BLTs for dinner tonight. In this heat, Basil didn’t want to grill and I couldn’t face cooking inside (and well, we are still oven-less).
A work-related phone call rendered the bacon a little extra, shall we say … crispy, but no matter. The sandwiches were delicious. Fresh mozzarella and avocado went on mine. Basil took his with extra mayo (nothing but Hellmann’s will do) and Catherine asked for no lettuce.
At the table she picked off all the tomato slices, too, going for a simple bacon and cheese experience. “Don’t you know I don’t like tomatoes? Don’t you understand me at all?” she asked.
Oh yes, Catherine, I understand you.
You are the girl with the heart of gold and the will of steel, who dreams big, outsized dreams awash in shades of pink and dusted with glitter.
I know you want your PBJ without crusts and your mac and cheese fresh from the box.
That you have so many stories in your head there are notebooks under your bed filled with them (and no, I haven’t peeked).
I know that you wish you were still the same little girl who used to help make the bed so she could pull the “comfortable” up.
That there will always be a soft spot in your heart for Harry Potter and all the life lessons his story represents, and that a book will always be your best friend. I know, too, that you’ll always be fascinated by the Titanic and sea creatures, ancient Egypt and aliens.
That you fear spiders even though you outweigh them many times over, that you’re worried about getting behind the wheel of a car for the first time.
And that you dream of being grown up, but that even with one foot in adulthood you wish upon a star.
I do understand you, sweet pea.
But it wouldn’t have killed you to eat the tomatoes.