Unabashed eavesdropping! Unabashed!
Siobhan’s laid up in the local hospital. Pete had errands to run and hates hospitals, so he dropped me off, barely slowing the car enough for me to make a heroic leap. I brought her coffee and flirted with the occupational therapist. Afterward, Pete and I got to have lunch together like two people who do that. At the next table, a man I couldn’t see told his companions about the time his house was burglarized. “It was a long time ago,” he said.
He and his wife were upstairs when someone broke in and they caught him. The burglar got away.
“Did you ever get your property back?” a voice asked.
“No, he didn’t get much. A computer, part of my wallet, some credit cards. I didn’t get that back.”
But the story took a remarkable turn: the burglar came back the next night. The man’s wife was folding laundry and saw the burglar trying to get break in, right in front of her. They called the police and the burglar was arrested. He did five years.
Come here often, sailor?
I’m thinking the burglar could’ve benefitted from some vocational training. Obviously, he was really bad at crime. And locksmithing. Perhaps he could have become a fine plumber.
Jacqui the organic farmer gave me a sourdough starter as a pet. As you know, I adore a new pet! But I knew less about taking care of sourdough starter than I did about feeding giant pandas. Did you know you can learn anything on YouTube?
The procedure is this: you dump out about half your sourdough starter, feed it with a water and flour mix. I had some trouble with this. The mix ratio is 1:1 water to flour by weight or 1:2 water to flour by volume. You can use almost any kind of flour you like. I’m using whole wheat.
There are variables. If you keep the starter on the kitchen counter, it bubbles and grows. You have to dump out and feed quite often. If you keep the starter in the fridge, it sleeps. You have to pick a feeding schedule, say once a week. When you get up in the morning, take the starter out of the fridge and let it come to room temperature, feed it in the afternoon, then put it back in the fridge before midnight. It sounds complicated, but that’s because it’s so easy.
When life gives you sourdough goop, get yourself going on some pancakes.
Once I’d worked out how to care for my new pet, I was left with one more problem. Each time I fed my pet, I would be pouring out some otherwise useful goo, which I could not bring myself to do. I looked out in the backyard and realized I also had chickens to feed.
Discarded goo makes a good basis for pancake batter. Add it to your favorite pancake batter and feed pancakes to your chickens – or my chickens. My chickens are very nice people with an excellent sense of humor, but every morning, they’re going to want breakfast.
While the temperatures here topped 90 degrees every day for over a month, I got sick and couldn’t shake it. I had a headache for over a week; a pinched nerve in my neck made cycling impossible. During the Olympics, I spent a lot of evenings lying flat and watching TV with one eye open. This has put me in a MOOD.
Red peppers, looking sexy.
My doctor, to whom I’ve been a consistent source of amusement for about 25 years, retired at the end of June to move to the West Coast and spend time with family. I understand that other people have their own lives – in theory! – but this is very inconvenient. To me. One day, I was so sick Pete poured me into a car and took me to the doctor’s erstwhile office, where a young sports doctor looked me over and was very confused about how I was balancing an ice pack on top of my head and making conversation. I liked her very much, and she was very helpful, but I’m used to working my comic stylings before an older demographic.
Sometimes I too feel like I’m full of tiny bubbles.
Though it was above 90 again today, the spell is broken. I am pale and out of shape, but feeling like myself again. The fall semester begins in just about a week and I’m registered for a class I’ll do well in. Most of our jarring season is behind us now.
I’m ready for things to cool down just a little. I’m ready for things to heat up.
Slate is now inviting word nerds like you and me to diagram the Donald’s endless “sentences.”Stop laughing! That is not a sentence, it is the sound of a million primary school teachers crying in frustration.
Someone else’s driveway can seem ancient, broken and glamorous. However, this is just a shady spot on a damp street.
Here at Poor Impulse Control, we have a new motto: Words. They’re not for everyone!