In The Air

Last night we went to the BYU football game.

Poor Coug's. Poor, poor coug's. (And fans.)

Couldn't pull out the win over the Horned Frogs. Could barely manage one score. (Sigh!)

Henry didn't care a lick about the score. He was just soaking up all the football game glory. And loving the laxedness with which we doled out snacks. Twizzlers. Chex mix. Granola bars. Yes, please. Uh-huh. More. And more.

He had grid iron on the brain all week. Every morning, his first utterance was:
"Is this Thursday?"
And at dinner one night he said to me, "Mom, the cougars are going to play the Horn Frogs. Yeah, Horn Frogs...like BEEEEEEEEP! That kind of horn."

Love his little mind.

Lily was a delightful li'l trooper, 'cept for the fact that we lost her binky on the way in. Dropped out of her mouth some time during the frantic "wog" (brisk walk/almost jog) to the stadium. We didn't want to miss kick off.

We missed kick off. And lost the bink. Still, she was so good. (Little secret: she is always SO good.) I plan to devote another entire post to my feelings about that girl, but for now let it suffice to say (borrowing Anne's words) she has my heart. Boy, does she.

It was a deliriously late night, well after midnight when four weary fans pulled into the driveway. Even later when we were all settled in for slumber. Luckily, we got to have a late, lazy morning. Started off with some steel cut oats (have you had them? you must try them. a great variation on the hot cereal circuit.) Showered and dressed at our leisure. Then the kids and I packed up and headed for Ms. Nelwyn's house to bake bread with her and Ruth and Jeffrey; it's becoming a Friday tradition.

Hmmm, how to express my affections for Nelwyn? She's from Louisiana and I pretty much want to slather her accent on a slice of bread and eat it for lunch. The way she says, "Girrrl!", opens her mouth wide and laughs, then gives a flirty shove when she gets a kick out of you -- it's perfect. And how she refers to everyone's parents as "Mama and Daddy." And how she loves our kids and doesn't get all tizzied when they run laps around her house. And how she feeds us all lunch every week -- something homemade and warm. And how when her husband calls from work, she sees the caller id and her face wrinkles into a warm, knowing smile and she answers, "Hey baby," all thick and southern. And slightly suggestive. I love it. I kind of want to be her when I grow up, at least a lot like her. And Ruth? She's just as good. I don't know what more to say, but that I've been exceedingly blessed with great friends here. Anyway, today we made some sort of harvest apple bread and english muffins. Ruth and I took our english muffin dough with us to let it rise and bake at our own homes because our children had expired and needed quiet time and naps. I ruined mine. (frown!) did you know you're supposed to cook english muffins on a skillet at 325? Me neither. Well, I don't have a skillet, so I did mine in a frying pan on the stove top and tried to estimate which heat setting would most nearly approach 325 degrees; apparently, I guessed too high. But the apple bread tastes like a loaf of autumn.

Speaking of, Fall seems to have blown in. Finally. I couldn't be happier about it. The chill in the morning air. The peek-a-boos of red and gold appearing in the treetops. Questions about Halloween costumes and Thanksgiving plans. I wish it could linger for months. But I know it is fleeing, terribly so. Thus, we soak and sponge and savor so we'll have a crisp, fond memory -- the golden promise of Harvest to get us through the infernal stretch of next summer.