4:44PM, Sunday. All of the sudden, it's almost like I was never sick (as long as I remain seated). And at this very moment, it's a bit like I never grew up, left home, did anything other than wait for the weekend.

Right now, somehow alone in the kitchen, I can smell baked potatoes on their 74th minute of baking at 350°F, they themselves probably looking forward to bathing in butter and sour cream; there are carrots braising in chicken broth and a little maple syrup and butter; water is boiling for corn on the cob which we hope will still be OK though it's the last of the season; and ludicrously expensive dry-aged steaks are waiting to be grilled. NFL football is on the gargantuan TV screen (Dallas vs. Washington, Redskins down by 5, 8 minutes left). I've been told that there's a cherry pie waiting in the wings somewhere as well.

I myself am marinating in nostalgia, which will probably be short-lived, as the twins are due to arrive at any moment. I'm not saying it won't be nice when they get here, it just won't be nostalgia anymore, it'll be dinnertime. Or maybe this is fuel for future reminiscence, who knows: my mom just came in and said that Dad is installing some sort of Christmas decoration in the front yard that involves penguins.

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