Because I'm a sucker for pasta and thought you might like these. Both are light (low points in WW speak) and healthy. The bolognese could be made from scratch and I'll be working on that recipe soon, but for now just look for a good quality jarred sauce. It makes it easy and easy is good in my book. Also, the carbonara can be made dairy free if you subsitute rice milk for regular milk and skip the butter and parmesan. It would still be yummy.
Mindy Gledhill right now. Especially this song:
Such an empowering song. Love it. And I'm needing some empowerment right now.
According to my subconscious, my two youngest children died this month.
A few weeks ago, our family was swimming in a strange, stone complex of lifeguardless pools. There were lap pools and wading pools. All had stairs descending to the bottom; all were surrounded by gray, stone walls streaked with lime and rust and calcium deposits. One pool held my particular fancy. It was like a cube of water: twelve feet by twelve feet and twelve feet deep. It reminded me of the hippopotamus pool I used to stare into at Hogle Zoo when I was a kid. I couldn't see it, but like that pool at the zoo, I knew that somewhere behind me was a display of things that had been lost in the pool: false teeth, candy wrappers, sunglasses, purses... I watched my three oldest children swim confidently back and forth across the gaping green-black abyss. Then, Ammon, my youngest child waddled over from the wading pool and leapt fearlessly into the deep water. I was right by him, near the edge, and I jumped in, reached for him. I felt his soft flesh against my fingertips, but could not find a handhold, anything to grip. He slipped beyond my grasp and sunk like a lead ball to the bottom, one more addition to the collection of lost things.
Then, two nights ago, Jack and I played together at the top of a cliff. We were, in turns, at a carnival, a spectacular show, a meeting, a worship service, but always at the edge of a dizzyingly high cliff. Below us were trees and sandstone arches and white-picketed-suburban neighborhoods. At the last, we stood together in front of an audience, swinging back and forth on pine two-by-fours, holding tight to the rough and splintery rope that suspended the boards. People on the cliff above clapped and cheered, the immense scene of homes and arches and trees spread forever below us. We swung and laughed, exhilarated. Then Jack let go of the rope. "Grab the rope! Hold on tight!" I shouted, sure he was about to fall. I reached for him with one hand, caught just the seam of his shirt as he pulled away from me and plummeted to his death. The dream did not have the mercy to end there, but seemed to drag for months as it followed me through my grief. All of my days were dark, everything was inkstained black. In one scene, I had just given a powerful reading of my poetry. Then, as people asked to buy my chapbook I kept lowering the price. $4. $3. $2. It ended with me parting gladly with two copies for a handful of homemade, purple, sparkly play dough. I gave another copy away for a bowl full of noodles.
