[Prepping the impressive Wolf range for dinner in a Mara Hoffman caftan.]
While my brother and his wife tested the waters of parenthood back at the hospital, Rob and I took over their more than adequate kitchen to make a few flatbread pizzas for the parents. There was a general, collective sigh—an easy, smiley daze—it was a huge, fantastic day. I tend to think wine is the perfect companion to moments like these.
We are happy, speechless over our new nephew, and more than a little bit exhausted from driving up and down 95. An incredible few days that shine a new, rosy light on things. Currently, Rob is flipping feather stick for Eli, who has a lot of bitey energy pent up; I’m on my 3rd catch-up episode of The Simpsons.
We have a couple of cool posts from RIC, so stay tuned.
[Rob opening some of the evening’s bottles.]
[Some Italian reds; garlic, rosemary, and basil; intimidation in the form of multiple, industrial-sized oven knobs.]
[Angel. Cloey snout and Cloey in pretzel form. I should have included my foot for scale.]
[Coming back to life after falling fast asleep in the car. Which was parked in the driveway.]
[Rising dough + margarita pizza pre-oven.]
It would appear photo captions are all I got in me right now. I’m supposed to be writing something pithy about welcoming precious new babies into the world and the significance of these events as we pause for time with family and good food. Blessings. Something also tells me I’m supposed to be unconscious back in my own bed.
“Sounds to me like someone’s got a case of the ‘spose-das!”
Thanks to everyone for all the well wishes. Trent is beyond perfection.
-C + R