March at home

Outside tonight there are suddenly moths and peeping frogs, and a whispering breeze that doesn't bite, but caresses and soothes. It may be still March, but the spring is coming.

Inside tonight I've been reading Neil Gaiman, which is always a treat, and cooking frozen fish. A little while ago my mother came upstairs and enlisted my help to make tostadas. She shows me up without even thinking about it. She is frying tortillas, handing me long-memorized ingredients for homemade guacamole, spooning leftover made-from-scratch black beans and salad with the practiced grace of a mother and an artist. Meanwhile, I am burning my knuckle to a blister trying to flip Gorton's fish fillets without removing the tray from the 425 degree oven. She hands me a plate of tostadas and directs me to the aloe she has growing in the bathroom.