Dreams, Dogs and the Decade Plan

I'm sure everyone is pretty tired of the pissing and moaning I've been doing about the frigging, endless, mind-blowing heat wave that has overcome the western states this Summer, so I will say no more about it.  First, because whingeing changes nothing, second because I'm even boring myself.  If, however, I lose days between posts?  Then you'll understand that I've been overpowered by the sheer force of the inferno pouring from the Gates of Hell and couldn't sit at the computer to write.

My dreams of late have been filled with visions of snow and polar ice caps and blizzards that rage outside log cabin walls.  And for just a moment--before I wake sweaty and headachy with the heat--I can feel the chill, see the beauty in the flakes as they swirl, revel in a sky laden with a frigid white cold instead of a burning yellow fever.

Somehow I have to get through August, and probably most of September, before there is a hope of taking a breath of fresh, cool air; of waking up one morning and knowing I survived the blistering torture of an extremely hot Summer.

I chant, this too shall pass, and try to believe it...

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Last night, or I guess really in the early hours of this morning, Max woke me by crawling up my chest, his whole body trembling as he squished against me.  I couldn't figure out what was going on, until I heard the deep, long rumble of thunder in the distance.  And really, I mean long.  Each rumble seemed to go on and on, far beyond a normal roll.  I got up and pulled back the bedroom drapes...and couldn't believe I was hearing an endless barrage of thunder in a cloudless, star-filled night.  Is that even possible?  Don't there have to be clouds, or some kind of obvious, visible signs of a storm? 

Well, unless I was sleepwalking/dreaming, I was listening to rolls of thunder in a clear sky.  And since Max, usually not bothered by fireworks or thunder, had turned into a quivering mass of doggy distraughtness, it was pretty apparent I wasn't dreaming.  It took about an hour for the "storm" to pass, then another half hour or so until he settled down.  Course, by that time I'm wide awake and too bloody hot, so after tossing and turning for another hour, I just got up.  Whatever.

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This is my birthday week.  I'm on the Decade Plan these days, so this birthday doesn't really count as it's in the middle of a decade.  I had a great chat with a dear friend in Edinburgh yesterday, and have gotten some wonderful cards from other friends and family over the week, but still.  I don't find much celebration in getting older.  Now, if I were Benjamin Button and started to get younger, well, that would be cause for drinks all 'round, no doubt.  But birthdays, like some other holidays, are more important for the kids; milestone years, like that little boy at the store the other day who had just turned seven.

Milestones for me:  My first bicycle at eight, first watch at ten, driver's license at sixteen, graduation just before I turned eighteen, hallelujah I can legally drink at twenty-one, then how the hell could I be thirty?  After that?  Pretty much a blur.  I had some great birthdays in that blur, don't get me wrong, but once beyond those great milestone moments, I'm not so eager to watch the birthdays flit by like fireflies.

Ah well.  There's no stopping the inexorability of time; it passes whether we fight or accept, wish or want.

Even so.  I'm sticking to my Decade Plan...

Seasonal Angst

Well, it's that time of year again, when the Gates of Hell crack open for another long, scorching, miserable Summer.  I'm pretty sure I heard the grinding and gnashing over the furnace blast of heat that swept through the valley and roared up my mountain yesterday.  Temps are now in the high 90s, heading into triple digits tomorrow or Monday, no end in sight, and definitely no rain now until Fall.

Do you ever wonder how you ended up where you are?  How the entire course of your life can be altered by one small decision, one little deviation from the path as you blithely stroll along?  I'm sure there are many of you who are exactly where you want to be.  I am not one of you.  I prefer cooler weather, rain and storms, and will gladly let you have heat and humidity, the nuclear intensity of the killer sun.

But, until I get that little cabin in the wilds of Alaska, here is where I am.  The dogs and I will spend another Summer up at dawn to walk before it gets too hot to breathe, I'll have to reschedule all my chores and garden work for early mornings, I'll be making gallons of sun tea and giving the boys ice cubes for cool treats, and there will be many dreams of hearty soups and stews...until one morning that heavenly tang of Fall will be in the air and I will smile with true anticipation that those flaming Gates will soon be closing...

The Fun Just Has To Stop...

Yesterday.  Hot, humid.  Stuck in the house because there's a chance the couple from Denver will want a second viewing--this according to my realtor who talked to their realtor.  (Have I dropped into a bad movie plot??)

So, as the day goes by and it's less and less likely anyone is coming, I decide to test out this muffin recipe.  Yeah, yeah, I know:  It's hot as Hell, no normal person would turn on the oven, but wait!  Sometimes there's actually a method to my madness...

My mother is moving this weekend.  She's downsizing into a smaller place.  I was watching this cooking show a few days ago whilst eating my breakfast, and one item on the menu were these yummy looking Good Morning Muffins.  I'm thinking, since everyone is showing up at my Mom's place at 9:00 on Saturday morning, that maybe I'll see if these muffins wouldn't be a good thing for everyone to eat when they arrive at her door.

I have to try them first though.  And now that it's nearly 5:30, I've pretty much ruled out the Denver couple, so I forge ahead.

No doubt it would have been just as easy to stick the muffin tin outside on the deck to cook instead of turning on the oven at all.  But still.  No matter the meltdown in heating the kitchen to a temperature rivaling nuclear fusion, I'm gonna do this.

Brief aside here:  I make a mess when I cook.  Stuff on the counters, often dripping down the cabinets, always something stuck to my shoes.  I don't know why this is the way I cook.  It just is. 

Okay, I've put the muffins in the oven--they look really good--and I turn to survey the mess.  This is just the sink area.  I have a big kitchen.  You don't want to see the rest, believe me.

The phone rings.  It's a different realtor, with another couple who want to see the house.  I glance at the clock.  It's nearly 6:00.  "Right now?" I ask, as I watch a long drip of melted butter run down the cabinet, and plop on the kitchen floor into a dusting of either flour or sugar.  "Would fifteen minutes be all right?" she says.

You're kidding me.

Not only do I have to somehow clean the kitchen, but there's other stuff I put away when someone is coming to view the place, like the dog toys that are scattered all over the floor and down the hall, and my laptop and tablets and pens, my cameras and books and Kindle.  Well, just holy crap and damnation.

What can I do?  Am I trying to sell the place, or what?  "Give me half an hour," I say and practically hang up on the woman, before switching into maniacal overdrive.  Did I mention it's hot and humid? 

Just as I finished slamming the door on the dishwasher, the timer went off, the realtor pulls in, the dogs bark, and the phone rings.  I stood in the kitchen sweating like a long distance runner, shirt stuck to me front and back--and believe me, not in a good, sexy way--and I just had to laugh.

I really think all these days of unrelenting heat have finally damaged my brain.  I was still laughing as I answered the phone, took the muffins out of the oven, threw them on the stove top, then dashed to the front door to shoo the dogs away and let the people in.  My realtor--on the phone--asked me if I was all right.  That made me laugh harder.  I told her to call me later.

Long story short.  The people were very nice, and to give them some time to wander around, I took the boys on the 15 minute walk to the mailbox.  By the time we got back, they were just leaving, so everything worked out in the end.  And I was finally able to get a good look at the muffins.

I cut the recipe in half, in case I didn't like it, then I would only have to deal with 12 mistakes instead of 24, but they looked so good with their little crunchy tops...

I waited a bit, then tasted one, and they're pretty good.  Perfect for those days when there's no time for breakfast, or when camping, hiking, any time a nice, substantial muffin might come in handy.  I've decided to make the full batch of 24 for the Saturday morning moving crew.

So, the recipe is easy, tasty and even in the midst of chaos, they came out just fine.  You can't ask for much more than that...

N.B.  I didn't have any marmalade so used apricot preserves instead.  The muffins are very cake-like, and dense.  I like them, though the reviews on the Food Network site aren't all that good.  Guess it's a matter of taste.  Or maybe my apricots tasted better than marmalade!?

Lost...Barely Found

Last night it was so hot, I didn't go out to water the back garden until after 10:00.  There was still so much residual heat, the tiny breeze conjured up deserts and Bedouins and dust.  After I got back inside, I noticed that my palm plant looked a bit worse for wear even though I had watered it just a few days ago.  Watering done, I sat down to read and couldn't find my glasses.

I need them to read, but when watching television or doing other things, I prop them on my head.  I could actually feel the weight of them, but they weren't there.  I moved all the couch cushions, looked underneath, went to the table thinking I'd taken them off by the laptop, went through the kitchen.  Dammit!  I haven't been anywhere, they must be right here.  Then I have the idea that they've fallen off my head while I was outside watering.  Flashlight, big search, no glasses.

This goes on for half an hour.  Seriously.  Unless there are gremlins, tiny black holes, or poltergeists, those frigging glasses have to be in the house.

I don't find them.  I can't read my book.  It's 78* at nearly 11:00pm and I'm hot and cranky.  I really need to move to Alaska where I can get cozy under the covers, and sleep.

This morning I'm up before dawn for two reasons: the continuing search for the glasses, and the temp today is to reach 103* so I've got to walk the dogs very early.  The gates of Hell are opening at my feet.  I take the boys out back and scour the hillside, but no luck.  While they're eating breakfast, I repeat the drill of under the couch, move the cushions, yada, yada.  I can't understand this.

Then I focus on the palm.  Maybe I've accidentally dropped my specs into the plant!  I lift the pot out of the container, search all around on the floor.  Nothing.

Dejected, I open the blind...and catch the glint of something from the corner of my eye, but when I turn, I don't see anything.   Clearly, I'm losing the plot.

The palm...

As I brush past the palm to open the next blind, I glance down into the heart of the plant.  See anything?  Neither did I...at first.

I bend closer, not sure what I'm seeing exactly. ..and there they are.  Hanging off one of the frigging palm fronds.   Even in this photo, the glasses are practically invisible.  Click the photo and you might see them.  It's no wonder I couldn't find the damn things last night--I barely found them in broad daylight. 

Because I have to lift the plant out of the container and take it to the kitchen sink to water it thoroughly, I guess my glasses--on top of my head--either got tangled in the fronds, or somehow fell off into the plant.  Go figure.

I'm just happy to have them, and to know I'm not going nuts.

Now, if I could just find a way to close those gates to Hell, it would be a good day...