I know I already mentioned that we built a patio, but “built a patio” doesn’t do the process justice. 

Let’s back up. 

Years ago, my husband “foraged” some huge slate patio tiles. We knew we wanted a patio someday — we just didn’t know where, or when. But then this spring, probably right around the time we hosted the family gathering (or maybe when we hosted the neighborhood potluck?), the idea for The Exact Perfect Place for a patio popped into my head. 

family gathering

I looked at everyone lounging in the yard below the porch, tucked in beside the deck and shielded from view of the road, and knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that that’s where the patio belonged. 

But how to connect it to the main porch? Knock out the porch railing and build broad steps down to the patio? Build stairs down from the deck? We debated this question for weeks. It felt like an impossible conundrum, but when we settled on attaching the stairs to the deck “hallway” and running them down along the side of the porch, the answer felt obvious. 

Then there was the “how big to make it” discussion and the “how to deal with the slope of the yard” discussion, and the “to build a retaining wall or not” discussion and the “we need more tiles” discussion and the “what color grout” discussion. 

And so on. 

introducing Eucefe!

Between and around all those discussions, my husband built the patio. 

I have always been a huge fan of rambling old farmhouses with different levels — the kind where you go up twelve steps, turn right and go up five more steps, walk down a hall, turn left, and go down two steps. Et cetera. 

As soon my husband built the steps connecting the patio to the porch, I went nuts — running laps from deck to walkway [two steps down] to patio [five steps down] around to the main porch stairs [5 steps up] across the porch to the basement [9 steps down and then back up] to the house entrance [2 steps up] through the kitchen, back to the deck and then to the yard [9 steps down]. YOU GUYS. NOW I HAVE RAMBLY FARMHOUSE STEPS. 

A few months back when the patio was still in the concept phase, some friends who were moving sold us some of their patio furniture (we went for the outdoor sofa and came away with the sofa, a bistro table and chairs, a table, and a chiminea). I wasn’t sure about the chiminea — would we even like it? — and all summer it lurked in the yard, hidden under its canvas shroud. 

The first night we had friends over for a patio hang, I knew within minutes that the chiminea was exactly perfect. It gives off heat but (almost) without any smoke — even after long fireside chats, I don’t smell like smoke — and it creates immediate ambiance, drawing people in and coaxing them to linger. That chiminea is a better host than I am. 

Unexpected Patio Bonus: when I’m on the patio, I separate from the house to a much greater degree than I do when I’m on the porch. It’s like I’m on a little mini vacation from my life. 

falling walnuts add a thrilling element of danger to our leisurely chats

The patio isn’t fully optimized — we’re still figuring out furniture and seating and flow and lighting, and we have ideas for some future add-ons (maybe) — but all that will come. 

In the meantime, I’m luxuriating in my expanded outdoor space, packing in as many outdoor patio events as my husband will tolerate before the cold weather moves in. 

This same time, years previous: Belper Knolle, fig walnut biscotti, pasta with chicken and oven-roasted tomatoes, salted caramel ice cream, contradictions and cream, the quotidian (10.8.12), bits and pieces.

Quotidian: daily, usual or customary;
everyday; ordinary; commonplace

Be like your butter: cultured, salty, and sweet.

Attempted to level up my thumbnails and the team said they were too stockphoto-esque, ha.
^{(two-ingredient mozzarella coming soon!)}

Make salsa, check.

Oversized pop-tart.

Basket of props for a cheesemaking “lecture.”

The space efficiency saga continues: drawers going in.

Birthday gift from my sweetie.

Fiber optic internet in the works!

Daughter-made bouquet.

Mugs match seats.

This same time, years previous: easy-peel hard boiled eggs, mushroom salt, a nurse’s lament, sunflowers, the quotidian (10.2.18), twelve thousand doughnuts, the quotidian (10.6.14), it’s for real, one foggy morning.

As part of my birthday festivities (of which included a surprise dessert party featuring five — FIVE! — cakes), the children presented me with a video of greetings from loads of friends and family. Which was lovely — I laughed (and cried) my way through it.

However, the reason I bring it up here isn’t because of my birthday, but rather because I want you to see my son and daughter-in-law’s contribution.

It has a little Easter egg in it, so watch it before reading the rest of the post.

Did you catch it?! 

Now, to be clear, I’ve known the news for months now. My son told us way back in the early days. (Which about drove me mad. Not that there was a baby coming — that news launched me straight over the moon — but because they told me so dang early. Now I’d have that much longer to wait until I’d be able to hold the wee one, grumble-grumble.)

Also, we were (naturally) forbidden from sharing the news for weeks. HOW WAS I TO SURVIVE.

But the weeks ticked by. Bit by bit, they told people. (When they finally told their siblings, that was the biggest relief. I’d been so terrified that I’d accidentally say something, that I actually stopped mentioning my son and daughter-in-law around the other kids.)

On corn day, my daughter-in-law told the cousins. But she didn’t just tell them, oh no. 

That morning when she’d arrived, she’d asked for a piece of bread to put in the oven, and then partway through husking, she sent the kids into the house on a scavenger hunt to find it. 

My nephew was the one to find the hamburger bun. It took the kids a minute to figure it out — they weren’t familiar with the “bun in the oven” expression — but once they caught on, hoo-boy! Squeals and hugs and jumping up and down.

And then when they realized their parents didn’t yet know, they tore outside shouting the news. 

The rest of the day, the kids brainstormed names for my husband and me. They made a list, polled family members, and tallied votes. That piece of paper now hangs on my fridge — but none of the names really click. 

Which leads me to the main point of this post.

I’ll be a grandma, but I don’t want to be called grandma. So what to be called instead? 

Here are my thoughts thus far: 

• The name has to match us. It has to feel like us. 
• I’m fine including our first names, or versions of them. In fact, this might be the most authentic, since our kids often call us by our names.  
• I want the names to feel warm without being cutesy. (We’re not exactly cuddly folk . . . though there’s a good chance the grandbaby will experience a side of us not yet revealed.) Also, gruff names can be warm. 
• The names may nod to our personalities but it definitely shouldn’t lock us into them. 

This is where you come in. If you want to share, I’d love to know:

1. What you call your grandparents.
2. If you’ve got any unique and delightful grandparenty names tucked up your sleeve.
3. If you’re a grandparent, what you’re called and/or wish you were called.
4. Any tricks (or thought exercises) for determining a name. 

We still got a few months to solve this riddle — and it’s not like the kid is going to come out speaking — but the sooner I can work it out, the better. (For my mental serentity, you know.)

On the other hand, our names don’t really matter, not even a little bit. The baby is going to arrive and we’re going to be head over heels and that is that. 

But choosing a name gives me something to fixate on. Something to do while I wait. 

‘Cause we all know how great I am at waiting…

This same time, years previous: party at the polls, wanna place bets?, three days of birthday, wedding buns, church, the quotidian (9.30.19), hey-hey, look who’s here!., welcome home to the circus, the myth of the hungry teen, pointless and chatty, 37.