On cheap thrills

As I slide into bed in my sweet country abode, an absurd orchestra is tuning outside my window.

Frogs, crickets, june bugs, sprinklers, cats plucking the screens, a howling canine chorus, and suddenly, from the left a earsplitting male human roar brings a quick crescendo, and then silence.

Then the long falling into dark and quiet sleep while the sweet air floats through the house.

My schedule leans and tilts, yielding luxuriously to summer and the delights of basking in simple time.

I happen to be rather good at lolling about, resting in the dappled sunlight surrounded by the twinkling birds and flowers, just listening, humming, absorbing the velvet heat on my skin while my youngest child pursues the construction and discovery of the optimum bubble machine.

She practices, naturally, over my coffee cup. It is a standing rule that my morning coffee is the hub of all activities involving incongruous foods, bugs, Scrabble tiles, the garden hose or heavily soiled laundry.

Now, having set up the sprinkler for a moist, advantageous atmosphere, she has a large tray sloshing with soap suds and what remains of the old bottle of glycerin. We like to add this ingredient because it is scientific and makes the bubbles strong.

She has assembled cylinders of various sizes from plastic straws and small flower pots to paper tubes and cups, a troublesome, dissenting wire coat hangar bent to a wavy circle, pop cans, even pop tops for the tiniest bubbles.

The prize invention of the day is a clever wand using one of her whittled spears as a long handle, poked through the central webbing of a plastic six-can holder. Fill the circles and wave it about. This really works and we are happy and squealing.

I am not actually a full participant. Neither are the cats. We are respectful observers. I am a designated response person, an adult.

I have obligations that will soon take me asunder, whenever I have my thoughts collected. Everyone knows this.

The cats watch casually from a slight distance. They lap tiny dainty drinks from their own reflections on the porch. They are puzzled by these languid non-birds that disappear so abruptly with one lazy swat, causing their big empty eyes to blink.

Bubbles waver by with the size and manner of small and tentative vehicles in whose shiny, whirling surface you can wave good-bye to your own image as it floats out toward the flowerbed.

My own childhood is revisited in her concentration. Her puddles and mud, the water games and buckets. The collections of treasures, the capture and benevolent release of bees and lizards, birds, polliwogs, butterflies, grasshoppers.

Basking in time.

Most children appreciate the simplicity of salads. No fussy cooking has wilted and depleted the vegetables. Just cool fresh things, with their natural beauty intact, arranged and tossed with a tangy topping.

Try this mild, luscious Poppy Seed Dressing on almost any kind of salad, fruit or vegetable.

It will beat the socks off of highly overpriced commercial dressings and it takes advantage of the wonderful sweet onions now on the markets. It takes about five minutes to make.

Place in the bowl of a food processor or blender:

	1/4 onion, chopped coarsely

	1/3 C. honey

	1 Tbsp. prepared mustard, Dijon or other

	2/3 C. vinegar, red wine or rice if possible

	1/2 tsp. salt

Whiz until smooth. The mustard will maintain the emulsion.

Now, while the machine is running, add 

	2 C. good quality oil, canola or safflower

	3 T. poppy seeds

Store in a glass jar for up to ten days in refrigerator. 

Now you are just about ready to go clinking down to the water's edge somewhere
on a moment's notice, with a picnic basket and your digging tools and a blanket
and book, and a hopefully dear child or two.