Friday, August 10

August Afternoons

The arbor in front of our door is covered with grape vines, creating a nice shady spot for an afternoon glass of wine. Our old neighbors used to comment that we looked like the epitome of Napa when they'd come out and find us sitting there, sipping, and reading Harper'. So civilized. I think about wineries sometimes and of the million things that I'd like to learn how to do. Like make good wine. Or good beer. But then I look at my grape vine and notice that the leaves are blotched with red spots that I have yet to identify (granted I have still not taken a sample to the nursery and just asked them). And my grapes! They are truly pathetic.

The Grapes of Wrath

Nothing at all like the dense clusters of giant globes I keep finding at the farmer's market.

At least my lime tree is producing. The happy green spheres found their way into a giant batch of guacamole last night. (Want my secret recipe? I'm embarrassed to share it. Avocados. Chopped Tomato. Purple Onion - not too much- lime juice and garlic salt. Pace Salsa. All to taste. Pathetic I know. Especially from someone always railing against corporate food. Sometimes I'll lose the salsa, but it's never as good.)

These babies are just waiting to be turned into margaritas.

So my little arbor area is producing nicely, or not as the case may be. Melba doesn't care. She's just happy to have a spot to lie in the sun and then a spot to lie in the shade. And sometimes, especially after a long bout of chewing her squirrel, she's happy to have a place to lie inside.

It's hard to be the dog, but even harder to be her toy.

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