This week, we are calling the kitten Finocchio. It’s Italian for fennel and one of Italian words I knew before I learned the English.
The Seaside Pier is burning down tonight. All eyes are on the weather map and rain should arrive within the hour.
Mom called and talked and talked and talked and talked and talked and talked and talked and finally, I said, “Okay, Mom. Pete and I will go pick figs.” As I hung up the phone, I immediately forgot about this until after dinner, when the sun was setting. Pete put on his shoes and we took credit cards and ID, in case we were also getting arrested. We drove over to Mom’s house in the dark. Pete brought two flashlights. I brought a colander and lefthanded scissors, because the hometown police would know that – obviously – no one brings lefthanded scissors to a B & E.
The fig tree is as tall as I am, about seven feet wide, with branches low to the ground. I have no attention span, so trying to judge the ripeness of each and every fig was tricky. Pete has even less of an attention span, so he must’ve said, “Look at that one!” half a dozen times, which might’ve been charming if it didn’t leave me totally in the dark. But then his cell rang when I was about one-third of the way around the tree and he put the flashlights under his arm to tell whoever it was that he couldn’t talk. My lefthanded scissors were sticky by then and definitely had my fingerprints on them and no one would have believed we had a terrible fig-picking accident, so Pete remained unstabbed. Naturally, there was no time tonight to write a churlish blog post. You get this picture from our bike ride through Colonial Park on Sunday, where we rode bikes over a Walk Bikes Over Bridge-bridge because: rebels! somewhere in East Millstone that runs into Amwell Road. I was good and lost then; now I have figs. Bon appetit!