Okay, the article's done (to the best of my ability) and it's winging off to the editor through the ether right now. I hope it's okay, and he doesn't end up cursing my name and throwing darts at my picture. At least I made the deadline, that should count for something, right?
DS & DIL got to town a bit later than they'd hoped yesterday and came for supper but were determined to unload the U-Haul last night so they could sleep in their own bed. They said it had been down long enough and they were sleeping in an aerobed too long, so they'd sacrifice their comfort and overcame tiredness to drag the bed upstairs and set it up. I drove by their apartment after my walk this morning and there was no movement so I didn't stop. I have to remind myself that they're living here now so I don't have to cram in a lot of visiting in a short time. I did notice that the moving truck had a Montana picture on the side, which surprised me since there seems to be every other state's trucks here instead of a Wisconsin one when I see one of those on the road. DS will be manning the Titletown Brewing booth at the Wednesday afternoon Farmer's Market all season, so stop by.
Durwood entered his recipe for Anguillian Salsa Fish in a Taste of Home contest today. We collaborated to try to replicate a method of making fish fillets we'd enjoyed on a vacation in Anguilla years ago; it's one of our mainstays since we try to eat fish at least once a week. It's delicious and good for you. I hope he wins something, or at least gets it published in the magazine.
May 31--Vancouver Island. "You have got to be kidding." Marsha stood, hands on hips, looking at the series of ladders climbing the hill. "This is not my idea of a trail," she said, "it's an obstacle course." She bit back the "goddamn" that she was tempted to put in the sentence and she softened the sharp edge of her tongue. Doug was trying really hard to make her happy. He had way more of the supplies in his backpack and he'd kept up a running monologue about the native flora and fauna of Vancouver Island. The sound of his voice was beginning to seep into her very pores. She caught herself walking faster and faster trying to get ahead of the words. She nearly walked off a cliff a few miles back in her glazed-eyed haste to gain a bit of quiet. As gently as her frayed patience would let her, she said, "Let's just be quiet for a while, huh, Doug?" but peace had only lasted for a hundred yards. He had spotted some freaking prehistoric tree fern or some such that he just had to tell her all about, like he was some botanical Jacques Cousteau. Now the trail had morphed into a series of silver wooden ladders, like she was Jack climbing some Pacific Northwest version of a beanstalk. Cripes, what did he think she was, Sheena the jungle queen? Maybe some mutant vine would come out of the jungle and shut Doug up; she could only hope. She grabbed the sides of the first ladder and hauled herself up it.
Well, that's not too bad. I swear I'm going to goof off today, but I suspect I'm on my way to Stein's for one more bale of hay, 2 kinds of beet seeds, and then I'll come home to rearrange the fence around the peppers and celery and plant the beets. Whattaya bet that's what I do? I used to be a total slug, now I can't seem to sit still. What's up with that?