From the banks of the great grey-green, greasy Limpopo River.
Lost in Translation soundtrack.
It doesn’t get much better than that.
Eric Clapton, Fall Like Rain and Sade, Maureen.
Another afternoon spent hacking back the shrubbery, only this time the breeze blows everything back in my face, and I have to stop for a bit. Still, there’s only neatening up to do on the photinia, the mock orange okay for a couple of months, the honeysuckle still in need of major work. I got the rest of the daylilies planted, the dahlia and tuberous begonia packages are open. I think it is time to cook up some spaghetti.
Eating insects is a cultural thing, and in many parts of the world, certain ones are regarded as nutritious and an important source of fat and protein.
Brutie was a typical Golden Retriever in most ways, but he hated the ocean, and never ever learned the proper way to retrieve something. Once he went to get something, it was his, and no, you couldn’t have it back without a big fight. He kept the grounds covered with his golden hair, made it impossible for us to eat outdoors without his hot breath on our legs and feet, and terrorized the mailmen, while ignoring the squirrels. It has been a while since he left us, and I think it’s time to go look at puppies.