Mid-Week Drizzle

The weather guy was talking about "a few raindrops on your morning commute" and it sure looks like he might be right.  We need rain, soil moisture of some sort since we got shortchanged in the snow department.  Not that I minded not having to shovel much, you understand, but I wouldn't be a good farmer's granddaughter if I didn't think about stuff like that.

The Bleeding Heart is going gangbusters in the back.  Look how it's shot up in just a couple days.  And the rhubarb is, well, it's just bolting out.  Almost like it's offering itself for baking pie and cake.  Maybe I'll make a rhubarb cake on Friday--since the bread was such a success--or maybe I'll take a chance on the other rhubarb bread recipe I turned up.  I will get some fresh baking powder before baking it.  First things first.  Durwood tried to get me to buy a giant-sized box of it at Sam's yesterday but I wasn't tempted.  I can't manage to use up a regular-size can of it before it goes tits up, how does he think we can use up a bushel of it?  Men, they're silly.  I should probably learn to make good biscuits, trial and error would sure use up a lot of baking powder, wouldn't it?  I love biscuits, Durwood loves biscuits, I should make some.  He was paging through a cooking magazine he subscribes to yesterday and there was a recipe for cornbread pictured that stopped me in my tracks.  It was full of corn kernels and green onions, sour cream and buttermilk.  I could totally put some cheese in there and it'd be an entire meal in a skillet.  Eaten warm with lashings of pure cream butter, of course.  That's like a meal, right?  Maybe with a salad on the side...  Well, now I'm hungry.  I should go have breakfast.

April 29--Carl Fischer, Retired Couple.

Ed and Myrna
dreamed of life
in Paradise.
He worked forty-seven years
at the plant
so they could carve out retirement bliss
on Lot 23
of McLarty's Trailer Haven
on the wrong side
of Homestead, FL
until Hurricane Andrew
had other ideas.
~~~~~

The garbage guy just roared and clanged up and down the block, tipping the bins into his truck with the robot arm.  I kind of miss seeing a garbologist hanging from the back of the truck to step down and fling the trashbags into the crusher in back.  I'm sure they don't miss the sore muscles at all, although now that things have to fit into the bin and the lid has to close the junk pickers are aced out of all sorts of goodies.  More in the landfill, less to recycling--not sure that's an improvement.  Off to Cheerio.
--Barbara