|My window box edition.|
The lemons are lemoning...
|Oh, glorious Meyer Lemon Tree!|
How I adore you!
The llama is wishing for an in-ground pool...
|The method is this - front legs in, then back legs in, then |
belly flop! Then the wilted Plum Blossom runs out
with the hose and we start all over again.
The vege over-floweth....
|A stunning leaf from a red cabbage.|
The cabbage weren't bad either. No how.
It was steamy inside, as well as outside...
Things were out-ed...
|I had the WORST time parting with this.|
But, really... #237
Speaking of lame, I have been in denial for months that I needed to do something about my lack of flexibility and worsening hips and knees. I mean, I am in such bad shape for someone in their 30s...(snort). I loathe doctors but did decide to see a chiropractor. Excellent idea! She has been working away at trying to get me straightened out for about three weeks. Last week she suggested I go for a deep tissue massage. Nelly. I know what those are. I still remember one I had 30 years ago. But I tugged up my BGPs and went for an hour workout this morning. Wow. My musculature (or whatever you call it) is very reminiscent of a macramé project gone very bad. Knots! Knots on my knots! It was a workout for both me and the masseuse. As I staggered out the door, she called after me - "Don't forget to drink gallons of water and take a couple of Advil. We let loose LOTS of toxins!" Eeeuw. I feel taller but rather bruised and wonder if I'll glow in the dark tonight.
I find myself drawn to You Tube vlogs (even thought it seems obvious what a 'vlog' is, it took me f.o.r.e.v.e.r. to figure it out) where chatty young mothers (usually self-sufficient, frugal gals) burble on about their homeschooling, grocery deals, etc., etc. WHAT is wrong with me?? Then I start wondering why these women - with at least two school age children - are going on and on about having to face unwashed dishes in the morning, loads and loads of laundry, feeding cats. These women have - wait for it - children. MINIONS. However, their minions are still in bed at 8 in the morning while their mothers clean their clothes and wash their dishes. It's just wrong. I must have missed that whole part where being part of a household included pitching in to help it run smoothly. I'm going to have to wean myself off of these videos. It's not helping my blood pressure.
Last week, while stumbling around in my canned good storage room (aka the Cat Room), I grabbed what I perceived to be a jar of dark jam. Of some sort. Of some year in the past. Way past. This information had to be gleaned from squinting at a jar - unmarked as to contents and date - in a rather dim room. I skipped back to the kitchen, popped it open and found....still not sure. I believe it once was a berry jam - blueberry, most likely, since I never have enough blackberries to make jam. I eat them as fast as I can cram them in. This firmish mass had become...sort of nothing. It wasn't bad. It wasn't good. It was meh. I thought I might as well use it as tart filling, so I rustled up some GF pie dough and then re-thought it. Honestly? This stuff was so 'nothing' that I didn't want to waste a pie crust on it (and the stick of butter therein). What to do? Faint flicker of light - most likely a kerosene light. Long, long, long ago, when we were kids and spending idyllic summers in Northern Ontario, there was a woman who baked the MOST incredible pies, tarts and breads on our little lake. In retrospect, she must have done so in a wood-fired stove/oven, because there was no electricity or running water in any of the cabins. She made raisin butter tarts that I still remember. Well, I fished out my mom's 1943 cookbook and found the recipe (called Chess Tarts here in the states). With the first bite, I was jettisoned back to those wonderful days. It was living off the grid before it was trendy. Food was kept cool in an abandoned martin den. We had to take the boat to the dock and drive to the lumber mill to get big blocks of ice to put in coolers and in our ice fridge. We played Chinese checkers until it was too dark to see in the log cabin that was hand-built by my grandfather.
I was musing away - dreamily remembering the lake shore, playing with our Troll dolls - when I realized that tart #3 was heading mouth-ward. Whoa.