The Summer harvest continues. Actually getting to eat your own produce makes all that shit-schlepping and all those blisters totally worthwhile. Not that I don't enjoy shit and blisters, you understand. I garden for the hell of it, but it's such a BLAST when it works and you get this beautiful stuff that tastes.....well, tastes of anything, really. (memo to me: get that chicken coop fenced, Shula, even if you have to sell your body to do it; then you could have EGGS that taste of something, too, imagine that?).
This season's Big Discovery is the Golden Nugget pumpkin. More a sort of punklette, really. I suppose they must be a pumpkin/squash hybrid, they're so little and cute. I can't tell you what they taste like because I can't bring myself to cut one open. Because then it would be gone.
So much for yogic non-attachment.
Pumpkins currently featuring as an offering to the Elephant on the Altar (and yes, I do have an altar and elephants totally dig pumpkin, everybody knows that).
More baking. This dough proved so fast and so violently that it escaped from the fridge and was last seen heading north towards Yarrawonga, no doubt for the exceptionally cheap gin and tonics to be had there.
Disaster followed, the final result being that every bird in my garden is now lurching about like a drunken pirate, a direct consequence of having gorged itself half to death on two loaves of freshly baked.....concrete.
I have NO sympathy for any them.
Speaking of birds, a little one told me that my spinning wheel is returning home after a long sabbatical. I'm excited. I confess, I have been missing her lately. My fingers itch to spin again.
But first, I MUST finish this!
Violin recitals, doctors' surgeries, train stations, this baby has been getting around some.