Time just seems to run away with me these days. Like everyone else when I was a kid time was forever and a school year was like infinity to me. From September to June took an eternity (and I LIKED school). Nowadays I turn around from January to September and I ask “where did the time go?” It’s already past the middle of April and I cannot account for February or March! I’ve been so busy at work that I am aghast to realize that tomorrow is Good Friday, I thought I had another week!
When I turned 19 I looked back on the previous year and I couldn’t believe that one year had gone by since my graduation. When my sister Charlotte was about 16 (at which point I would have been about 32) I told her that after she graduated she wouldn’t realize how quickly the years rolled away. Later she confessed to me that she thought I was crazy at the time but now, when she was 22 she already realized that I had spoken no more than the truth! How about you? Did it seem like it took forever to become an “adult” and afterwards you keep asking yourself “where did the time go?”
I can only imagine how much quicker the next 50 years are going to be. Don’t kid yourself, I have plans man. I have a goal to live past 100 and when Dr. Bozyk told me that I had high blood pressure AND osteoporosis I had the biggest shock of my life. I told him “but I have plans” which of course he didn’t get (yes, he’d been my doctor for over 20 years but one generally doesn’t reveal oneself to the doctor as being a nutbar!)! All my life I have been the epitome of good health, excellent blood pressure, reflexes, weight was below normal and BAM, I reach 40 and life as I know it goes to hell in a hand basket!
And speaking of baskets, this was supposed to be about approaching Easter . . . . another sign of aging, rambling from one topic to another. J
At Easter we generally have ham and eggs, the eggs in a wonderful mustard sauce that only my mother can make. I can make a good sauce but it never tastes like my mother’s. Why is that? It’s like her lemon mousse, no one can make it like my mother not even the Danish Canadian Club. Husbands who say “but it doesn’t taste like my mother’s” are better off thinking it and not saying it out loud. I remember Jeanette telling me about the first time she made pancakes for her husband.
“My mother makes thin pancakes.” He had the temerity to say.
Jeanette whacked the pan down on the stove so hard the ring nearly broke and yelled
“If you want thin pancakes you can go to your mother for thin pancakes.”
And then stormed out of the kitchen. I nearly killed myself laughing because of course his mother was in Denmark. I don’t think he ever opened his mouth to criticize her cooking again.
What’s your mother’s specialty?
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