|Good morning, forest preserve entrance. I wish I could wake up looking that good.|
But come, let us speak of more important matters. Like cheese.
Much of our week was spent in this fashion, because apparently that's just what we do now:
Then I took a video and laughed at my sick kid who, for four straight days, kept dropping off to sleep within seconds anytime he went horizontal, because I am a compassionate, nurturing, decorous mother. Don't forget to turn the volume up on that video.
Other ways I am a delight to live with:
I eat the edges of any brownie pan, because the edges are the best part: Chewy in the middle, with a nice, crunchy crust on the edge. Perfection. I've thought about getting one of these
but first of all, those pans are expensive, and more importantly, I would no longer be able to blithely say, "I left you a big piece of brownie," to Derek, knowing full well it's only the inferior middle of the dessert. There would be no pieces left to offer Derek with a pan like that. I do not need a dessert enabler like that in our house, however brilliant a concept it may be.
I spent more time in the garden, and emerged with its usual offerings.
Clockwise from the upper left, that's a piece of glass, a rubber tube with very sharp pokey wires inside, a dirty piece of porcelain, a nail, a screw, and a hunk of metal there in the center. All marvelous things to find whilst digging around in the soil with your bare hands. I've heard that in some biker gangs you get a tough nickname; what with all the metal and glass I've encountered, I feel like I've earned the right to the same with my dangerous forays under the surface of our yard. It's, like, extreme gardening. What kind of nicknames would an extreme gardening club/gang even have, though? "Thornbush"? "Poison sumac"? "Spade"?
Tell me now: Are you a pre-packaged shredded cheese sort, or dyed-in-the-wool grater? How do you feel about the geography of a brownie? What would your gardening nickname be?