Lay Me Down In Sheets Of Linen

I've been avoiding this for a week.

Last Sunday, Pete and I drove out to Daria's house, where we dragged out to the car three heavy boxes Daria packed for me. Daria, Dara and Darla spent a week dismantling a big part of Dad's kitchen, and Daria brought these back from Virginia. I opened one and lost my nerve, which meant I left the other two in the car until just now.

Well, isn't this cozy?

The cake pans make me sigh. I'm not much of a baker, but I'd like to be more versatile. You're sworn to secrecy, you know. What, you don't remember promising you'd never tell anyone I can cook? You did, and you're going to keep that promise, even if it means resorting to hyperbole. Practice! Sweet Jesus, last time I ate at her place I spent a week in ICU. Or: Christ, put that down! You don't know where it's been! You can do it. Moving on, then.

The chef's coat was Dad's and a surprise from Daria. Dad had piles of them. Many of his favorites were denim. I suppose we could donate them to a cooking school if they have needy students shaped like a stretchy Bonaparte, but what are the odds?

This week was important to the family. On Monday, Darla's parents returned to Virginia from Canada. On Wednesday, Dara turned 16. Thursday was the 16th anniversary of our grandmother Edith's death, because it's always a one-for-one exhange with us. And today, we had an eighties-theme birthday party at Auntie InExcelsisDeo's house. As Mr. Blogenfreude says, "Blackmail-grade photos must follow." Oh, they sure will.

Tonight, I've opened the boxes. Blue eyeshadow is just another test of courage.