All the boring and mystical activities my parents subjected me to as a child, like bird watching, and nordic skiing, and Dan Fogelberg, and casseroles from Laurel’s Kitchen, are now my very favorite things in the world.

One of my most awful memories is when I was pulled along on a day ski with my parents and their friends and we had stopped for lunch, which was invariably fig newtons and oranges, and invariably some rare sparrow made an appearance. And I was tired and cold from trying to keep up with the group of acoustic adults with neat beards and sweaters and glacier glasses. And after lunch I refused to go further. I had little Karhus with no-wax bases with little white polar bears on them, and all the acoustic adults were using long skis with kick wax and they were having a great time zooming through the forest. But my skis weren’t kicking and my poor little face was steamed up red and I was furious and wouldn’t go further. And then my mom was getting furious because I was holding up the whole show and she started furiously rubbing kick wax on my skis. It makes me happy I can pass this kind of nordic suffering on to Max and Levi and that the suffering will mellow into the rich stuff of life later on.