Blackberry jam, blackberry barbecue sauce. I know: they looked like Hall & Oates to me, too!
We’re jarring tomato sauce today, fourteen quarts so far. In related news, it’s unbelievably glamorous that my clothes have been stuck to my back since lunchtime.
Two cats, ten legs.
No black athlete, male or female, has ever won the All-Around gold at the Olympics.
Daria: We’re leaving for Geneva tomorrow on Sandro’s birthday. Tonight, we’re having his favorite pizza and cake. Tomorrow, there’ll be leftover pizza and cake. He’ll have guilt-cake every day we’re gone.
Tata: So when you get home, he’ll be sullen and fat. And you’re just as bad a mommy as when I left for Ecuador on Miss Sasha’s birthday!
Daria: Hooray! I’m only the World’s Second Worst Mommy since you did it first!
Tata: Hooray! When is your flight?
Daria: We arrive in Geneva on Saturday after two nights in London.
Tata: You’re going to London tomorrow? Are you out of your mind?
Daria: Yeah, Laura said that yesterday. You guys are going to London during the Olympics? We looked at each other and said, Hunh.
Tata: You. Did not know. About the Olympics.
Daria: Yep, that’s what happens when you don’t watch TV.
Tata: If Dad were still alive he’d die laughing.
Bon chance, Brioche. I miss you and hope you have a happy new life.
Olympic gymnastics is my lifelong obsession. I’ll be back in a few days.
Atticus among Dad’s bonsais.
In the spring of 2007, – forgive that I’m repeating myself – Dad was diagnosed with terminal cancer and I slept on Dad’s office floor for a month. My back has never forgiven me, but this happened, too:
For a couple of weeks, I awakened with a twelve-pound cat tangled in my shining tresses. I’d spend half an hour talking to said cat, whose name is Atticus. He’d purr, he’d preen. He’d tell me where he wanted to be scratched and nip if I scratched out of bounds. Then, I’d go downstairs and start household chores for the day. One morning, Darla and I were discussing something serious when Atticus padded softly into the kitchen, took one look at me and sauntered off.
Tata: Darla, am I imagining it or is that cat pretending we’re not sleeping together?
Darla: He’s acting like he doesn’t know you in public!Apparently, Atticus saw Samantha sitting on my lap and now he’s all like “Girlfriend, please!” And I’m all like “But honey, you’re the only cat for me!” And Atticus is like “Sugar, I’m not sure you even like cats.” I’m not sayin’, I’m just sayin’!
This morning, he was sleeping near my head but not on it, but he did tangle my hair a little. While I wonder if Atticus will take me back, the world keeps turning.
A sweet guy with a keen fashion sense.
Recently, I’ve been thinking about Island of the Blue Dolphins, which I like every other girl my age read as a teenager. Sometimes we have no control over whether or not we are alone or who our companions might be. Atticus certainly had no say in such matters, but for the past few years after Darla moved back to Canada, Atticus liked sleeping on a corner of Darla’s bed, with his paws resting on her hand. Sometimes, love is a situation.
It’s odd, I guess, that I was mulling over a book from my childhood and the loss of a cat-friend on the twenty-first anniversary of my grandmother Edith’s death when Wintle sent along this.
Everything goes somewhere, but no one’s going anywhere in those shoes.
I hear you.
Blackberry Syrup from the Ball Recipe Book. Minor pain in the ass to make, a cinch to jar, easy on the eye. I think this is the first time I’ve made a fruit syrup, which begs the question: what’s in that jar in the basement fridge labeled SYRUP?
Last week, I started feeling itchy. Berry season was passing me by. I had only one batch of blueberry jam in jars and not much else, either. Berries also seem to be very expensive this year for no reason I can figure out. I decided to take a couple of days off work and go berry picking. Today, we drove down to Terhune Orchards in Lawrenceville, intent on picking raspberries until our baskets broke. We were ready: sunglasses, straw hats, bad attitudes. But we discovered blueberries are almost finished, blackberries ripen now and raspberries come in the fall. Considering that last year we heard people who grow blackberries keep them for themselves, meaning we’d never get those and here we could pick as many as we could pay for and carry off, I had a hard time seeing this as a bad thing.
This is Cream, who lay on the porch last week. After I took this picture, I misplaced the camera for a couple of days. Meow meow crap meow!
I can barely lift my arms now, but we picked more than sixteen quarts of blackberries. What do I mean by that? We dumped the berries into my sixteen quart stock pot and the berries came level with the top. They’re resting peacefully in the downstairs fridge. Tomorrow, I’ll simmer them with good sugar and lemon juice. Tuesday, it’s blackberry goo into jars. I’m pretty psyched about our improbable good fortune, but for the moment, I’m overjoyed to have my feet up and an adult beverage.
This pussycat I’ve been calling Brioche has been waiting for me on the porch at 7:30 every morning since last winter.
Brioche’s people started putting their stuff out on the curb early last week and it became clear they were moving. On Tuesday morning, she was waiting. Early Wednesday, I saw her walking across a lawn. She’s gone now, I guess. I miss her chatty voice and her lovely blue-green eyes.
When I looked out the back window Wednesday morning, a cat I hadn’t seen in a long time lay on the top step. Cats knew before I did that life was changing. In related news, I’ve cleaned cat yak off of nearly every flat surface inside my house. It was fun while it lasted, but Mr. Clean and I have grown apart.
Poor Impulse Control 