Chicken Soup With Rice

Even though I’m working on day two of a stubborn migraine, (last week I had one for 3 days, triggered by a wild and crazy Zumba class I tried for the first time on an early Saturday morning, with a wiggly, jiggly, gyrating, inspirational instructor known as “Sistah”), at least I can type, which I think is quite a trick for a cloudy, rain-rain-go-away Monday afternoon, don’t you?

It’s almost the end of March, a time when madness strikes big time at my house, thanks to the daily college basketball games that my husband and oh yeah, me, too, watch two-at-a-time on the split screen of our TV set (even though this year I really only care about the UConn women).  

My bracket-obsessed husband kind of, sort of believes we’re going to magically score two tickets, then hop on a plane to San Antonio on Saturday to cheer on the women in person as they fight their way to the top of the ladder. I, on the other hand, believe we’re going to stay home and watch our women win, me on the couch or rocker, him in his first-dibs-claimed leather chair, bathrooms close at hand.

While I patiently wait for my favorite team to ace the NCAA championship, I’ve also been anxiously anticipating April, which T.S. Eliot called “the cruellest month…” but I call the best. How “cruell” can it be if it brings the Final Four, May flowers, “the whistle of returning birds” (Emerson), my (Hitler’s, too, aren’t we oh-so lucky to celebrate together?), Charlotte Bronte’s and William Shakespeare’s birthdays, plus 4:20 or National Get Stoned Day, April Fool’s Day (my friend SC’s birthday), Arbor Day, Buddha’s birthday (4-08), Tax Day, the Boston Marathon, and Earth Day?

I love this month so much that I sometimes let myself fantasize that “in April I will go away, to far off Spain [or Paris] or old Bombay, and dream about hot soup all day.” I know it will not happen this year, but it’s a great almost-April fantasy, nevertheless, to brighten up this dreary, rain-soaked day.

In reality, I am going to stay close to home, watching bball, checking out the crocuses and “a host of golden daffodils,” waiting patiently for my sneezing and eye-rubbing allergies to kick in, blossom and bloom, as March Madness gallops across April and slowly morphs into the merry month of May.