Everything smells like campfire: my hair, my clothes, my coat, my bag. I rinsed my hair (I refuse to change my hair-washing schedule for a little thing like the smell of smoke), but I can still smell it, faintly, when my hair falls in front of my face.
It was warm yesterday, and clear, and I brazenly declared it summer and wore a flippy dress to S.'s birthday party. I baked, first, and then when the party started, I got a drink and a sombrero and sat in the hammock.
After a few minutes, I abandoned the hammock because it was stiff and too small, and I gave the sombrero to S., who needed it to cover up the scab on her forehead where she had impaled herself on a branch riding her bike home in the dark. The scab was variously described, as people peered at it straight on, then sideways, as a cat, a flamingo, and an unidentifiable country. A while later, I changed back into jeans and my softshell. "That's better. It's not summer just because you want it to be," someone said as I came back outside.
There was grilling and talking and drinking (I make a mean berry lemonade vodka). There were yard games and glow bracelets and cupcakes (I also make a mean coconut chocolate cupcake). "I don't like chocolate," L. said. "But I will try one." A few minutes later, she said, "I don't like chocolate, but this might be the best cupcake I've ever had."
"You have to say that!" someone else said, and L. said, "No, I have no problem telling people when things are bad. This is an incredible cupcake."
In the end, we huddled near the outdoor fireplace and looked up at the few visible stars beyond the city lights. Planes flew over low and close to land at the airport. "I want to grab my sleeping bag and throw it down here," N. said, "and fall asleep outside, listening to the crackling of the fire."
But instead we cleaned, and then we all went home to our own cozy beds, inside.
It was warm yesterday, and clear, and I brazenly declared it summer and wore a flippy dress to S.'s birthday party. I baked, first, and then when the party started, I got a drink and a sombrero and sat in the hammock.
After a few minutes, I abandoned the hammock because it was stiff and too small, and I gave the sombrero to S., who needed it to cover up the scab on her forehead where she had impaled herself on a branch riding her bike home in the dark. The scab was variously described, as people peered at it straight on, then sideways, as a cat, a flamingo, and an unidentifiable country. A while later, I changed back into jeans and my softshell. "That's better. It's not summer just because you want it to be," someone said as I came back outside.
There was grilling and talking and drinking (I make a mean berry lemonade vodka). There were yard games and glow bracelets and cupcakes (I also make a mean coconut chocolate cupcake). "I don't like chocolate," L. said. "But I will try one." A few minutes later, she said, "I don't like chocolate, but this might be the best cupcake I've ever had."
"You have to say that!" someone else said, and L. said, "No, I have no problem telling people when things are bad. This is an incredible cupcake."
In the end, we huddled near the outdoor fireplace and looked up at the few visible stars beyond the city lights. Planes flew over low and close to land at the airport. "I want to grab my sleeping bag and throw it down here," N. said, "and fall asleep outside, listening to the crackling of the fire."
But instead we cleaned, and then we all went home to our own cozy beds, inside.
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