No words needed

 

So much for a quiet house

Monday night.
Jon is getting ready for the boys' big paintball game on Saturday.
He is the mastermind, the organizer, the supplier of equipment.

Jeff feels right manly.

Mum is perusing old photo albums.

Annie playing solitaire on the laptop.

...and now watching a movie with her friend Jo.

 

Charlie tells me he'll be here at about 2:30 am.
Hope I don't forget to leave the door unlocked.

Later:
Jon, in all his glory.

 

Mum, in the kitchen.
Drowning out my PBS movie.

 

Sweet rewards

We visited Victoria on the beautiful Vancouver Island BC about twenty years ago. My memories of the trip are rather dim and consist mostly of food; we met some California friends up there and the wife generally plans her days around meals. I can reminisce fondly of afternoon teas consisting of dense scones, jam, and whipped cream. One of my lingering discoveries was Nanaimo Bars. Nanaimo is a town on the west coast of the island. The origin of the bars is a little fuzzy, with the first recorded recipe turning up in a church cookbook in Nanaimo in 1957, although some think it may date back to the 19th century. Some New Yorkers even tried to claim it as having New York origins. They call them New York slices. Darn those New Yorkers.

I haven't made these delectable little treats in probably fifteen years, but I had a hankering on Saturday. Ellen and Brenda were the recipients, being rewarded for their intimate knowledge of my flying proclivities.
And I ate a few.
Just a few.

Lately, I go to the web for recipes, ignoring my excellent selection of cookbooks. But for this, I went to my original hand-written collection, started by me when I was about eighteen. Here it is, in all its glory.

If you click on the photo, it will enlarge enough that you can read the recipe. I would advise no extra milk, 4oz of chocolate, and instant pudding powder, ignoring my notes to the contrary.
Today, I decided to not mess with the recipe.
It was a fortuitous decision.

I had one for breakfast.

Oh yeah.
The little check mark by the title of the recipe?
That means it has been tried and is good.

I love...

... a newly mowed lawn in spring.

Possibilities

It seems that everywhere I go this spring I see dandelions.
Seriously.
Whole lawns full of evil puffballs.
I am about to go spray Roundup on the neighbours' crops.
I am tired of fighting them.

On a brighter note, I have just about eradicated my own taraxacum, and the rest of the garden is primed with possibilities.
Yesterday, Jeff donned his trusty toolbelt (don'tcha just love a man in a toolbelt?) and attempted to confine the raspberry vines. I have doubts about the long-term efficacy of that manoeuvre, but I wasn't about to dampen his enthusiasm.
The vines are covered in little buds.
Note the rather rampant, unconfined vines in the left of the picture.

Potatoes, promising better behaviour than last year.

Bright red stalks of rhubarb, so much prettier than the green ones.

A strawberry flower, full of sweet potential.

And the grapes.
Oh my, the grapes.
The vines are covered with these babies.
I am already salivating at the thought of gallons of grape juice in the autumn.
This year I will leave them until they are ready to burst with sweetness.
Memo to self:
Plan that England/Ireland trip around the grape harvest.

Family, friends, and a long drive

When our relatives are at home, we have to think of all their good points, or it would be impossible to endure them. George Bernard Shaw.

Just kidding.
Did you know that when I was in my teens I used to read GBS's plays. Just for fun. Oh, how my brain has deteriorated!

On Thursday morning, not as early as we would have liked (because we never do) we left for San Diego. In Charlie's little Chevy S10 pickup truck. Which used to be Jeff's truck.
Let me explain about Charlie's truck. He loves his truck. When he bought it from us, he spent about a week pimping it up. New gear knob, stereo, visor covers, fake bullet holes on the body. I, however, Do Not Like It. It is uncomfortable. The prospect of traveling for 1,200 miles in one day did not thrill me. So I offered to drive my car down and let him use it until he was ready to come home the next week.
He was offended at the very idea.
So we drove his truck. Eighteen hours. We listened to George Orwell's 1984. For eleven-and-a-half hours. I confess that I may have dozed for a couple of those hours. By the time we got to Murrietta, we were feeling quite depressed. For some reason.
We spent a couple of days with Charlie. Well, kind of. He was running around working on his "to do" list. Apparently, one of the things on his list was talking me into buying him a dresser for his bedroom at the Rodriguez's house, his home away from home.
Here he is, with Shelly and Adam. I call them his saving grace.

We flew home on Saturday night, on my favourite airline.
Pop Quiz.
What Is My Favourite Airline?

First one to answer correctly might get something yummy on their doorstep or in their mailbox.

On Sunday night, we went to pick Mum up at PDX. I decided to do it up large for a change. We created quite a ruckus at the security area. Luckily, the airport was almost empty.

Mission accomplished.

Annie arrived late last night, blissfully pregnant.
Charlie is driving up on Sunday.
All together again.
Time for family photos.

Families are like fudge...mostly sweet, with a few nuts.

Sunday bookay

My friend Julie is a flower girl. She does the flowers for most of the weddings in our crowd. She did Bethany's and Jon's wedding flowers, but not Annie's because she was busy that day. She also does a unique and astounding flower display every Sunday for church. It's a rare Sunday when our podium is unastounding. When I remember, I am going to document these arrangements and show them to you. I might even do an interview with Julie, just so that you can see how amazing she is.
By the time this bevy of tulips got to the third hour of church, the tulips had opened up a little too far, but I still love the colours.