Like most things in my life, my religious background is…entertaining. I was raised Episcopalian. I attended Catholic school from 6th-12th grade. Meanwhile, every Easter we traveled to an island where we attend the First Union African Baptist Church. When it came time to send my kids to preschool, we chose to send them to the local Jewish Synagogue. I have stories of accidentally attending the Spanish Christmas Eve Mass with my grandmother, as well as tales of shopping for gefilte fish and horseradish for the preschool Seder. So, when I had an epiphany while preparing spaghetti squash one day, I was taken aback.
I married a serial hobby starter. Maybe the more accurate term would be hobby abandoner. Our home is filled with the ghosts of hobbies past, remnants of projects collecting dust in the basement, attic, and shed.
First there was the cigar box guitar. Then there was wood carving. Gardening left me with a 5’x’5 trench in the middle of my backyard, that now serves as a dust bath for my chickens. I’m still finding plastic bottles from the failed batch of home brew, and I will never be able to rid my house of the flour left behind by the baking phase.
My heart raced as I ran towards the kiddie pool. Taking a clue from my children’s guilty faces, I expected the worst.
“Where is she?!” I demanded.
“She’s just taking a nap after her swim.”
Lifting back the drenched towel cradled in my daughter’s arms, I gasped at what looked more like raw chicken breasts than an actual bird.
…and that was the day I learned how to do Chicken CPR.