THE OLD MAN IS SNORING

It's raining, it's pouring
The old man is snoring
He bumped his head
And went to bed
And couldn't wake up in the morning


What is that song exactly? I remember singing it when I was so little and for some reason, it made me so happy. Maybe it was the lyrics taken literally. Maybe it was its illustration in a book. Maybe it was some little thing I did with my parents when it was raining and I was so young I could barely have a memory: making cookies, reading a book, playing hide n' seek in the house. Who knows. But regardless, it rains and I smile so big inside. And I wonder if this is what parents are for: to provide you with not only the tools to succeed in life, but to give you the memories and feelings to make you really appreciate life.

So here I am, loving life. There's a slight overcast (but not enough in my opinion) and an on-again, off-again drizzle. The kitchen is warm and there's a comforting fog growing on the windows. I'm cooking what might possibly be the best batch of kapusta I have ever made. I have already cooked the onions and have breathed in their intoxicating effects of bringing me back to yet another wonderful memory growing up. (What that memory is exactly, I'm not so sure but it definitely involves my mother and a warm glow above the kitchen stove.) I am reading an Elizabeth Berg book that my mother sent me (both women are magnificent) and am about to pour myself a hot cup of tea. At this point, I couldn't be more feminine, more pms-ing, or more happy in my own little world.

Unless the kitchen was at home.