Beef stew

I don't know why, but I haven't made my Mom's beef stew for a long time. I made it last weekend, and my family was almost offended: "Why have you been hiding this recipe all this time?" Rob immediately went out and bought more chuck roast and more or less ordered me to make it this weekend, too.

I had a glass of wine before dinner. My stomach was quite empty, and it hit me unusually hard. Frankly, after half a glass, I was hammered.

Fiona is helping me compose this entry. I couldn't do it without her help.

Fiona was quite ADD. She waxed poetic about the stew; maybe it was the lingering influence of Halloween: "The carrots are like fingers. And the potatoes are like brains. And the meat is meat."

Delia, indignantly: "Fiona! We're about to eat."

Later, during the dinner, about at the point where I, as usual, insist that Fiona drink her milk, I remarked, "Oh, wow, I'm really hammered."

Fiona: "We love you anyway, Mommy." She came over and gave me a hug. "Because you're awesome and you're a good writer and you're strong and your hair is soft."

I held onto her tightly and hugged her. I could hear her heart beat under my ear. The wine made me ridiculously maudlin, and suddenly I felt tears in my eyes. "I'm really glad I have children."

Delia came over to join the hug. "We're really glad you had us, too."

We eventually all went back to our places. Delia engaged Daddy in a discussion about the vileness of onions. I gazed around the table in tipsy pride as Delia and Rob argued and Fiona picked shreds of beef out of her braces and refused to drink her milk. Rob informed me that HE would be eating the stew leftovers this time. He was downright territorial about them.

They're my family. And I love them.

(Fiona had to point out the numerous spelling errors the first time I wrote this. Believe me, there were a lot.)