Rollerblading, Daffodils, and Lemon Zest

I live in a small town—not really a suburb of Cincinnati, but sort of, and not really rural, but sort of.

The community in which I live is inhabited by dog walkers, power walkers, baby walkers, joggers, sprinters, and today, for the first time, I saw a woman rollerblading.

I was outside in the cold sunshine picking some daffodils that had not faired too well in this morning’s now melted one-inch of snow. To save the happy lives of this small patch at the corner of the garage, I was bringing them inside to enjoy the remainder of their days in a pink vase atop the pie safe in the breakfast nook.

I heard an odd whirring sound and looked up to find a woman in a helmet and full-body windbreaker suit, rollerblading.

As she glided effortlessly and gracefully up and down and around the two culs-de-sac within my view, I was struck with such envy. She looked so calm, so free from stress.

And then I remembered . . .

It was the year 2000. I was living in the city of Columbus in a townhouse community. Sam, my youngest daughter, who was 12 years-old at the time, was in the throes of a rollerblading binge.

Out of a desire to enjoy this activity with my daughter, I asked Sam to teach me. Anyone who knows me well knows that I trip over dead air. I walk into walls. I have issues with gravity.

Sam’s lessons turned into a laugh riot for her and a near face plant into concrete for me. The neighbors gathered to sit in lawn chairs, drink beer, and watch. I think I heard someone ask, “What are the stakes?”

So back here in the real world, in 2011, I smile and wave at the woman as she breezes by, gather up my cut daffodils, and put them in a vase on the pie safe in the breakfast nook.

And then I mix a stick of butter with some flour and a wee bit of salt and some confectioner’s sugar, press it into a pan, and bake it for 20 minutes. While it turns a beautiful light golden brown, I grate two teaspoons of fresh lemon zest, add freshly squeezed lemon juice to sugar and eggs and flour, pour it over the baked crust, and pop it back into the oven for another 20 minutes. Then I sprinkle confectioner’s sugar over the top of these perfectly baked lemon bars.

My mom comes into the kitchen and comments on how wonderful the lemon bars smell, and we smile, get out our newest cookbook, and look at more recipes we’ll try together.

And I forget how I envied the graceful woman on the rollerblades.