We have, since the first day of this month, been a sick house. With the congregation of Mozilla’s worldwide posse upon the shores of San Francisco Bay, there came upon us a force so evil and full of froth that it disabled, at last count, eight employees of Damon’s staff and half of Ford’s kindergarten class, for its part. When I had blamed New Zealand for the wretched influenza, there came evidence in the form of a carbon copy paper in Ford’s backpack, on Wednesday of this week: Your child may have come into contact with one or more of the following contagious illnesses: Streptococcus A and Chickenpox. Whether the bug came from overseas or Cupertino, at this point I don’t care. My birthday came and went as far as Thursday was concerned, and here we are on Saturday night, watching old movies, still in bed for the most part: I have managed to stay uncontaminated so far, but now that I have typed this, I am watching my chronograph tick until I sneeze.
the marinara sauce leaked
more fronts & fungi
Sillyvalley was scoured clean again by another front and today, awestruck, we were witness to some kind of crazy glorious spectacle of snow-capped mountains atop the massive bowl of San Jose, all purple and crytallized behind the field outside the kitchen window, which is, for its part, cloaked in a riot of yellow mustard. I just didn’t know what to do with myself, standing there in the playground after school, staring at the immaculate horizon.
Then, as with all cold fronts, the sky started weeping. Under a rainbow we walked home and decided to hunt for mushrooms in the backyard under the oak canopy, savoring the last bit of afternoon light, regardless of the rain.
And what do you know? The rain stopped just long enough.
We gathered a handful of mushrooms, no idea what kind yet, just for something to draw or paint while I started a pot roast. I set a pan of opaque watercolors out on the table and gave a quick basidio-lesson and painting tutorial. They did all the rest.
Ford picked up a paintbrush:
And Chas got sleepy.
