July 23, 2016

White Dog helped me choose the Sichuan items for tonight's opera picnic. And then sort of shooed us out of the house to go pick up the order (tonight was a carry out picnic) and head to Santa Fe. "I wonder why no one seemed too concerned that we were leaving," I asked Steve as we got into the car. "It is far enough into the season that I think every pup has finally figured out that we will be home AND they will get a special treat," was his response. "White Dog did have me order extra pot stickers and shrimp buns just for the WDA," I agreed.

The food was a delicious prelude to the Strauss opera, Capriccio, even if it had no thematic connection. "Sure it does, momma," WD had argued earlier. "The opera is about entering the modern world. What is more modern that being able to order foods from all over the world and pick it up ready to enjoy?"

As we munched on steamed dumplings, vegetable rolls, and scallion pancake a brief storm blew over the ridge and added a rainbow for our dining pleasure. During tofu and vegetables with black bean sauce and chicken chow fun the lightening danced and entertained. The sun came back out as we finished with coconut tarts and strawberries.

The opera was well presented and thought-provoking. And the rain had left the area for the long ride home. We entered the house to White Dog shouting in glee..."Bring on the noms, no chopsticks needed." All of the WDA gathered around Steve who was carry the blue tote.

"What is this," he asked as he paused to look into the hallway. Then, "Oh my, you have been busy!" as he entered the kitchen. Apparently the rush to get us out of the house earlier had been to make way for the puppy frat party that seemed to have taken place while we were gone. 

The hall was littered with batting from the line of dead stuffies trailing to the dog door and beyond. Our bed covers were pulled back and the sheet a work of modern beaver-ing...stick bits and shreds and actual branches covered the surface. Steve clucked and I heard him say, "Really, not one of you has EVER been interested in the toilet paper before. What the heck?" The soap dish was lying on the floor and the soap, covered in white floof, was in the hall. "Somebody got an icky mouthful," he announced.

The WDA was sitting patiently in front of me waiting for their après opera snack and story. I shook my head at all of them. "You made all this work for dad, and there is too much here for it to have been just one of you." Steve handed me the grocery list I had begun and left on my cart; it was torn and half-eaten. "What went on?" Steve returned to hand me the flour canister; the knob had been chewed off. "Maybe you don't deserve treats?" Steve once again walked past the Army to hand me the bag of rice (Hold it here he told me; there is a hole in the bag). Then he walked into the bathroom with the mop in hand.
 

I sighed. "You guys. An entire Army melt down? There is only one more opera left. You KNOW it is only a few Saturdays every year." I remembered how several times during the evening, a wonderful night out, I had stopped and thought about the ones at home waiting. I imagined how much harder it was from their perspective waiting without distraction or ability to read the clock and find comfort in knowing it would just be 30 more minutes. 

I kissed heads and gestured for Steve to stop and breathe. "This was dad's favorite opera of the season," I told them as I shared a pot sticker with each.