“Dada, help me find my pink-pong ball!” my two-year-old son mispronounces his request between hacking coughs. He’s a mess; sick and miserable.
Meanwhile, my normally bubbly five-year-old is walking around with bags under her eyes that would make Jim Lehrer jealous. She’s exhausted, coughing, feverish, yet surprisingly delightful. She’s even interested in tasting the dust at the bottom of my specialty grain bag. Such a trooper.
So, I’m looking under furniture for a ping-pong ball while trying to get additional ingredients up from the basement. I’m stepping over a box filled with Matchbox cars and busted trucks while steeping grains in 150°F water for 30 minutes.
Later, I’m standing at the stove attending to a steaming pot. A pendulous and sagging grain bag dangles above the pot as I try to move it to the compost bin. Just then my son comes wheeling over and slams into the back of my legs, shouting, “let’s dooooo something.” Somehow the massive muslin manages to stay together and my son avoids the burn unit. As much as I’d love to play with my little man, the pot is approaching boil and I’ve got to get going on this brew. I only have a brief brewing window before I need to go to work this afternoon....