I made ice cream.
With the immersion blender, I ground up the pitted and peeled peaches that Dave had prepared. Then, using the mixer on speed ten, I whipped the heavy cream until it was as thick as a wet sponge. I folded in the peach purée, a bit of vanilla extract, agave syrup and milk.
Not having one of those nifty churner machines, I poured the mixture into a container and froze it for a few hours. We ate it after ribs and sweet potatoes, and while the peachiness was sweet and satisfying, the dairy was overkill. All of our gurgling stomachs unanimously requested 50% less cream next time.
Archie is still losing fur and has red hot spots on his haunches and belly, so I scheduled a vet appointment online. But the reminder email says I still need to confirm, and when I call, their voicemail box is full. Regardless, I’ll be out the door by 7:40am to make the 8:30 slot.
I’m a bit out of sorts. Mondays are usually a soft landing after Sunday: slow-paced, pajama-clad till noon, playing with Evelyn, maybe a grocery store run. Instead, I’ll be chauffeuring Archie, fielding questions about rabies vaccine paperwork I don’t have (since I went to that drive-thru clinic I didn’t realize was technically… illegal without documentation).
Later, we’re meeting friends. I’m looking forward to trying Mellow Mushroom’s indoor space. I already love their creative outdoor setup, and I’m imagining something like The Rock Pizza in Washington—or maybe a funky Hard Rock Café vibe.
Still, I feel off. Sitting with myself feels a little too intimate, too exposed—like I’m onstage without a script. I keep hoping someone else will take the mic and save me from having to narrate.
Instead, I buried my head in the sand—almost literally—sitting cross-legged beside Evelyn’s playground, pulling weeds. And pulling. And pulling. I raked the sand, too. Now the tips of my fingers are sore to the touch.
I also played a bit of Animal Crossing—with Evelyn, and then again after she went to bed.
During COVID, that game—with its slow-paced island living, bug catching, fishing, and tool upgrades—saved me. It still brings me joy. Restarting it together, each with our own characters, is fun. Teaching her the ropes is sweet, but I’ll admit, my patience wears thin when she places bugs in aquariums all around her tent instead of selling them to Timmy to save up for a house upgrade.
She needs to hustle! Doesn’t she know?
But really, this is for her. Not me. Letting her set the tone is part of the point—and probably good for me, too.
Alright. Time to start day two of my seven-day trial of LingoLooper: the AI language game.
Love,
Jaclynn
Going On 40 