Apricot. Macaroni and Cheese. Mother.

Today’s Positive Note: I have nice hamstring muscles.  I know this is a weird thing to like about oneself, but I’m proud of them!  And they come in handy for running long distances.  And for holding warrior pose for a million years.

I had a tough but still good run this morning.  I did a mile warm up, three miles tempo, and two miles cool down for a total of six miles.  The garmin cooperated today!  I have decided to name her Apricot — the word just suddenly came into my head and wouldn’t go away, so I guess it’s destiny.  The tempo portion of the run was done at 8:30-9:30 pace, which I was happy with.  I’m still building up my strength and endurance after not running for most of December (I has microfractures in my left tibia).   Also, it was cold and my legs never really got warm enough for a quick turnover.  This is the third day in a row I have run, and I am feeling great about things.  I definitely missed running, especially the flying feeling.  I sometimes love running and I sometimes hate it, but I always come back to it.

Okay.  Enough running.  I practiced taking pictures in my yard yesterday.  I like these ones:

I went to dinner with my mom yesterday at a very nice local place.  It has a bunch of  “branches” — bakeries, coffee houses, cheese shops, mail order, deli, creamery, etc.  We went to the roadhouse restaurant, which is actually quite well-known for its take on American food.  I got an extremely delicious macaroni and cheese dish.  Now normally I wouldn’t go out of my way to order macaroni and cheese, but this stuff is AMAZING. 

Everything in their food is “real” (not necessarily healthy, but very real!).  Kath would approve!  On my fork is a bite of my mom’s chili.

Here we are  (I had my coat on because it was freezing inside):

Storytime: I’ve been wanting to write about my mom for a long time.  I have poems about her, of course, and in my head there are a million important details floating around.  But somehow I don’t know how to make her solid and alive on paper.  She is a saint, no doubt about it.  I think what I really want is to write about my mother in conjunction with her three sisters.  The four of them are simultaneously beautiful and insane, clumsy and awkward and bright.  Spending time with them is hilarious (the kind of funny where you’re laughing so hard you can’t breathe, and then my mom offers to use her medical expertise to resuscitate you, and then everyone finds this  so funny that the incapacitating laughter comes back all over again, but no one knows why it’s funny, since my mom is actually a doctor) but also inspiring.  They also have a brother, who is very sweet, but he may or may not be republican.  Anyways, my mother’s sisters have an incredible ability to make the most mundane things into complicated, tear-inducing ordeals.  Is someone coming over for dinner?  Are we going to an art museum?  They will find a way to so thoroughly entangle themselves in the situation that while one of them arrives ten minutes late to an event in the wrong car, someone else is frantically trying to answer her cell phone, and yet another is carrying on about how she’s so important at work that she is going to be issued a defensive gun complete with a holster.  And all of these details will become involved in the moment at hand.  And to make things worse, they’re Persian.  Persian people can be quite tricky to explain.  They have mastered the art of indirectness.  For example, if my mother’s father stares vaguely in the direction of the kitchen with a certain demanding look in his eyes, and dinner has ended about twenty minutes ago (not ten, that would be too soon), you should know that he wants a cup of tea.  And only the single brand of black tea that he drinks, no other tea.  All of this while my mother herself is staring me down, trying to communicate to me that her father is non-verbally communicating to everyone that he wants a cup of tea, damn it, and he’s 95 so he doesn’t have to get up to make his own tea.  Then, the tea will be served and the whole looking-at-what-you-want-but-not-saying-anything process begins again with the apple pie or the plum cake.  Meanwhile, my panicky aunt is frantically trying to rescue my seven year old cousin from the dangers of a carpeted flight of stairs, and yet another aunt is sneaking out the back door with the keys to the only car.  This is my mother, and her family, in a nutshell.  I am ever so lucky.


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