the morel of the story

For father's day this year we went on a family treasure hunt. Daddy, the girls, Bubba -the dog, and I, packed up the Subaru and drove into the mountains. Our destination - wilderness scorched from last year's severe fire season. Here, amongst the blackened ashes, charcoal stumps, and marshy ground lies our quest. The delectable morel mushroom. Why we have not gone on this hunt long before heaven only knows. Anyone who is everyone, in our neck of the woods, sets out each spring on the great morel crusade. Never speaking of their ' secret spot' except to gloat, "I have a secret spot". Our morel mad friends note, " they sell for $100. 00 a pound"! I think we thought it was the 'trendy' thing to do. My husband scorns all things trendy. I; however, don't. Morels are not easy to spot. They hide themselves amongst burned logs, debris, and water seeps, but' once you spot your first one you are hooked. It reminds me very much of fly fishing. Searching for spots that look 'fishy', or in this case, 'mushy'. Perhaps the greatest part of all is my 2-year old daughter's sheer delight in the whole mucky adventure. Armed with her orange mushroom pail, mushroom hunter knife sheath, and plastic play knife, she would stomp, tromp, and bushwhack her way to the golden spots. I am not sure if is her height, her ability to stop and see everything, or just pure luck, but she was able to find more treasure than the grown -ups around her. As for daddy, I haven 't seen him run, smile , and bushwhack with youthful abandon since before our infant daughter was born. Trendy, or not, the great morel hunt will become a family tradition. Our secret spot is..........ah, maybe I will tell you next year

~mom's the word

Tu-Tu Cute!

Lily had her first dance recital last night. In front of 150 adoring art-goers, Lily and her fellow tu-tu clad 3 year olds, pranced, grinned, waved and pointed their little pre-schooler toes. She loved every minute of it. It was truly the sweetest moment.

Merry Pouting Christmas Mommy

Every year there comes this day,

when Mommy acts in a peculiar way.

Primping our hair, pressing our skirts

sewing on buttons on holiday shirts.

Wiping the yucky away from our noses,

stuffing us into tight panty-hoses.

Sticking us on a scary mans lap,

as really bright light go snap, snap, snap.

For all your hard work Mommy, we won't let you down,

here is our best holiday frown.

Here is a hint Mama, this too shall pass,

but pictures with Santa are a pain in the #$*!

Authors note: Every year I vow to skip the dreaded picture, but every year I head back to the dreary mall, the sweaty santa, and the $20.00 snapshot. I guess I am a believer in the Christmas miracle.