The story I’m sharing probably has nothing to do with the recipe at the end, the peach cobbler bars – or maybe it does, a little. So, if you’re just here for the food (and I don’t blame you), feel free to scroll to the bottom for the recipe. However, if you’re here for the words, thank you.

*   *   *

I had my own bedroom when I was a kid. I never had to share with my little brother, which was good, because mostly, back then, he drove me crazy. My bedroom was at the back of the house, far away from my parents’ room, and at night, every night, my mother would put me to bed. After turning the lights off, she would stand in the open doorway, her body a dark silhouette surrounded by the glow of light from the bathroom across the hall. Each night, she wished me goodnight, and then she slowly pulled the door part way closed, but not all the way. I liked having the light streaming in.  It helped me feel less alone at night. The light made the goodnights – the goodbyes – easier.

I’ve been trying to write a blog post for the past couple of weeks. Maybe longer, even.

Take this post, for example. I was planning to share a recipe with you – a recipe for peach cobbler bars, one that I know you’ll love – along with a story about summer, or maybe about peaches, or possibly about time spent with friends and family. Instead, I’ve written ten different first paragraphs, and I’ve stopped just long enough after each one to realize that the paragraph is crap.  And then, I’ve tapped the backspace key rapidly until each offending word is gone.

Whew.

The last month has been tough. We buried my father-in-law two Thursdays ago. The service was beautiful, a loving tribute to the wonderful father of my husband. My children were so well behaved that I’m certain people assumed we drugged them. (We didn’t.)

The visitation was the night before the funeral, and it was an open casket viewing at the funeral home. People whose lives were touched by my father-in-law — and there were so very many — stood in line for over an hour to give their condolences to our family, to hold our hands and to give embraces.  My father-in-law and my dad have overlapping circles of friends, and so many of these people who came through the line asked about my father. That was hard. So much harder than I expected it to be. I didn’t have a good answer. “He’s okay,” I’d say. “He has good weeks and he has bad weeks.”

I cried a lot. The visitation felt like a practice run for my own father’s funeral.

Not surprisingly, I’m still coming to grips with some of the emotions I felt that night.

And all of this is to say that I’m not ready to simply share a recipe post with you. A recipe seems meaningless right now.  And any words that I might have to say about that recipe? They just seem trivial.

But the making of the recipe? The hands on time in the kitchen? Prepping green beans with my kids, roasting a chicken, churning ice cream? I’m finally doing this again, after feeling out of practice. It’s wonderful.

Please know that I am fine. My children are fine — great, actually. My husband is okay, and he seems to be doing better each day.

We’re taking a much-needed beach vacation in less than a week, and I fully intend to have an amazing time on that trip. I’m going to read a lot of books. I plan to let the sun warm my pale skin while the turquoise water of the Gulf of Mexico cools my red-painted toes. I’m going to drink wine with friends, and I’ll probably eat too many fried foods. We’re going to laugh and play in the water and ride bicycles and stay up too late. I’m going to do my best to beat Sam and the kids in Monopoly, and I’m going to try even harder to not answer work emails immediately.

But I’m not going to share any recipe posts for a little while. Maybe a week. Or perhaps two. I’m not quite sure yet. When I’m ready, when I’m not feeling so much pressure to write, then I’ll be back here.

And, as always, thanks for waiting.

Five weeks ago today, on one of the last Saturdays in June, we loaded our suitcases into the back of the Sienna, buckled up, and drove out of our neighborhood. After a quick pit stop at Dunkin’ Donuts for coffee for me — a medium, with cream and sugar — and some donut holes for the kids to share, we headed north toward the Jacksonville airport. After a 90-minute drive to Jacksonville, a couple of hours in the airport, and a few hours in the air, our nonstop JetBlue flight would land in San Juan, Puerto Rico.

Back when the trip was in the planning phases, back when I was still trying to decide where to travel, I made a checklist in my mind of what I wanted. Warm weather and beautiful beaches were at the top of my list, followed by gorgeous scenery, plenty of outdoor spaces for us to get out and explore, easy travel time, minimal time change, and no passports required. And I didn’t want to spend too much on this trip. I considered a cruise, but I didn’t want to be confined (and those cruise ship mishaps over the last year are still in the forefront of my brain). I considered the British Virgin Islands. Sam and I had been to Virgin Gorda before we had children, and I’ve been dying to get back there. But traveling to Virgin Gorda with kids is not completely simple, and besides, we only had five nights. I thought of Mexico, possibly the Riveria Maya, but I didn’t want to deal with passports and customs with the kids in tow. But Puerto Rico? It fit all of my criteria, and then some.