Tomorrow morning, I go back to work. I have a 9:00am meeting and (from the sound of it) a pile of projects eagerly awaiting my return. Honestly, I’m looking forward to a change of pace. It has been nice to have so much time to write strange stories about Homer, Williams College, and middle-aged men who love Laura Ingalls Wilder, but the other side of my brain is ready to dig back in. At least this is what I tell myself.

To celebrate my final days of freedom, I drove across the bridge to spend Saturday with Christian, Emily, and Iris (Emily not pictured for reasons of being at Crate and Barrel when this photo was taken).

It hasn’t been that long since I saw Iris, but she has turned into a person suddenly. She expresses opinions now, climbs up and down the stairs with ease, and (much to her father’s delight), triumphantly says “Goaaaaaaal,” whenever a ball finds the back of the net in the World Cup. I got to witness this phenomenon several times during the high-scoring Germany/Uruguay match. (Iris was an equal opportunity fan; cheering with full enthusiasm for goals scored by each side.)

After the soccer, we decided to grill. Steak, of course–full-pound, inch-thick ribeyes. It is appropriate to celebrate grandly on the final weekend of one’s sabbatical.

Also there were grilled sweet potatoes.

And grilled tomatoes.

One of the tomatoes appeared to be having genetic difficulties…

…which in no way interfered with its being delicious.

The coup was brown-sugar-soaked figs wrapped in prosciutto and then lightly grilled.

It is the kind of treat that would send Robbi into a state of pure glee. But I must admit to initial skepticism. The concoction seemed to violate my long-held conviction that sweet and salt should never be mixed.

But it, like the rest of the meal, was delicious. And the company couldn’t have been better. I had to fight back tears when Iris hugged me goodbye. She has already cultivated a wonderful embrace. When Alden returns, I will see if I can arrange some lessons.

Still no new words from Robbi and the kids, though I did hear from Robbi’s brother’s wife (who just got back from the tundra), that the fishing has continued to be slow. And apparently, Kato has embraced solid foods with nothing short of lustful glee. It’s difficult to feed him, so enthusiastic is he to grab the spoon with both hands and shove it into his mouth. I can’t wait to see it. He hadn’t quite figured out the delicate act of swallowing when they left.

Moving forward now. It’s time for a change of gears. More pushups await. I mention them again because clearly some of you are interested. I’ve gotten more emails about 100 Pushups than I have about any other topic in recent weeks. Alas, 100 Pushups has higher aspirations for my pectoral development than I am able to meet. I am now consistently demoralized by the workouts, which I can’t even come close to completing as outlined. But I am undaunted. My goal is that I won’t be able to fit into any of my shirts by the time Robbi gets home.

Here’s my little painter (Robbi thinks Alden is actually going to be a writer).

And here’s my little dude, enjoying the simple pleasures back when eating solid foods was still nothing but an idle daydream.