The days can surprise us. And they do surprise us. You think: storms and rain. You get: partly cloudy skies and lovely, warm temperatures. A high of 82F (nearly 28C)!
Ed says -- close the windows! Let's keep it cool inside!
We've barely kept the furnace from coming on and already he wants to keep the heat out? What is with people and temperature control?!
Don't you ever believe in fresh air?
It's nice to come back to a cool house.
I should be more empathetic. He has been working solo on finishing up the tomato planting. This, after baking a batch of cookies. He is hot. Me, I've been house cleaning and lawn mowing (more accurately -- mowing a path through the tall grasses). And I love this late spring air!
(Morning stroll to get the animals to their feeding stations...)
I open the windows surreptitiously. I have enough Polishness in me to understand that fresh air in the house is the best way to chase away winter horrors out of your home.
Breakfast on the porch of course. We talk about butter.
Ed had been meaning to bake cookies yesterday. He had left out a stick of butter. He did not bake yesterday and in the middle of the night, I reminded him of the butter. I said -- don't use it if it's rancid.
Hours of internet research followed. Turns out, of course, that butter does well outside of your fridge, especially if it's covered. For several days, in fact. There is no health concern. And there is a wealth of information about how you can improve the taste of butter by "aging" it in this way. Ed is always eager to share any wealth of information on a topic where I have taken a conservative (freshness wise) stance. And so we talk about the aging of butter. (To concerned future houseguests: we do not intend to age butter. We speak in hypotheticals. But did you know, for instance, that properly aged butter tastes like a wonderful combination of parmesan, blue cheese, and baby vomit? It's all a matter of light and oxygen exposure.)
In the evening, the young family is here for dinner. And on a day like this, no one wants to stay inside.
No one.
Dinner on the porch!
It feels like summer today. How quickly we scooted from looking out on a wintry mix, to rolling up the pants and putting away any and all sweaters!
(They both want to watch Ed plant tomatoes late into the evening...)
(A final hug on the picnic bench...)
They leave, I retreat to the farmhouse.
... Always remembering that not everyone had the luck on this day of quiet skies overhead, of good food on the table, of family -- whether close by or far away. Thinking of this, of peaceful farmhouse days and nights, of time, of age, of luck, of love.
Good night all. Sleep well.
Ed says -- close the windows! Let's keep it cool inside!
We've barely kept the furnace from coming on and already he wants to keep the heat out? What is with people and temperature control?!
Don't you ever believe in fresh air?
It's nice to come back to a cool house.
I should be more empathetic. He has been working solo on finishing up the tomato planting. This, after baking a batch of cookies. He is hot. Me, I've been house cleaning and lawn mowing (more accurately -- mowing a path through the tall grasses). And I love this late spring air!
(Morning stroll to get the animals to their feeding stations...)
I open the windows surreptitiously. I have enough Polishness in me to understand that fresh air in the house is the best way to chase away winter horrors out of your home.
Breakfast on the porch of course. We talk about butter.
Ed had been meaning to bake cookies yesterday. He had left out a stick of butter. He did not bake yesterday and in the middle of the night, I reminded him of the butter. I said -- don't use it if it's rancid.
Hours of internet research followed. Turns out, of course, that butter does well outside of your fridge, especially if it's covered. For several days, in fact. There is no health concern. And there is a wealth of information about how you can improve the taste of butter by "aging" it in this way. Ed is always eager to share any wealth of information on a topic where I have taken a conservative (freshness wise) stance. And so we talk about the aging of butter. (To concerned future houseguests: we do not intend to age butter. We speak in hypotheticals. But did you know, for instance, that properly aged butter tastes like a wonderful combination of parmesan, blue cheese, and baby vomit? It's all a matter of light and oxygen exposure.)
In the evening, the young family is here for dinner. And on a day like this, no one wants to stay inside.
No one.
Dinner on the porch!
It feels like summer today. How quickly we scooted from looking out on a wintry mix, to rolling up the pants and putting away any and all sweaters!
(They both want to watch Ed plant tomatoes late into the evening...)
(A final hug on the picnic bench...)
They leave, I retreat to the farmhouse.
... Always remembering that not everyone had the luck on this day of quiet skies overhead, of good food on the table, of family -- whether close by or far away. Thinking of this, of peaceful farmhouse days and nights, of time, of age, of luck, of love.
Good night all. Sleep well.
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