Saturday, July 25, 2015

Blue peach pie

Replacement floor in the old house for water damage due to power failure

I let this one morning glory vine live. They take over the world given half a chance
Cleome: love their airiness; hate their smell
Back to garage sales to further decorate my rooms. This water color is by a Belgian artist Piet Bekaert entitled Garden for Marcel Proust At first I thought it was an original given its age (1988) but alas, just a print albeit a nicely matted and framed one. If it were an original, I'd be rich, rich, rich. Anyway, it matches my sage and purple room nicely

I had hoped to wake up early Wednesday to go to the Farmer's Market to score some ripe peaches for a peach melba crisp. Didn't happen. Instead, I went to a farm market which hasn't opened yet. So all I had was hard as nails supermarket peaches. Also I forgot to buy raspberries though I have nice Michigan blueberries. And somehow, some of my staples such as oatmeal must have been thrown out rather than be moved here. I did have the ingredients for pie though. I put vodka in the crust so that when it evaporates, the crust is especially flaky. I was momentarily blind to my vodka bottle so I used white rum instead.
So my peach blueberry (bleach? peachberry?) pie wasn't as juicy as I hoped (crust was tasty though) but with vanilla ice cream, it disappeared quickly.
A nice night for sitting outside drinking sangria, eating bbq'ed salmon and various salads. Topics of discussion included how hard it is to get quality care for ageing parents and wild and crazy things some of us did when we were young. One told of hitchhiking in Jamaica as a teenager being rescued at various points. A charmed life.I was a bit more cautious than most of the other Moms. I did hitchhike in New York, the only way to get to Alfred University, where a good friend was going to school, was to hitch the ten mile road from Hornell. I was lucky. I guess technically I hitched a ride when my borrowed bike got a flat out in the desert in San Diego County. A couple picked me up to go to a bike store. Before they did, they insisted on showing me trees that had falling leaves in the fall. As it was November, I was well aware of the concept of falling leaves as our yard was full of maples but I humored them as they were my benefactors.
As I drove home late at night, my brights in several areas outlined deer ready to dart in front of me. The Beatle's White Album was playing. Back in high school, to improve morale, they played Bungolow Bill from the same album. So 7 times a day over the loudspeaker:
Hey, Bungalow Bill
What did you kill, Bungalow Bill?
Hey, Bungalow Bill
What did you kill, Bungalow Bill?
 When the music stopped, we better be in class. And then one day:
Kick out the jams, motherfuckers!!!
 The MC5, a local group, Back to bells after that.


Elephant's Child said...

Morning glory is considered a noxious weed in several states here. Those who plant it can be fined heavily.
I haven't notice the smell of Cleomes. I will have to investigate further.
I hitched rides too. Quite often.

Sue in Italia/In the Land Of Cancer said...

They smell like skunks


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