Random recovery

When we last left our heroine, well, she wasn't referring to herself as "heroine" last time we left her. Whoever, or whomever, I was, I was leaving for the grand college drop off. This was last Wednesday's new student parade into the field house. It was only ninety degrees outside and there were only about 2,400 kids filing in. At this point, I had pretty much given up hope of actually seeing our boy, despite knowing which sign to look for.

There was just no way he could have been unfortunate enough to be one of the last groups in. AHA! 2-J! n our side of the venue, no less. There he is, right under the 2-F sign!

"Do you think I can just go down there and like, take a picture?" I think so, especially if I just stand near the end of the row while the rest of the class files in. Oh, but when I got to his row, the row ahead of him was empty. (click, click) Hmmm, I pondered out loud whether I could just scoot in and snap a shot. The woman next to me muttered that it was one picture per person, but I wasn't sure exactly whose rules she was repeating. I would soon find out. She told me that if I ventured into the row, to please ask the boy with his head down to look her way and that his name was Eddie. I can be eager to please, so as I sidestepped my way along I paused and said "Eddie, look over that way." He raised his eyes without moving his head and said "I know." Apparently the photo thing was just Eddie's rule. (I laughed, but also cried a little bit in my head for his mom.)

I later realized I had captured Eddie, can you guess which one he is?

This is my son. 

Somehow he aged into this college guy in the twenty-four hours since we had dropped him off.
Now, on with the convocation (Latin for "Mothers grab your tissues"? Oh. My. Gosh. Not bagpipes again! This is a thing? Start to desensitize yourselves to them now!

I won't bore you with any details of our actual departure.

This is part of the care package that was waiting on my kitchen counter when we got home. My dear friend, making sure I balanced my chocolate intake with some vegetables!

The next care package was from the Monkey in the Field. Oh my!

My mother brought this back from Pittsburgh for me, and if you are in that area, I highly recommend! If you are in my area, I might share, but you probably ought to hurry...two squares gone.

The weekend found some highs and lows, or at least one low when the Monkey Near a Lake (because that is where we were) opened a box of Andes. 

Remember when they used to be packaged across the box in the other direction and filled it? None of those cardboard border fillers! They've lost that majestic mountain feeling now.

For fear that I was becoming immune to chocolate, I decided to try some other means of sustaining myself. Apparently I also thought I should photograph a number of them. This is a Pink Floyd.

I wrote the recipe down while watching some television show that had it up on a board at the bar being filmed. The ingredients had nothing in common with the recipes you get when you ask google. It was not grand, nor was it bad, nor was I comfortably numb.

How about some cheesecake and a blood orange brownie and an empty sample sipper of maple beer?

How about a clam. No, I do not like clams, but my need to be distracted was creeping in.

How about a lobster claw? Nope, still don't really care for lobster, but again with the distraction.

I ate SEVERAL other things too, but by Sunday was back to seeking comfort in my peanut m&m jar.

I was cleaning out some of the clutter from my son's room. (Yeah, I know, of course I was.) I found this...

It should have landed in the garbage, right? Why can't I throw this creepy thing in the garbage?

Which brings me to salsa making efforts...which brings me to my kick ass onion goggles!

Oh yes, they work! Awesome! What? You want to know why that pan of brownies and the m&m's are so close? I didn't say I had made a full recovery.