This afternoon I sat on the wicker bench on my little second story porch and ate a scoop of premium vanilla ice cream. On a cone. As I licked the drips before they fell onto my hands I thought about how vanilla is so often thought of as the plain flavor. The one you don’t choose because you might be thought of as boring. How did such an exotic and aromatic spice become boring, I wondered. Of all of my spices, my vanilla (and vanilla beans) are far more expensive than any others. And I am much more selective about my vanilla than my rosemary, cinnamon or thyme. And vanilla goes well with almost everything. It’s simple, but sophisticated. Common, but not ordinary. If I were an ice cream flavor I’d like to be vanilla. I think I’m actually probably more of a burnt almond fudge.

As I finished my cone I heard my newly thirty-year-old husband reading pre-nap stories to my newly one-year-old son. I took a moment to pull the laundry out of the dryer and into the white plastic basket. It was still hot. Folds of cotton towels and jersey sheets lumped together came out in one pull. I sat on the floor to begin folding and had to lay my face into the warm linens. I was reminded of the hospital blankets that I was covered with just before Milo’s delivery last year. The ones that feel like cardboard cold, but feel like heaven hot. After a minute I found myself tipping the basket over on it’s side and sort of curling up in the pile. An hour and a half later I awoke from my nap. My wonderful vanilla ice cream warm laundry nap. Dave was sleeping on the couch, Milo was asleep in his crib, and I snuck a few more minutes in the sheets. 

A sweet afternoon.