I noticed the place where I sit on the couch each night is getting very worn, so I thought why not switch ends?  Instead of sitting on the right-hand side of the couch, I moved over to the left, where the dogs hang out.  I guess I didn’t think that through well enough because both dogs are completely perplexed and unable to navigate the new system.

I put their stool on the opposite end, and so nothing is really all that different, except the orientation.  So even though Louie could use the stool to get up onto the couch when his spot was on the left, now that I switched, he’s unable to use it.  It’s quite upsetting to see how very rigid these little dogs are.

But then they say dogs resemble their owners, right?  I dislike change intensely, so why I blame the dogs for their zealous adherence to their habits I don’t know.  I guess it’s a bit insulting to have one’s weaknesses mirrored back at them like that.  At this point it’s a battle of wills because I’m not sitting on that flattened end of the couch anymore, so we’ll see how long it takes to wear them down.

Everyone who knows me is aware that at 4:00 PM a Caesar is mixed, and sipped with great appreciation.  The dogs know this is when their mom heads toward the television set and couch.  They used to beat me to it, but now they’re wary, looking up at me sitting in their spots and wondering why I’m so mean and confusing.  I can coax Frieda, the no-brained dog, but I have to pick Louie up and put his large grith onto the new spot.

And speaking of small brains, two years ago I thought it’d be fun to get a long white couch.  When no-one’s visiting it’s covered as the animals enjoy using it.  It’s very thin fabric though so the other day when Frieda decided it’d be fun to vomit somewhere, rather than the wood floors she decided the white couch was perfect.

I was doing yoga and heard the retching, but even before I could get the cover off the couch the vomit had soaked through and left a stain.  I’ve worked at it with Folex, a stain remover, and it’s fading, but it’s just so mysterious that of all places in the house where an animal wants to puke, it must be on the white couch.

I’ve made no resolutions as I won’t keep them so why do it?  Just last night I ate an entire fruitcake and had I made the mistake of swearing off poisonous foods, I’d be all disappointed today, and guess what, I’m not.  I’m happy as a clam knowing I didn’t let myself down.

I’ve cut down on thrift store visits though as we all know there’s a fine line between collecting and hoarding.  If I must go, and some days I simply have to as it’s a great endorphin booster, I try to stick to books.  The other day I read an excellent tale of deep sea diving, called Deep Dive, that was comparable to other favourites such as Into Thin Air and A Perfect Storm.

And as we begin 2023 perhaps one thing I could wish for is less rigidity from the animals and myself.  I’ve even conditioned the chickens with my adherence to routines so that they’re already looking over at the house at dusk, going where in the hell is that woman with our special snacks.  Probably not going to happen is it?

All things considered 2022 turned out not too badly.  Healthwise the only major concern has been an annoying plugged salivary gland, which I’m growing very tired of, and will be agitating to have the teensy little calcium stone, which I can see when I turn my cheek inside out, removed.  So small yet so disruptive.

However if that’s it, then that’s pretty good.  I’m now dealing with George and Iris, the tuxedo cats, who’ve discovered Calvin has a kitten in the basement.  The other day Calvin let Felix play on the stairs and Iris was just sitting and looking at him, no hissing or growling.  I said to Calvin wow, that’s quite a surprise that these insane cats are taking a cat in their home so well.

Then the other night as I was getting ready for bed I walked past the dining room table, and noticed what I thought was a brown leaf, and when I looked, it was a three-inch cat turd.  I gather the cats aren’t nearly as accepting of that kitten which makes a lot more sense given their natures.

I thought this was brilliant as I planned almost daily social events.  I figured if I clean the heck out of the house, then every day when someone’s coming, it’s just a touch-up and not a major cleaning.  When you have two long-haired dachshunds, which perform like mops, binging whatever is outside, inside, and two cats, the house is dirty.

I began with lunch for Joan, the Reiki Master, followed the next day by lunch for Elsa after a morning of our favourite thrift store shopping.  Then on Saturday Luke and Jan arrived for their annual Christmas party and we invited a wide variety of people.  The Taylors came, which means people from age almost two, to seventy-five.  In between were Ashley and James, along with other young friends of Luke’s and Calvin’s.

Jan invited some Thais, and Elsa, who’s Mexican, came, too.  So we tried to cover all age ranges and nationalities as best we could.  I made a pot of curried chili, chicken thighs and rice, followed by Christmas cookies.  Calvin made his famous whiskey punch.  For safety I needed two Advil and two Gravol during the night, then woke up fine on Sunday.

That was a good thing as Marie came for a nice Christmas lunch that day, and last night I had the Crones for a Happy Hour which included celebrating Donna’s 88th birthday.  I handed Calvin a nice large plate of leftover food followed by a wedge of the banana cake I’d made.  Being a 24-year-old student, he works for food.

And today he’ll be working hard as we’re in a blizzard with minus 18 degree temperatures, so Calvin has to shovel.  I’ll do the top area, but he has to do the long driveway.  But with the snow pounding down it all seems pointless and wouldn’t you know it I’m down to one can of cat food, and that can mean trouble.

I read that slow blinking at cats increases bonding, and sure enough I’ve experimented and George is especially receptive to it.  I just have to be careful I don’t get into some slow-blink habit as that’d be a difficult one to explain.  Are you okay?  Yeah, I’m fine, just trying to get my cats to be more friendly.  Probably too late to save the house from the damage that’ll come when they run out of food, but at least I tried.

Imagine my shock and horror to realize I haven’t written a blog in almost a month, and for no good reason other than I seem to have lost track of time.  The cursed life of the retired person.  We have all the time in the world to do whatever we please, but we decide to waste it and do nothing but look at You Tube videos.  Notice I’m dragging every single retired Boomer into this.

I do have some productive days, such as last week when I took my chiropractor’s sister-in-law thrift store shopping for four hours.  I’ve never shopped that long in those stores before, so it was quite the marathon.  It’s funny because Shelley said she needed to buy clothes, and I certainly didn’t, so guess who came home with three tops and who came home with nine.

Those damned Mennonites had all tops at 50% off so I blame them.  When a Tommy Hilfiger sweater is $4.00 I have to purchase it.  But then when I get home and look at the masses of clothes that I already own I like it quite a bit less.  Obviously buying cheap items whether one needs them or not is some type of mental illness.

And then my time is taken up with cooking for mom which involves shopping, cooking, cleaning and packaging.  Mom currently has a terrible bum leg that’s causing all sorts of agony so I’ll be going in between my usual visits to see if I can help in some way.  I can see that being 97 has its challenges.

Mom loses track of time, too, so when I go to town and return that can be enough time for her to assume I’ve been killed.  Last time I was there I arrived home after a 15-minute visit to town with mom saying she was mentally arranging the funeral and then wondered if my will is in order.  This type of questioning makes me nearly crazy, so I just replied that there’s nothing about my will she needs to worry herself about.

Because Christmas and its attendant tasks can sap any time one may have, I’ve made a master list of cookies, who is getting them, when they must be baked, and by when they’re going into the mail or out for personal delivery.  I plan on making six different kinds so you can see an Excel spreadsheet is probably in order here.

The other day I was in the basement getting mom’s cooler of food ready to take to Osoyoos when George the cat threw something at my head which caused me to scream.  Anyone who’s heard it knows my scream can break glass, but because of his penchant for rodents and because the object was small and gray, I thought he’d thrown a mouse at my head.

Calvin heard the scream (the neighbours probably did too) and opened his door to see if I was hurt, and I explained the situation. As I did I saw a bunch of feathers so realized it was a bird.  We looked all over and finally Calvin spotted it sitting in the window, so he grabbed a towel and took it outside where he reported at first it just laid there, feeling sure its life was over, and then suddenly took flight.

With this cold weather, besides You Tube I like to waste time with shows on Netflix such as Dead to Me, and on CBC Gem I like The Great Canadian Baking Show.  Cry me a river, Millennials, someday you’ll be old, retired people, too.

Louie had a ball the other day as he chased and bit into the rear tail feathers of a couple of the chickens as they’d gotten out of their enclosure.  Then I noticed one was missing, and it turned out it was grabbed by a predator as there was a trail of feathers over the fence into the neighbour’s large field.

During the chicken-biting melee Louie didn’t listen as I screamed at him to stop attacking, so I had to physically remove him from the hen and carry him into the house, his mouth filled with fluffy white feathers.  The chickens weren’t hurt, aside from the one that was eaten, so now we’re down to six.  Kate and Brave Chicken, my favourite chickens, were luckily not deceased.

But now the hens are cooped up because the heavy snow collapsed their flimsy little chicken wire fence and so they could easily walk over it and escape.  Fun for Louie, but not for them, so they have to stay inside.  It’s warm, and there’s a light on for twelve hours, plus the other day I bought a mirror as I read chickens like them for some reason.

I updated the profile bio on my Facebook page to “A retired old broad who owns cats, dogs and chickens.”  I thought that pretty much sums it up, and I also noticed a section on hobbies, and couldn’t find a way to type in the word thrifting, so picked eating.  Because really, that’s totally a very strong hobby.

As an example, this morning I began the day with eight pieces of bacon and a thick slice of bread made into delicious French toast, all drenched in maple syrup.  Like the chickens we’re all cooped up in this part of the world as it’s cold (minus three today) and dreary so what better thing to do than shovel in a bunch of food?

Margaret visited for three days, and we practiced extreme eating then, too.  The weather was still warm and sunny, so not sure what possible excuse there could be, other than I love to cook.  On the first night I made panko-breaded chicken strips, followed by boeuf bourguignon, and finally wild-caught shrimp in a cream sauce on spaghetti for the final evening.  I’d made iced brownies for our dessert.

Further participation in my hobby included lunch at a restaurant with my pal Sharon, and I always order fries when I’m out, Marilyn and family were here for lunch which included a spinach quiche and fried potatoes, lunch with Ralph at Milestones (more fries) and a Happy Hour at the Eldorado with the Crones two days ago.

And guess what?  I’ve now gained at least eight pounds since summer.  It’d be crazy not to but like a lotto ticket buyer, I have hope.  I think oh please God let me stand on the scale and let it not scare the bejesus out of me when I look down, then GAAAH!  Kind of the worst time of year to be increasing in girth when every part of Superstore is now crammed with Christmas goodies.

Margaret and I are off to Mexico again in February so I’m going to have to hope that’s enough incentive to lose the fat prior to putting on a bathing suit.  But for a procrastinator with eating as a hobby when it’s just November, and when February is so very far away, I’m going to have to keep you posted on this project. Why I bought frozen yogurt bars today I do not know.

I was so thankful the dogs decided to give up on hunting the chickens. Once Calvin had the chicken wire stapled to the ground the dogs realized there was no way to get to them.  Now the chickens and dogs hang around together quietly just inches apart, separated by the chicken fencing.

The other day Louie was standing there minding his own business, but very close to the fence, so one of the hens came over, looked at him, and pecked his nose through the wire.  Louie recoiled, but said nothing, and just had a disappointed look on his face, albeit a look that said “I won’t forget this.”  I told him to just get away from the chickens, as obviously they don’t like him.

Frieda was also pecked, but she took it poorly, first yelping and then running away.  The hens are getting quite feisty, and I guess they don’t want little dogs within inches of them.  The other night one was outside the fence again, and I know if dog and chicken meet minus a fence between them, a melee is gonna ensue.

The cats are keeping busy killing as many mice and rats as they can.  I stepped into cold rat guts the other night as I made my way to the bathroom.  Then to add insult to injury I had a small mouse head balled up in the bed.  That was likely found by Frieda and brought in as a snack but then forgotten or lost.

I’m making human snacks due to the large amount of green tomatoes I have left in the garden.  I made green tomato chutney and two kinds of salsa, one cooked and the other with raw ingredients.  Not sure if any will ever be eaten, and in a couple of years I’ll be hauling these jars out from the back of the fridge wondering whatever they could be.

Today I experimented with fermented carrot juice.  I used to be nuts about it and when I worked downtown I’d go to a health food store and buy it there.  I juiced a whole lot of carrots, then added salt, and it says to leave at room temperature for ten days.  I’ll let you know if it works.

Mom swears by fermented foods and eats dozens of jars of sauerkraut and red cabbage every month.  I certainly don’t want to make it to 97, and I don’t eat either of those two foods so I’m likely safe there, though God knows what the carrot juice’ll do for longevity.  Pretty sure the tequila balances that out.

Other bad foods I’ve made include fig jam.  I had a lot of figs this year, and at the very end I thought they were pretty tasteless due to the lack of heat, and so made jam.  But then the jam ended up rather tasteless, so that was stupid.

I’d bought a horse radish root in the spring, so I guess that should be harvested.  I also have a mighty big crop of hardy kiwis and other than making jam with them, I don’t know that anyone would like them.  I guess I could freeze them but then what?  Both the fridge and freezer will be cluttered with jars of questionable food items.

Still waiting for eggs, but if the chickens attack I won’t be able to collect them, Calvin’ll have to do it.  He said he’s never in his life been pecked by a chicken, so we’ll see if perhaps I accidentally adopted vicious hens.

Calvin thought we were doing well enough with our four chickens to warrant a couple more, as he said our flock was awfully small.  So I emailed the guy I’d bought them from and he said he had three left, so would I take all of them given he didn’t want to end up with one chicken.  I said sure, and as Calvin was off helping his mom at the ranch I drove over with the dog kennel and he stuck them inside.

I brought them into the coop and opened the door as they were just sitting there, quietly, and let them make their way out in their own time.  Their former home was flat, however our coop has a ramp so it took them a couple of hours to venture down it, but once they had they joined the other four pecking around the yard.

Carl the handyman had warned me dawn and dusk is when marauders such as raccoons will try to beat up chickens, and so I’m vigilant with getting the hens inside and the coop hatch closed.  So on the new chickens’ first night in the coop I went out expecting them to have joined the other four as it was getting dark, however my four were in, and the three new ones were hanging around in their yard.

I thought what the hell am I gonna do as I’ve never wrangled a chicken before, so I thought maybe luring them with food with work.  I went into the coop and threw down some special chicken feed and of course my four pounced right on it, but the other three remained out, looking in at me.

I left the coop and stood staring at the chickens.  I thought well, maybe they’ll hunker down under the coop and be fine.  However I knew any predator would easily be able to attack them there, so had to figure out a way to get those hens in.

Oh crap.  There’s no gate to the fenced chicken yard so I had to straddle the chain link and then woof! a heavy landing going downhill on the other side.  By now I was sweating from the effort of getting over the fence, it was getting darker by the minute and I thought I have got to get these chickens into the coop.

By now anger was helping a lot, and so I decided I had to run down the chicken closest to the ramp, caught it, it squawked like mad, but didn’t peck, and I was able to throw it into the open doorway.  I managed to run down the other two and one by one grabbed them and threw them into the coop, sweating mightily.

Another skill to add the list perhaps?  This to add to the several culinary successes I had over the past couple of weeks.  A fab spinach quiche and prune tart for Patricia, successful chicken with thyme and honey for the Crones, four different baked goods for the former gym coffee group, and finally chicken salad for Elsa and lettuce chicken wraps for Marie.

When the Crones were here a stink bug flew into the bowl of tomato salad, which were chopped with onion and oil and vinegar.  I managed to fish it out, but it fell off my fork, whereby it fell right into Frieda’s mouth as she thought it was food.  And it kind of was as it was stink bug marinated in oil and vinegar.  She seemed fine with it though three days later had a bout of terrible diarrhea but with her it could be the glutinous amounts of cat feces she wolfs from the pile of dirt I keep for gardening.

I watched all 120 episodes of the Great British Baking Show, and have been trying my hand at some new baking, but often fall back on the old tried and true.  So when Penny and Jim, as well as John and Katrina were coming for dinner, I thought I’d better play it safe and make Pavlovas.

You know Pavlovas?  Just a fancy name for meringues filled with something like fruit compote and whipped cream.  When I made them for James and Julie in the spring I added a lovely crème patisserie, but this time I thought I’d better not fool around given I also had chicken Marbella and other things to make.

I’ve never had any problems making meringues, yet some instinct told me to make them the day prior, just in case.  Good thing as they came out of the oven mostly raw and sticky and so I had no choice but to throw them out and start again, which I did the morning of the dinner party.

They turned out beautifully, and as I needed counter space I decided to leave them in the oven until after dinner when I’d add the peach compote and whip.  The guests arrived and due to a recent shop-out at Costco with Elsa, I had a nice box of spring rolls which I thought would make a decent appetizer while we waited for the chicken.

I have an open kitchen dining living room so could chat with the assembled while going to the oven to preheat it for the spring rolls.  I sat down and about twenty minutes in, in mid-sentence I screamed Oh my God! and ran to the oven to remove the caramelized meringues.  Damn it!  That’s never happened to me before, so it was quite disturbing.

But you know how annoyingly loyal old friends are, and they insisted, no no, these are perfectly fine!  I had two bites and said no thanks, and Katrina has the good luck of being a Type2 diabetic so said she wasn’t able to eat that much sugar and just had the whipping cream off the top.

I went to Osoyoos to hang around with old friends Bernard and Michael who were visiting from Victoria.  On my way to mom’s I always stop at Luke’s first and drop stuff off for Jan as she adores things I buy for her like pickled herring or white chocolate with nuts.  At this time of year she adores getting all of the local produce and I had a lot of garlic, crab apples and plums to drop off.

She had about 40 tidy little baggies sitting on a cookie sheet on the counter with a pinkish substance inside, so I said what’s that, Jan, and she replied “Pork.”  She explained it has to go out into the sun and after several days it’s “sour” and then ready to eat.  She said “you want to try some, mom?”  I demurred as I don’t like the idea of raw pork left in the sun until sour.  Probably just me though, right?

But you know what they say, one man’s feast is another man’s poison.  George the male cat is a real scrapper and spends summers covered in scabs from war wounds from other cats.  That’s Frieda’s cue to get busy and nibble each and every scab off the cat, while he lies there purring, thanking the dog for the service.  Not my idea of food, but there’s no stopping some people or animals.

Most people strive for inner peace and find ways to bring less stress into their lives to achieve this.  For some reason, I cast about for ways in which to drive myself crazy with anxiety.  I must’ve needed to age several years as why else would I purchase four beautiful white chickens which now cause sleepless nights of worry?

I’ve never really looked at a chicken before but now that I own four of them, I think they’re extraordinary and lovely.  That’s a bummer as I’ve already messaged a chicken farmer down the road who said owls, hawks, raccoons and bobcats have all killed countless numbers of her birds, and she’s had to electrify both the top and bottom of her fence.

We can only try, I suppose.  You’ll recall the situation several years ago when I tried beekeeping.  After purchasing the hives, frames, smoker, bee suit, hot knife, honey spinner, and the bees themselves, a bear came along and knocked down the hive and ate the bees and honey and came back the following spring to see if there was more to be had so I had to pack in beekeeping.

Because I’m scared of chickens and hoping through experience this will pass as I felt the same way about the bees and got over that, I had Calvin drive us to Glenmore to pick them up.  The farmer was super nice, as was his small son and their beautiful basset hound dachshund-mix female dog.  We popped the hens into a dog kennel and put them on the back seat and drove home.

The coop is lovely.  Filled with straw, a ladder for them to roost on, nesting boxes, water, food, and a motion-sensitive light outside, we said night night to the hens.  I then spent the night wondering if they were too hot, or too cold, or if perhaps a raccoon was tearing at the screen and if we should have a sturdier covering for that window.  You know, the relaxed rural lifestyle we all crave.

And here’s more fun.  The dogs are hounds so they’ve hunted quails, squirrels and other rodents, and these menaces are going to discover four white birds living in a fenced area of the yard.  Though the dogs never go into this area, now fenced they want in in the worst way.

Calvin is so adorable as he’s used to large dogs on his parents’ farm which were shown the chickens and learned not to touch them.  He said once the dogs know those are their chickens they’ll be fine, and I said I doubt that very, very much.  Most big dogs are trained to listen given they’re size and all, but these two little hounds won’t do the most basic things so to stop them from biting a chicken seems impossible.  To be continued.

I remember telling people about the beekeeping and a common response was “oh did you take that course at the college on beekeeping?” to which I would reply in the negative.  Usually with a “Heavens, no!” And now when I tell people about the chickens, with wrinkled brow they’ll ask a similar question and I reply “piffle.” How hard can this be??

Now we wait to see if these young hens will start to lay, and then the real fun begins.

Years ago I contacted the City to ask about zoning re: chickens, and I got the official reply that I’m zoned for up to ten chickens or ten rabbits.  Why would I want rabbits?  But then whenever I’d think about getting chickens I’d chicken-out because it all seemed so daunting.  Just like with beekeeping, where I started out knowing nothing and being scared crapless of them, I know nothing about chickens and fear them, too.

Enter Calvin the Millennial Basement Tenant.  It turns out he’s an expert in chickens as he grew up on a farm and he tended to them.  He was very keen on the whole idea, so I thought wow I’d be stupid not to strike while I have him here to help.  Though when I said to Luke I wonder how long Calvin’s going to live here, he said “oh, he’s a millennial so probably about 20 years.”

My friend Scott came over and as usual when you have someone look with a fresh eye it can really help.  I had wanted to convert the old playhouse into a coop, but then he looked at the solid little shed at the top of my driveway and said why not just use that?  It’s already nicely made, and I did just have it re-roofed last year by Carl and all I do is store junk in there.

So now Calvin’s going to convert that shed, and he’s insulating it right now and has bought some wire for a fence to prevent the dogs from menacing the chickens.  I worry about George the cat who’s brought a Stellar’s Jay into the house before, so he could have the strength to beat up a chicken.

I wanted to get those adorable black and white striped hens, however couldn’t find any available so have bought four white chickens which I believe are sussex.  The standard red/orange ones are leghorns.  I told the nice man I bought them from I’ll get them at Labour Day and that gives us lots of time to do the shed.  Notice the word ‘us’ which always means only Calvin.

“We” also need to paint the shed, and will do it like a mini barn, red and white.  I’ll then have to make a nice sign for the door with these dear birds’ names on them: Kate, Megan, Charlotte and Lily.  They’re to be treated like royalty, at least until the first bobcat or racoon gets peckish.

The chickens have made me think of the bees, so I went onto Okanagan Beekeeping’s website and see the prices are now $275 for a queen and her brood.  It used to be $175 but then everything’s gone up.  I’ll have to order this fall and then pick them up in the spring.  Calvin said chickens can be brought home on the back seat in a cardboard box which sounds somewhat more relaxing than driving the bees home in the trunk.  I make it a quick drive from the bee place to here.

I’ll be ready for the end of the world: eggs, honey, vegetables, a bit of fruit.  The well.  I guess by now you think I’m some kind of a crazy survivalist, but I’m not, I’m just nutty.

Which could be a hereditary trait as my nearly blind 97-year-old mom phoned the other day to say she really didn’t like the old stereo in the living room, and when I come we have to look at that corner and try to think of what piece of furniture to buy.  Most people at that age are in their dotage, but nah-ah, not mom.  She’s a good example of continuing to do things in the face of others going, are you nuts?

After all the tick nonsense, the blood test for Lyme disease came back negative, as did the tick, and so it’s quite likely there’s absolutely nothing wrong with me.  I have the nice new doctor, and she also sent me for routine blood tests, the results of which we discussed by phone.  She said my white and red blood platelet count was good, iron and B 12 levels are okay, very low cholesterol, no sign of diabetes, good kidney and liver function, so she said to continue doing whatever I’m doing.

You know what a mistake that is, don’t you?  We had the phone appointment a few days ago and I’ve probably gained five pounds with the thought that the doctor TOLD me this is okay to do.  I simply have to stop going through the drive-thru at Dairy Queen for a chocolate-dipped cone.

Genes could have something to do with it, as you’ll recall mom ate a hundred pounds of fruitcake a year while I was in the fruitcake business.  At 97 she’s puttering around her house, watering her plants, eating dozens of Ritter Sport chocolate bars a week, and happily filling in her rest time with CNN and MSNBC, glass of wine in hand.

Calvin went home to his mom’s ranch in Falkland for a week, and while there found a little orange tabby kitten that needed a home so asked me if he could bring him here.  I said sure, but just know George will beat the tar out of that cat if he sees it on his property, but Calvin said he’s going to try to keep Felix as an indoor cat.

I was telling Calvin about my two white cats, Simone and Claudette who I had when I was 20 and had an apartment on Hemlock Street in Vancouver.  It was an ivy-covered old brick building, and those cats would go outside the window and walk along the narrow ledge, even though we were on the second floor. 

Hemlock Street was a feeder onto the Granville Street bridge, so people would barrel past the building at tremendous speeds.  When I first told my dear old gramma my boyfriend gave me two kittens for my birthday her reply in German was “throw them right out the window onto the street.” This is very funny because two years later these cats moved into my gramma and grampa’s house in Osoyoos, and were pampered pets. 

For some reason I treated the cats like dogs so I recall taking them down to Kits beach with my deaf boyfriend Bob and we’d hang out with other deaf people, and must’ve made quite a scene with the two white cats.  They were good cats as they just kind of stayed nearby, but now I imagine them running straight onto a busy road.  As we get older, we get more timid.

And more lazy, as I just called Gilles the nice gardener to come and prune a bunch of stuff for me.  In this heat I can haul the hoses around and water, but that’s my limit.  The tomatoes, cucumbers and yellow zucchini are all starting to produce, I have a lot of figs but not sure if they’ll ripen in time, and a bumper crop of hardy kiwi.

I’ve pitted a few pounds of cherries, cooked them, then added Kirsch brandy so that I can make Black Forest cake.  I’m determined to conquer the Genoise sponge.  More health food, perhaps?