erm. well, then.

My apologies for the quiet, while armies of viruses held delighted, ancient victory dances on my bones.

ow.

They appear to be done now. But it was still radio silence today, while we disconnected all electronics, allowing the Window Guys to replace the window that has been broken for lo, these many frigid, blanket-wrapped winters. I used to shove towels in front of the study (a.k.a The Room In Which Children Do Not Go, Hey You - Get Out Of There) door, and no longer shall we do so. Heck, we shall now revel in the window-ness of the study, examining this new brave new world, in which windows keep out rain, cold, and even tilt - the better to be washed, my pretty.

Which may have a drawback, but I'm too giddy and unvirally-danced-upon to think of it.

But, returning to the viruses: it is possible, based on unverified rumors and highly reliable seventh-hand sources, that the flu has arrived. Again. Or possibly for the first time - I'm unclear. Not having had the energy to call my doctor, or even finish sentences for a couple of days, I really couldn't tell you exactly what walloped me, but I will say this: the next time that I mock the Man for being highly incompetent at being sick, laugh at me. Because on the day that I finally realized that I was running 101F, I then prudently decided to finish the filing, wrap some overdue baby gifts, and work on the next (and last!?) OT post for this blog. And pay some medical bills (hence, the filing). And send a couple of ridiculously overdue emails - and oh, I'm sure there was something else, but then I fell over.

Surprised. While on the phone, and trying to think about something involving a calendar.

This morning, I came to myself, skull splintering with a migraine, but nonetheless more mentally coherent than I'd been for much of the week. And was seriously tempted to roar. Somewhere in that week, the Eldest had swung on a towel bar (not built to hold your weight, buddy - whoops!) and we were now sans bar but plus bruised kid, I'd missed a chavruta, a playdate for the Eldest, a night out with a friend, getting the car inspected and....my MENTAL HEALTH DAY. Which the Man and I had scheduled (!) last week, and now poof! gone in a cloud of virus.

sighhhhhhh. But hey, at least I can now wash the study window, right?

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The question of feeding Imperfects, when mama Imperfect is non compos mentis, is hardly difficult. The Man makes pasta, cuts up cucumbers, tofu, and salad dressing features in there somewhere. The boys love it, but personally, I rather prefer the Man's crockpots.

Honestly? I have no idea what the Man made, but I can tell you that something smelled absolutely, unfairly delicious at one point. I fell asleep while trying to persuade myself to go and eat some, and woke up to find that someone had scraped the pot clean. Nonetheless, at some point it occurred to me that I ought to be making food, so I staggered out of bed and made this:

Comfort Food Soup:

adapted from Jeannette Seaver's Soups, this serves roughly 4-6 people

3 Tb oil

2 tsp caraway seeds (yes, yes, I know: caraway. But hang in there with me, people, somehow this actually works)

6 cups water

2 potatoes, cut small. Wash the taters first, if you like - I don't bother peeling them. But do cut them up small, because that helps.

1 onions, also cut up small (okay, diced)

1 package hot dogs, cut up small (because if you don't, the kids will pick out the hot dog bits. The goal is to make it sneakily tricky for them to just eat the 'dogs)

2 bay leaves

salt and pepper to taste

In a large pot, heat the oil. Add the caraway seeds, and when they begin to pop, toss in and saute the hot dogs and onion. When the onions are really nicely browned, add the rest of the ingredients. Stir, scraping the bottom of the pot to get all of the best bits off. Bring to a boil, then pop a lid on top - at an angle that will allow some steam to escape. Simmer happily for 25 minutes, then serve.

And serve again. And possibly, depending on the populace at your dinner table, stick an elbow in the spot best suited to letting you serve yourself fourths. Assuming, that is, that the viruses have stopped parading and are too busy doing something cirque du soleil-ish to stop you.