Mama, don't take pictures of me where the only measure of perspective is your own rack.
I could quit my job and still not have enough time to read everything I’d like to about food. Facebook offers a pile of nostalgia crap – no, I do not really need to see the same pictures from high school Class of 1456 ten thousand more times – but it can also let me find people who survey the food blogs and point to interesting projects. I’m about to toss out used jar rings with rust spots, clean and reorganize my storage shelves and put my supplies where I can use them. This is not an interesting project, so I’ll leave you out of that, but I will document tidy results because cleanliness is next to impossibleness and when a miracle occurs, someone should be standing nearby with a freaking camera.
It’s been a long time since my brain fired on several cylinders. It’s fantastic, being brainy. Spin this 45, baby:
Tata: Smart is a great feeling.
Dad: What does feeling smart feel like?
Tata: Smart feels like you can see in every direction.
Dad: You can see in every direction. I have to think about that.
Tata: Yep. Think of traveling with the light of the lghthouse on a foggy night.
Dad: Not being the lighthouse?
Tata: Nah, they just stand around lookin’ purty.
At the moment, I can’t see the screen without reading glasses, but I’m optimistic. I think I can learn more about simple techniques this weekend. I feel like light.
A little while ago, Topaz did this strange thing where she started chirping oddly. Topaz talks a lot and pretty clearly for a person disguised as a 6lb. black cat, so I asked her what was going on.
Tata: Hey, Topaz, what’s going on?
Topaz chirped, bounded in a circle and went to the bottom of the stairs. Pete caught on.
Pete: Open the doors upstairs. Drusy’s locked inside somewhere.
When I opened the third door, Drusy gave me a look like my necklace was in her cosmo and sailed downstairs to the living room. That’s how long it took her to forgive me, but it was a painfully long fifteen seconds. It’s your turn to forgive me. I’ve got a project to prepare. You’ll see it soon. For the moment, know that I still find you captivating.
Pete and I couldn’t watch the Giro last night. We turned it off after about fifteen minutes. Go to about 2:30 for a minute of strange pathos.
In the mornings now, I awaken with a jolt, some wild ride whirring to a bumpy stop. I have been far away, hunting for some treasure, some glittering clue to the nature of my travels, but I don’t know what it means. Sure, I open my eyes and pad off to the bathroom, but being awake is a distraction and I know somewhere I have work to do that waits until I fall asleep again. By lunchtime, I’d make to do lists if I had any idea where to go or what to do.
Time feels like it’s turned inside out. I’m off to bed, hoping I’m dressed for the ride.
You have a song that reminds you of a raw, dark moment in your life.
One of the cyclists in the Giro d’Italia died in a crash today and I feel like the wind got knocked out of me.
I have some thinking to do.
It's Sunday, so you get a picture of my yaahhhhhd.
Alas, the carrots I planted failed to germinate. Today, I replanted with fennel and cantaloupe and hope for the best. We’ve been gently irrigating with a weeper hose attached to one of the rain barrels. The thought occurred to us a few weeks back to add organic fertilizer to the stored water. The fertilizer we found is liquidy sticky fish glop, which I dumped into two of the rain barrels. Today, I planted new window boxes and the fennel and cantaloupe, so the smell of rotting fish was hanging in the air as water dripped down my arms. It was gross, but maybe that’s just me. I mean, it’s kind of a fine line between fish sauce and fertilizer. It’s possible that gardeners look like unripe morsels to plants.
Drusy keeeeeesses me.
While I’m typing, Drusy walks across my keyboard and finds the other side of me is not more to her liking than where she started, so she walks back. That side does not excite her so she walks back, but again she is not satisfied and again steps across the keyboard. And walks back. She flops down lightly with the front half of her six-pound body leaning on my return key. Whatever I was typing has been launched up the page as my cursor plummets to the bottom, but Drusy’s eyes are so green I don’t remember what I was writing anyhow. She rests a hand on my arm so I hang on her every word.
Ever see a round jar stand in heroic profile?
Last night, I sliced and macerated rhubarb. Today, I made rhubarb-sage preserves from the recipe on Hip Girl’s Guide to Homemaking.
Today, I picked and chopped sage leaves, which I added to the pan of sugary rhubarb and some lemon juice. It was raining, so I simmered and stirred a little more patiently than I might have on a sunny day. I cheated a bit and sprinkled in some powdered ginger. The batch in the pot seemed very small, yet it filled four 4 oz. jars and one jar for us to sample because what if it’s not delicious BUT IT IS! It’s bright and not too sweet and unbelievably easy to make and not at all a production. I’m giddy!