We fulfilled our weekend going-out plans — got snazzed up for the Pollack Ball (more on that later) and swung by Confluence Brewing’s grand opening and cheered on the marathoners who ran past this morning. But mostly I worked on a craft project and we hunkered down on the couch. There was lots of football on TV and a book in my lap. Joe made crockpot chicken cacciatore and a ridiculously amazing spent grain bread (modified from this recipe, plus an improvised crusted cheesy topping). I ate it for two dinners in a row.
And I read an entire book for fun this weekend, despite having a bazillion case studies due for my class next weekend. I am such a rebel. It was Anne Lamott’s “Imperfect Birds.”
Reading a book in one day or a weekend, or just a couple of sittings is so deeply satisfying. It’s this immersion experience that leaves you in a foggy sort of mood, like coming out of the movies. I still remember reading Matilda in one sitting after school one day, just draped over the couch, and how amazing and personal it felt — a deeper connection to a book than the typical pick-up-put-down.
I’ve been hearing about Anne Lamott’s books in a few different places, and I can appreciate how her writing ranges from lyrical to conversational and even slangy. The book also freaked me out about ever having to parent a teenager.
I haven’t gotten out of pajamas all day. Why would I, with a book to finish? When I wasn’t taking up the couch, Wilbur had himself a curl-up.
He knows how to do it.