Summer afternoon, the music of a slack-key guitarist named Ledward Ka’apana coming from the red box under the umbrella that protects me from those rays I ignored for most of my life. There are a few yellowjackets buzzing about, but even they seem as driftless as I am, not even bothering to try to fake me out with any of their diving feints. A small breeze barely moves the leaves of the ash trees, and the woody scent from the warming deck boards rises all around us.
Ay ay ay, hell yesterday, heaven today.
The tomatoes are over there against the board fence, gathering their forces. There are only four plants, but hundreds and hundreds of green and reddening fruits. Enough to choke our kitchen when their ripening outpaces our ability to eat them, as it surely will. Today we had a caprese salad, tonight it’s BLTs, tomorrow something Indian out of the instant pot and starring, guess what?
Of course we will share them with others, whether they like tomatoes or not. We may even perform the classic maneuver of bringing basketfuls to their doorsteps under cover of night and leaving them there. It’s the thought that counts, isn’t it?
Fighting the Good Fight Department
The Future of Nonconformity by David Brooks. Mr. Brooks thinks being exposed to different opinions makes Jack less of a dull boy and more of a thoughtful citizen to boot. He also thinks that right now that isn’t happening nearly as often as it should.
Along the way, Brooks mentions a platform called Substack, which was new to me. A place of commerce where writers can go to publish their thoughts and be as independent as they want to be. They make their appeal for the funds they need to feed and clothe themselves directly to their readers. No intermediaries involved.
Today’s title is drawn from one of the more memorable scenes in the movie One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. But then, you knew that, didn’t you?
I found myself laughing silently at myself this morning as I cooked up a bunch of scrambled eggs. This recipe called for a handful of onions, tomatoes, and some feta cheese and as I watched it all come together in the pan I thought: “What this needs is a pinch of cumin and a pinch of chili pepper.”
That’s where the chuckling came in. Because I have those same thoughts repeatedly. As a result, much of my cooking tends toward sameness. No matter what it started out to be, it ends up tasting of cumin and chilis. This approach works pretty well with Mexican foods, but not so well with, let’s say, lutefisk.
Saturday morning after a light rain, for which we are grateful. Even though we wish for something heavy in that department we thank the pluvial powers-that-be for our few drops.
At present Robin and I are injury-free. There have been small mishaps this summer that produced minor injuries that have healed. BTW, a minor injury is defined as something excruciatingly painful that happens to someone else, and from which they will eventually recover completely. (If it happens to you, of course, it is a major injury.)
Both of us have fallen from our bikes, twisted joints, bumped heads, bruised feet. The list goes on. I’ve heard the illnesses encountered by first-rank athletes as a result of their rigorous training described as “diseases of excellence.” In other words, things that happen to gifted people because they are working toward very high goals.
Maybe our efforts don’t quite reach that level, but they were caused by the same thing. The wish to do more than a proper sedentary life would afford. We count ourselves fortunate to be able to be active in some of these things, but in so doing, we sustain these occasional injuries. It’s a package deal, n’est-ce pas?
However, we’ve had to include Band-Aids as a category of its own in the household budget.