Come noon, and I am feeling it, like someone turned the heat to searing high.

The Farmer walks in the back door looking for a heaping plate of steaming hot food, the littlest has dissolved into a puddle of tears, one child needs to know what 9 books would cost if 3 books cost $76 and two boys scuffle over a disputed eraser.

Anyone know the escape route to the big flashing exit sign?

But I have to feed them all first.

I toss the potatoes into the pressure cooker, grandma’s pressure cooker from the 50′s, the one with the decades old, hand-smoothed wooden handles. I lock on the lid. Drop on the weight. [Read more...]