dorm cooking

Happy Last Day of School!

The presentation isn't much, but what do you want at 6am?

The presentation isn’t much, but what do you want at 6am?

Felt like we’d never get to this day–or to warm weather, but here we are.  Figs with ricotta and honey for everyone, a perfect summer breakfast.

And speaking of summer foods, there’s a great, brand new blog I recommend, Resident Cook.  It’s a cooking blog, geared towards cooking in college dorms, which to me = not only college students but anyone with a limited budget and limited space–my two primary concerns for recipes.

Traditionally, summer is a time for Art Child and I to rest and recup, soak up the sun and store energy for the fall.  This summer, Art Child will be taking an art intensive class.  Just a month, a few times a week, but it changes the dynamic.  There was even an orientation for the class.

End of year mama brain is like damp cotton candy–if you poke it, it disappears.  I saved the email about orientation, certain it was last Thursday afternoon.  So Thursday morning, I pulled up the email to check where it was going to be, and print the registration papers.  Doesn’t everyone do their paperwork at 5am? Oh shit.  Tuesday.  It was Tuesday.  Imagine Mrs Fringe freaking out, trying to decide how serious they were about the orientation being mandatory.  I get in the shower, and I’m seeing that email in my mind.  And realize I didn’t miss it.  I did indeed have the day wrong, but I also had the week wrong, it was this past Tuesday.  Didn’t miss it. If I didn’t already mention it, I hate cotton candy.

And I’ve been thinking.  There’s a manuscript I have started and abandoned many times over the last humenahhumenah years.  I’ve deleted triple the number of words that are actually in the file.  But maybe.  Maybe once I get some rest and some sun, maybe I’ll play with it.

Gah!  I can’t think about it now, first I need some real beach time. Tomorrow, if it isn’t raining, Mrs Fringe will be found with toes in the sand, listening to the sweet sounds of sweaty guys hawking warm beer, and toddlers screaming that they don’t want to go in the water.  Coney Island has missed me, I’m certain of it.