As the sun rose on day two of my queer mountain extravaganza, the children were already plotting mass destruction.
Exiting my suite, I was greeted by the smell of a home cooked breakfast and the sight of three children playing Monarch of the Mountain atop two inflatable mattresses and every available sofa cushion. I questioned their judgment—until they assured me the activity was safe, as they had already scaled the precarious structure multiple times. Though their logic seemed solid, I felt it best to remove all of the harder furniture from the room—the furnishings I thought more fragile than the children’s bodies.
Breakfast consisted of cheesy “scrambled” eggs, potatoes, roasted vegetables, and avocado. (Quotations are necessary because the morning’s chef had accidentally discovered a way to simultaneously hard boil and scramble eggs. I can honestly say I had never encountered such a unique texture.) What better way to follow a hearty breakfast than a nice warm shower? I can tell you with absolute certainty that an ice cold shower is NOT the answer. I attempted to regain the bulk of my composure wearing every article of clothing I had packed under a stack of blankets. As I lie in bed wondering why the god of showers had forsaken me, I heard a strange noise from the hallway: the rustle of leaves, heavy feet, and a ghostly moan. Slowly, my door swung open, revealing nothing. Assuming the cabin had been haunted, these spirits had clearly followed us from Portland, and lacked the ambition to really do much. More probably, kids are creepy.
The creepy kid hypothesis was further solidified while the adults gathered in the hot tub outside with cream mimosas and hot toddies. As relaxing an experience as that may sound, it’s a bit disconcerting when your peace is disturbed every few minutes by children peeking through a window and whispering to one another—especially should one of them leave the house just long enough to walk around the hot tub, climb a tree, and go back inside without speaking a single word.
Later, child discussion would revolve around tampons, booty holes, farts, and a fun game of “Son of a [blank].” Predictably, the blank was often filled with tampons, booty holes, and farts. Adult conversation revolved around the joys of roller skating and was interrupted by my kid informing everyone that I had invented a new way of stopping. Namely, falling on my ass.
Lunch consisted of tacos with slow roasted pulled pork, cabbage, homemade guacamole, black beans, and stabbing myself in the finger while cutting dark chocolate for a decadent chocolate-coffee-brandy concoction, after accidentally triggering a mousetrap. For dessert, we enjoyed our brandy libation with sponge cake and macerated strawberries. I’m still not sure what “macerated” means and I refuse to look it up.
Gumbo would finish the evening and more eggs served with soy chorizo and juustoleipä would welcome the dawn, completing our queer mountain extravaganza with 10 points out of 10.