So, there are a few blogs that I like to read... mostly, families I know or are once or twice removed from whose lives I enjoy following like a teeny fly lurking in the corner. And when they don't post updates regularly, I get a little irked. I mean, how will I know what's going on in their lives? What ever will entertain me when I'm waiting impatiently for a conference call to start or while Calla's taking her time on the potty?
Ahem. Pot, kettle, black. So to speak.
Anyway. So I'm suffering from the "there's too much to tell and too little energy to do it" malaise. So, once again - let's do a summary.
Summer here. It's hot. We've officially transitioned from strawberry season to blueberries. Just as yummy, but my inclination to make jam has waned. Perhaps because it's about 97 degrees out. I did make a yummy blueberry sauce, in case you're wondering and I think I'll sauce up the remaining blueberries and get in the freezer before this Saturday when it's time to buy another few pints at the Farmer's Market.
Speaking of farming... our garden is beautifully out of control. Peas (purple hulled, that is - if you're from my side of the blog, you don't know what those are) are vining everywhere. Beans are ready to be picked. Tomatoes are looking quite plump, although green. And my basil is gloriously fragrant.
Kids. Doing fine. We had a rough three weeks when both caught the bad-sleeping bug (it must be contagious), although I'm cautiously optimistic we're on the back swing of that trend. Corrie had a rather innocuous virus for a week that turned her rather spotty. We called her Spot-acus. She didn't seem to mind the name or the rash. It's all gone now. She's sitting up on her own, which gives her a whole new view on the world. I think she rather likes it.
Did I mention it's hot? Hot, hot, hot. Mid to upper 90s for about a week now. The pool was 88-degrees on Sunday. Really, quite nice. Have I mentioned that you all are welcome to join us for a swim whenever you like?
Joe's in the midst of grants once again. One is submitted and the other one goes in this week. When it gets too dark to work in the garden or the yard, he's either at his computer or downstairs jamming out to Guitar Hero. We've even bought the Guitar Hero microphone so I can jam along with him. Want a laugh? Picture me at the mic, singing Bon Jovi's Living on a Prayer. No, really. Just try to.
In addition to the baby finches nesting in our grape vines (ooh - did I tell you we have actual grapes?!) and the baby robin who has since fledged, our grounds are also now home to a baby bunny. He/she is just so darn cute - with a sweet little white patch on his forehead, much like (Joe tells me) the "blaze" patch of a horse. So, we named him/her "Blaze." And then realized that Blaze seemed to get bigger overnight. And then smaller. So perhaps, there are several Blazes.
Regardless, we've grown attached to the little bunnies. So much so that when it was abundantly clear that something needed to be done about the weeds attacking our rock pathway, we decided that using a chemical pesticide was just too risky. How could we live with ourselves if something happened to the Blazes?
So, tender-hearted Joe took the weed eater to the weeds, cutting them back to a less embarrassing height. Mission accomplished. Until we noticed a spider web of cracks in our garden door where a weed-eaten rock had been kicked into the glass. No good deed, you know?
And finally, a word from Calla. After noticing some condiment spillage down her shirt from her hotdog at dinner last week, she turned to me and said "It's OK, Mom. Mustard happens."
And so it does. Here's hoping you have sprays for all those condiments you can clean, acceptance for those spots you can't. And the wisdom to know the difference.
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