I am housesitting for my parents while they're away. And by housesitting, I mean I've moved into their home while they are not here, watching "premium" cable and marvelling at the virtual Costco in the basement. The supplies down there are ridiculous.
Do you need 300 rolls of toilet paper, 4 cases of Diet Coke and a gallon of gin? I can hook you up. There are things down there marked, "BETH", the contents of which remain unknown to me.
For some reason, when my folks go out of town, my brother and I flock here. It's a cozy house in the woods, a familar and safe place that we both always really liked, if it weren't for the two narcs telling us to do our homework and making us write thank you notes.
Anyway, last night Alex and I had some friends over for dinner. I have to admit, there is something INCREDIBLY FULFILLING about creating a giant meal from scratch and watching people enjoy it. My cheeks were all rosy from the fire and I wore plaid and Catherine created two huge centerpieces made from pumpkins filled with roses.
It was raining. We made a huge fire. We played Scattegories.
I was in heaven.
And now that everyone is gone and I'm cleaning up the house today, I keep thinking about how fun that was. How much I loved making food and making people feel good and getting the cold people extra fleece jackets embroidered with hotel logos from upstairs. And it occurs to me: Oh shit. Is that my biological clock? Is this when I'm supposed to adopt? Am I the Pioneer Woman?