I’m taking a little bloggy break, but I’ll have lots of great surprises when I return.
Guests are coming, floors need scrubbing, hair needs dyeing, walls need painting, and the list goes on and on.
I really need a vacation on the beach, but it looks like work will consume my summer.
That’s life!
I love it.
See you all soon. I’ll miss you tons. 🙂
I told FringeMan I should go work on a farm for the summer picking season, because there’s something all-consuming about trying to capture every last bit of ripe fruit before the ants, flies, and birds get them. If you have a compulsive personality, become a picker of anything growing in mass quantity. You’ll experience happy fulfillment at the end of each day. Trust me.
Anyway, FringeMan thinks I’m too slow to be hired by anyone. He’s never heard that slow and steady wins the race.
Pretend it's a good picture.
I must admit that I ate three berries for every one I picked. Perhaps the antioxidants went directly to my brain or maybe my hormones were out of balance this week, because I morphed into Betty Crocker. Sadly my creations won’t be making me millions, but I guarantee they’ll add pounds to my bottom.
This sudden surge of domestication had me wondering, and I momentarily stopped, looking from a double sink piled high with purple stained dishes to a countertop no longer visible. In that late day moment, I feared my sanity forever stolen by a small, plump berry.
In reality I am no pioneer. A battle wages in my brain with the sane side telling me that grocery stores sell more jars of jam than I can make in the nine lives I do not posses, but the other side of brain sees the five gallon pail of fresh berries and concocts projects that could transport me to the nineteenth century.
Intervention struggles for release on the tip of my tongue.
It’s the morning after and as I plod down the stairs, I am greeted by a mess that the cleanup crew in the Gulf would shake their head over.
I had no choice but to make blueberry smoothies, with skim milk of course. Somebody help me before I drown in my kitchen sink. At the end of my life, I don’t want to learn that I’ve spent ten years, and not a moment less, doing dishes!
It’s not that I lack a great respect and admiration for the likes of Betty Crocker, Martha Stewart, and June Cleaver, but I don’t wear an apron. I don’t even have a clean oven!
Thankfully the rest of the berries are sleeping happily in my freezer and waiting for the next time my hormones go haywire. Right now I’m sitting scared to death of apple picking season.
I’m not even bored. Really. Imagine if I were?
I don’t want to make you feel less than June Cleaver with this post. The truth is my jam is a bit runny, the pie (made with refrigerated crust) must scooped with a spoon, and the smoothies…well, those I can’t complain about. I am getting better than my first pie. You can read my early cooking confessions HERE.
Did I mention that it’s been 90 degrees in my kitchen and there’s no AC? Yes, come help me please. Drag me out of the house!!!
Do you realize what you’re seeing?
In this photograph I’ve managed to capture the image of a dirty footprint ON MY COUNTER!
Imagine me yelling the last part of that sentence.
My dilemma – Do I wash the child first or the counter first? Or perhaps the floor??
I need a maid!
Today I’m writing about marriage over at Adding Zest to Your Nest. It’s shocking, I know. This is my third time writing for them and I’m still scratching my head. I can sum up each blog post I’ve written in one word, ‘STRESS‘. I think I was given truth serum as a child, because I feel the burden of honesty. Walking the talk can be a tough job sometimes.
If you’d like to come visit me today at Adding Zest to Your Nest, click HERE.
FYI – It’s a girls site. I just felt the need to warn you three men. You can thank me later.
The other day I found a freshly painted green patch floating in a wall of brick. Thankfully I had my camera.
Green is good.
I’m not sure, but I think he’s waiting for run-off from the gutter. No, I did not teach him to do that.
Here’s my bounty from this weekend’s trip to the Farmer’s Market. You must understand there’s not much to harvest yet. Things are still growing in this here part of the world.
The cilantro may look a little wilted, but that’s what 90 degree temperatures do to us Northerners; however, the cilantro was amazing mixed in ground chicken and eaten in tacos. Now I need to figure out what to do with the rest.
The honey is raw and very local. One jar is fall honey and one jar is spring honey. Can you guess which is which?
I also bought rhubarb. It was a bleeding heart purchase. The young woman selling it was trying to save her grandparents farm before they died. How could I not buy rhubarb and some onions? If I had the money, I would have bought her the farm! Now what do I do with the rhubarb? I haven’t a clue!!!
Last, but not least are my Hens and Chickens. That’s what the little plant is called, because it is very prolific and will have a bunch of little baby plants under the big one in no time at all. I like them, because they remind me of the old lady that lived down the road from me in Maine. Once she brought me a whole garden full and in two years time, I had more babies than I could manage.
So that’s my bounty. I’m all ears if you have rhubarb advice.
Happy Birthday FringeMan!
I tried to bake you a cake big enough for me to jump out of, but I ran out of baking powder.
There’s always next year. 😉