.

I LOOK YOUNG ENOUGH TO BE PREGNANT.  

That must mean that I look at least 

 TEN YEARS YOUNGER than I am. Wow, I look gooooood. 

  Dance of Joy.

Thank you, sales lady, you made my day. And that top is in the Good Will pile, of course.

Jumping into 2012

I've been chopping and browning and chopping and seasoning (did I mention chopping?) all morning. And as I make chili to celebrate this new year, I've been thinking of my dad. My dad was a famous chili maker in his circle of friends. Every Memorial Day weekend a group of families my parents had camped with for years would have a chili cook-off. It was a festive but at the same time serious and competitive affair. And every year my dad would spend the day before with a variety of meats and spices and onions and peppers. He left beans out long ago, and often combined cuts of meat. The spices he used also varied, and he tried to keep it edible to most (he loved it so spicy that only a few could stand it).  Sometimes he'd start with a bag of spices he'd purchased, sometimes he'd mix his own. Although I loved to watch and be enveloped by the smells coming from the kitchen, my dad wasn't one to divulge his secrets easily. He took pride in coming in first place more than once, and was almost always in the top three. He would always say it was his "secret ingredient" that made his chili special. I have the feeling that the secret changed every year. For me it was the process and the love and care he put into it.  I wish I'd known that the man I watched with a mixture of amusement and admiration would slowly disappear before my eyes in just a few years so that I'd payed more attention. I wish I'd joined in more often.  I wish that dad was with me today.

Today I welcome 2012 by honoring my past and looking forward. Everyone is home for one more day, so we'll all have chili and cornbread and maybe a salad for dinner. Today I honor you, Dad, by chopping and browning and mixing and stirring a pot of my closest approximation of your wonderful chili. It's a great way to start a year that will be full of new experiences, challenges, and changes! Happy New Year!