Garden Hose Glory

I prefer the cold.  I grew up in a place where winters are deep, and wide, and long.  Blizzards blow, and school is canceled amidst swirls of whiteness, fashioned flake by individual flake until the landscape
the houses
the sky itself
is all quieted.

Life slows, and hushes, and pays heed to the landscape's need to sleep.

I don't live in such a place now.  Where I live- where Cabbage Ranch is- there is no quiet snow.  Here, the deepest weather sizzles and snaps, waves up from the pavement in a wiggling mirage.

It is hot.  Ridiculously hot.  I don't glow delicately in the heat. I sweat in rivulets, and my shirt, cap, and even my jeans soak through.  I do not feel pretty...  Definitely. Not Pretty. 

I become convinced we do, in fact, live on the surface of the sun.

But life goes on and we all find some relief, thanks to the often-ignored garden hose.  

Horses love baths when it's hot.

 You're so welcome, Sam.

Hoses are pretty good for Beeps, too.

 

That's pretty good.

Better.

Yesssss!

Here's to garden hoses everywhere.

Basketweave Bacon

I like my brother.  He used to sit on me and hock loogies at me.  It's ok, though; in retrospect I was probably very annoying and might have deserved it.  In any event, his evil treatment of me only deepened my resolve to torment my younger sister and I'm quite sure that was nothing but positive.  She needed it for sure. 

These days, my brother is a nice, responsible person and I'm sure that if he hocks loogies at anyone his wife, my sister-in-law, doesn't know.

These days, my brother also does pretty neat stuff with food.  He likes to grill a lot with man-fire, and he texts my poor husband photos of huge briskets, luscious ribs, beer can chickens, and so on.  Meanwhile, back at Cabbage Ranch, Cabbage is rolling his eyes listening to me insist that tofu really does taste good, as I overcook yet another chicken breast.

Anyhow, my brother and sister-in-law put their creative minds to good use with all their delicious man-food-cooking.

Case-in-point:

It probably goes without saying that Cabbage is halfway to my brother's house by now.

The Triumvirate