To The Dump, To The Dump

Yesterday I hung out all day with the STP.  We worked together on two projects. And he took me out. 
To the dump.  One of our projects was the rock border along the sidewalk.  We put in about 65 ft. of edging and dug out an equivalent amount of dirt.  We loaded the dirt in the wheelbarrow, and then into the truck, and then we hauled it to the dump and unloaded it.  At the dump.  I didn't even know such a place existed.  It is like a dumpster on steroids.  (This summer we dumpster-dived some wood, two saw horses, and legs for a camping/potting table.)  On our first trip to the dump I brought back some grass clippings to add to my compost.  On our second trip to the dump I dump-dived some animal hair for my fly-tying supply box.  I spied a pile of bricks at the dump, but they were behind a fence, and the STP is a stickler about Keep Out signs.
The edging is all in and now we just need to haul more rocks.  From out by the beet dump.  (Which is NOT a place to dump rotten beets, but a place to gather beets together after harvesting before they are hauled for processing.) Good thing the STP has a truck.  (I am going to learn to drive it right after we have all the rocks hauled.)
After supper, the STP and I watched a Tom Hanks movie together.  There's nobody I'd rather spend the day with.  (And of course, I'm talking about the STP, not Tom Hanks.)

Aaargh! Not Doing Anything

But if I looked this good in leggings, I would definately wear them.

Final Arrangements

The STP and I have a deal.  Whichever one of us dies first does not have to do any funeral planning.  The one who remains gets to do whatever they choose as far as 'final arrangements' are concerned.  When we were in PA we visited the STP's mom's final resting place.  It is in an old cemetery where her parents are buried.  It is a cemetery worthy of an opening movie scene. 

I told the STP that if his mom were alive she would love being buried there.  He knew what I meant.  (My mother-in-law, however, was probably looking down from heaven and thinking, "I never did think she was right for him.")  

I hope I go first, but just in case, I have been thinking of what to do with what is left of the STP.  I've ruled out storing his body in the freezer or leaving him on the couch.  I asked my favorite WY retired law enforcement officer if it is true that you can just bury someone in your backyard in WY.  And he said, "Oh no, you can't just bury someone in your backyard.  You have to get a permit first."  Glad I cleared that up. 

The STP and I gathered a few ideas this Spring from a local cemetery. 

The STP favored something with skulls and horns.

I leaned more toward crosses and antler art.

Although boots as flower vases and a little sagebrush held a certain appeal as well.

We both agreed that "TO ED, ONE TOUGH S.O.B." was not our idea of a fitting epitaph, but remember that the first one to go has no say in what goes on the grave marker.

But if I go first and if you're going to go with a poem, I would like to suggest that you read it aloud all the way through so you're sure it actually rhymes. 

Because I would hate for you to stand at my grave and laugh.  Although it would make a good closing movie scene. 

I Got Nothin'

Me:  I'm growing a third pumpkin.
STP:  (Silence)
Once again, I leave him speechless.

The Dog Ate My Homework

The Goob started High School this week.  How is this possible?  Oh, I know.  He has had a great support system.  A dad to remind him of 'the rules' as he drops him off at school each morning.  A mom who makes sure there is food in the house so he never has to buy a school lunch.  And a dog to eat do his homework. 

In other Goob News:  He got his braces on earlier this month.  It was pretty much a non-event. (Which is really a big deal if you recall the ordeal that it has been getting to this point in our orthodontial journey.)

And in a stunning election upset, he is the freshman class treasurer.  So I guess he won't be dropping out after eighth grade after all.  

I Am The Clay

The potter likes clay in its basest form. He doesn't abhor it because it can't figure out how to break out of its lumpiness on its own. He doesn't look at the clay and think, For goodness' sake, why can't you pull yourself together and make something of yourself?
The potter looks at the clay and sees possibilities.... The potter really, really loves clay.

From the book All I Need Is Jesus And A Good Pair Of Jeans

What To Do WIth A Large Cucumber

Saturday the STP and I picked up our basket from the bountiful basket co-op.  I love this plan and I'm excited to be part of a food co-op.  I was so excited I forgot to take my reusable bags to empty my bountiful baskets into.  Fortunately, the STP found a cardboard box to re-use to bring our bounty home.  Next time I will take my blue bags.  (Someday I will confess that I may have your blue bags as well.)  Part of today's bounty was two burpless cucumbers, each about two feet long.  So in the interest of my readers who also food co-op members, I am offering this recipe for

Marinated Cucumbers

1 large cucumber
1 t. salt
3 T. sugar
1/3 c. vinegar
1/2 t. celery seed
several thin slices of onion

(I realize this recipe has more than three ingredients and does not involve a can opener, but do not panic.  You can do this.)
Slice cucumber paper thin.  (If you sold your salad shooter at a yard sale, you can use a potato peeler.)
Sprinkle with salt and sugar;  add vinegar and celery seed.  Mix thoroughly;  fold in onions. 
Mix all ingredients.  (I edited the instructions down to three steps for you.) 
Chill until ready to serve.

May I suggest you use this table blessing when you serve this?: 
Bless us, O Lord, and these Thy gifts, which we are about to receive from Your bounty through Christ our Lord.  Amen.
Because bounty is just a good word and it's important to remind ourselves where it comes from.

Life's the Pits

Because all the cherries are eaten, but I don't want to forget this great idea, I am posting this here.  (Even if youtube goes belly-up by next August, I will remember that I want to make a cherry pitter from a fork and that I want to buy the fork at a yardsale.) 
Okay, I wanted to link to the homemade cherry pitter, but instead, when I tested the link, this great idea turned out to be how to cook elk steaks on an open pit fire.  As this may also prove useful, I decided to leave it.   
The homemade cherry pitter link "appears to be broken".  Or maybe, Ooops!, I just can't figure it out.
Open Pits, Cherry Pits.
Note to Self:  Next July ask Pam if she remembers how to make a cherry pitter from a fork.  And invite her over for grilled elk steak.  Serve the cherries with stems in little cups.

SFG First Fruits--A Pictorial

Remember when we divided the garden into 16 squares?

And we carefully selected and planted the crops?

And we watered them from the rain barrel?

And we went away for a week and the garden still grew?

Until it became the amazing source of food and wonder that it is today.

Even the SLD sits in awe.  Here then is a dog's eye view:

of the sweet peppers,

and the hot peppers,

and the marigolds,

and the pumpkins (which, yes, are growing on the neighbor's side of the fence),

and the carrots,

and the onions (both of them) which, okay, may be less than awe-inspiring.

The cherry tomatoes, however, are so glorious that they deserve their own post. 

Be The Cart

I have a dozen things to blog about, but I have been spending my computer time online shopping.  I actually filled my shopping cart twice this week and then checked out.  First I did the Goob's back to school shopping.  The Goob is easy to shop for.  He wears 'whatever is on top'.  He has no desire to try things on.  He never feels the need to see how he looks in a mirror.  So I just plug in tall and skinny jeans and buy whatever is available.  Free shipping at JCPenney.  I am expecting them any day.  School starts next week.  The Goob will probably have something to wear. 
I also bought a gift online.  And had it gift wrapped.  And had it shipped to the recipient.  I qualified for free shipping, but after I checked out they told me the expected shipping date would be two days after the event. And it graciously gave me a chance to edit my order.  So I decided to change the shipping to Two Day and just see how much that would cost.  And it would cost way more than having a gift arrive on time was worth to me.  But once I clicked Two Day shipping there was no backing up my shopping cart.  My shopping cart was just sucked full speed ahead into the part of cyberspace from which there is evidently no return.  While I was still frantically crying, "No, No!" and hitting 'back' and 'escape',  my shopping cart had already sent me an e-mail thanking me for my order and coldly informing me that my order was being prepared for shipping and could not be changed. 
When I returned to my account and clicked on my shopping cart here is what it had to say:

Your Shopping Cart is empty.

Your Shopping Cart lives to serve.

Really?  Lives to serve?  The irony here is that when you ask me to do something that makes me feel put upon, I speak my native language (sarcasm) and respond, "Of course I will do that for you because I live to serve."   
Just a reminder to myself that it is one thing to claim to live to serve, and another to actually live to serve.  I'll keep working on this one. 

An Early Fall?

It was 93 degrees today.  And inexplicably I had the urge to cook things.  I mean to say I peeled potatoes.  I picked fresh lettuce from the SFG and wilted it.  With bacon dressing.  I baked a loaf of gluten free sandwich bread.  And a loaf of gluten free fresh cherry quick bread.  What is wrong with me? 
I'm thinking hormones.  Similar to the 'nesting instinct' just before labor, this must have something to do with 'the change'.  If it lasts, the STP will like this new development.  (The onset of hot flashes made us temperature compatable for the first time in our lives.)  
Just for the record:  The cherry bread recipe called for 1 cup of pitted cherries, unpitted.  I consulted dictionary.com. 
Pit being a noun meaning the stone of a fruit, a hollow depression, or the abode of evil spirits and lost souls. 
Pitted being an adjective meaning scarred with pits, or having the pit removed. 
Thus, pitted means either you have pits or you don't have pits.
As all of my fresh cherries had stones in the centers and no marks on their surfaces, I had no pitted cherries available.  What then? Should I take the seeds out and then return them?  Or purchase cherries with a  pox upon them and chop the hell out of them?  What exactly is an unpitted cherry? 
Cooking is hard.  Especially on days when it is too hot to think.

WIldlife at 30,000 Feet

Zoom, zoom.

Where To Go

I think you should just go here and see my family all together.  The first picture is in Maryland and the second one in Brooklyn.  Because I really got around last weekend.  And October can't come fast enough.

Diverted and Refueled

I love flying.  I don't do it often enough for the wonder of moving really fast sky high has worn off.  So two Fridays ago I was flying from Denver to NYC.  Even though I had a wonderful window seat, I determined that I was NOT going to take a million pictures out the window.  I did really well until we got to New York,  and we had to circle above the city.  And then the sun started to set.

This was the ultimate in picture taking opportunities for me.  Pictures of a sunset... in the middle of the clouds... out the window... of a fast moving vehicle. 

So I shot about 50 pictures before we landed.  In my defense, it took us awhile to land because there was a hugh thunderstorm below us in NYC. 

Finally we were diverted north and then south and then we landed...in Philadelphia...and refueled.  And then we flew back to NYC and landed again--post-storm.
And it made me wonder how many times in my life God has diverted and refueled me while I was blissfully unaware of the storm raging so close at hand. 
And if I was whining about the delay and having to change my plans while the sun was setting in front of my eyes.