Lemonade: A Recipe I Keep Forgetting

I keep forgetting how to make lemonade. Here I am again, with a whole passel (or bushel, as it were) of lemons, staring me in the face. Oblong beasties, pebbly skin shouting up at me in an almost obscene shade of yellow. I mean, that's some bright fruit. They tend to roll off the counter, so I have to keep juggling them back into place while I think.

What am I supposed to do with these things? They are really starting to annoy me. I tried just pretending they weren't there, but you can't really avoid a whole bunch of lemons rolling all over your new granite countertops. (Yes, I have new granite countertops. Too bad I can't see them for all the lemons.)

Then I just got mad at them. Why do I have to get all the lemons? Why can't someone else have them, for once? It's like every week, I get a delivery of these obnoxious little monsters, and I have to deal with them. Sure, eventually I remember how to make lemonade, and all is well, but as soon as I turn around, there they are again.

Sometimes, I cry over the lemons, or get close. Now, that's a real waste of time, a real pointless consequence of a simple memory lapse. If I could just remember. If I could just remember to remember!

The worst part is making other people wait. If I were the only one who wanted a drink, it would be one thing, but with other people involved, there's a clock, you know?

Then, like a slap upside the head, it comes to me. Much like the name of Patsy's older sister Jacqui comes to Bubble in an almost regurgitant spasm (0:29 in), the recipe for lemonade spills out of my head and all those lemons seem like harmless little puppies. (Well, not puppies, really, you don't squeeze the juice out of puppies, but you know what I mean.)

And the lemonade is gooood.

Next time, I'll remember. And if it takes me a while, they're just lemons, after all!

Goooaaaallll!

The World Cup must be inspiring my little monster. He or she is kicking away with more frequency now, of course, only when it's just me. When Sean is home, the hybrid alien in my tummy snoozes away, offering an elbow here and there, but not enough for Sean to get his hands on. I'm sure he'll get a chance soon.

It feels like soda bubbles deep in my belly. Sometimes I pretend I'm Charlie in the Wonka Factory and I have to burp out the bubbles to keep from getting caught in the exhaust fan. Maybe that's just from the constant gas...