|Black currants on their way to a vodka |
bath. Almost looks like caviar, doesn't it?
I watched as the panel van whizzed by my house - a common occurrence, as GPS always overshoots my house. I counted three minutes and there they were again. They were very efficient and polite, even when they entered the house and encountered Godzilla, the old fridge. I was standing by with the shop vac because I had never, ever vacuumed around, under or behind it in the 11 years I lived there. I couldn't get it to budge. With a lot of careful maneuvering, they got it out and hustled it out the door and down the driveway. I wonder what the conversation was like, as moving the fridge uncovered three hypodermics - needleless (veterinary use) as well as a large volume of assorted fur and a pile of peanuts. I vacuumed my little heart out and looked at the filthy floor. I did the best I could under the time constraints and they moved the new fridge into the slot, all shiny and white. I love it.
Later, when I was going down the front path to my driveway, I encountered three hair balls the size of small rabbits, spaced about four feet apart, a decorative ribbon on a florists stick and my toast tongs. I have no idea....
Saturday was a mixed bag - chores, cooking, cleaning, gardening. I got my garlic pulled and put in the barn to dry before getting hung up to cure. I horked out my giant kohlrabis. I made Sea Salt & Dark Chocolate Granola for my aunt and sister. I mashed and hung the red currants in my jelly bag. I rearranged my new fridge interior for the umpteenth time. I picked a few green beans. I dosey-doed around making my pie crust until I couldn't stand it and threw it together in the food processor. I used to love making pie crust and, if I say so myself, I made a good one. There is no good GF pie crust recipe. It is a frustrating process of whizzing dry crumbs around until you can squeeze it together in a shaggy lump. (Appetizing, ain't it?) Then you wrap it in plastic and let it 'mellow' in the fridge for an hour or more. Rolling it out is a whole nuther trip to hell that I won't even describe, but it always involves bad language.
I was making said pie crust for a Smoked Salmon Quiche. Which I didn't pull out of the oven until 9PM Sunday, way too late to have for dinner. Why so late? Because I had a very full Sunday and I am not as young as I used to be. I was out the door at 8:00A to feed the barn cats and head to VT to pick up my sister for our annual blueberry pilgrimage. The blueberry farm is almost two hours north of me, but it is our tradition, the blueberries are divine and the prices are fair. After being confronted with a gallon and a half of frozen blueberries from last year during my recent freezer purge, I reined in my usual over-the-top picking to about 8 lbs. From there we took a leisurely drive to a great little tavern for lunch, then some errands and then I toted her home. I still had two more stops to make and pulled my droopy self into the house at 4:30P. It's hard to stay droopy when confronted with a total of 100# of yipping, celebratory pups with full bladders. We goose-stepped out the back door and back inside. Where I collapsed into full droop mode.
The sheep have forgiven me for running out of fresh grassy patches because some good soul (my dairy farmer) dropped six fresh bales of hay at the barn door. It is very popular in the run-in shed. With everyone well-fed, I dropped into my favorite chair (complete with cat) and watched a documentary about Peggy Guggenheim while my quiche baked. I then took it out, slapped a piece of foil loosely on the top and went to bed.
Then it was Monday.