More Bowls

But this time they're spaghetti squash-half bowls.  Today's recipe was WW Sloppy Joes in Spaghetti Squash Bowls.  (The meat sauce gets spooned over the squash in the shell, cheese gets melted on top, and it gets garnished with chopped scallions.)  I doubled the sloppy joe recipe so half is in the freezer and half in the fridge because the last time I made it I learned that freezing and thawing spaghetti squash isn't a great idea.  It gets all watery and mushy, not a good texture, so I'll just eat these two in the next week.  AND neither grocery store that I've been in over the last few weeks has had spaghetti squash.  The guy in Pick 'n Save today said they were having trouble getting it.  I wonder why.





The Japanese beetles are munching away on the ferns.  I don't remember them on the ferns before.  Maybe the beetles have changed their diet?



 

I worked another few rows on the Hawk's Wing shawl.  I still need to work on it with the TV off and my audiobook off but I think another day of working the 4-row repeat and I'll be able to have a book or show on and stick to the pattern.  Nothing too riveting, though, or my concentration will suffer.





On the Log Cabin cloth I'm on to the fourth patch.  Next I'll pick up stitches down the entire left side as it stands here and knit the last patch in the cashew brown.  Then I'll weave in the tails and take it for a spin as a dishcloth, see if the linen/cotton blend soaks up water.





This little bluejay stuck around just long enough for me to take its picture.  And there weren't even any peanuts for it to eat.

10 July--Barbara Malcolm, Tropical Obsession.

Next, he visited the villa rented for the last few months by Jack Spencer and Mona Davidson.  He found Ms. Davidson sitting listlessly on a chaise on the patio overlooking the ocean. 

“How can I help you, Officer?” she said when Yana showed him through the house.  

Rooibos declined Yana’s offer of yet another glass of lemonade in favor of plain water.  He pulled a chair away from the table and positioned it in a spot where it would be impossible for Mona to look away.  After thanking Yana for his glass of water he started his questioning. 

“How long had you and Mister Spencer been together?” 

“Seven or eight years,” she said, waving the time away with a languid hand. 

“You are not married?” 

She shook her head.  “No.  Jack had been married and did not like it.  At least that is the joke he made at parties.  We never discussed it.

            The wind drove the waves onto the rough and jagged rocks where they tore themselves to shreds and slid back down to batter back again and again. Rooibos came here to escape, to find solitude and solace but the explosive pounding denied him peace. The pitiful wail of the wind through the rocks and the gurgling sigh of the water stretched his already stressed nerves. Here in the land of wind and water there is no peace, no rest, only a gritty turbulence and a sense of urgency that is impossible to ignore.

Sunday morning and people are on the move. It's easy to tell who is a local, who is an expat, and who is a tourist. The tourists are easiest; they're the sunburnt ones in tank tops and flip flops, but nice flip flops, on their way to a dive site or standing frowning in front of Cultimara grocery trying to figure out why it isn't open. The sight of the string of locals entering the church down the street finally clues them in--the dignified women in their dresses, white shoes and hats, the men in dark slacks, pressed white shirts worn with a subdued tie, and the children starched and pressed in their Sunday clothes. The boys and girls are easy to tell apart; the boys look like miniature men in their dark slacks and white shirts, the girls look like flowers in pastel or bright dresses, their long coltish legs all knobby knees and tendons, their hair captured into braids to lie close to their heads with a handful of plastic clips or beads on the ends. All of them wearing Sunday faces filing into the cool dimness to say a prayer or sing a hymn or even, judging from the look on a few of the older women's faces, set God straight about a few things.

Today's toss was another milk crate of liquor, or rather liqueurs.  The Friday night knitters were astounded at the sheer volume of potent potables in my basement and I have to say that I agree with them.  Why is there so much?  I'm not done either.  *shakes head*
--Barbara