Holiday

Before I even knew that there was a national day devoted to watermelon, much less that that day was this day, I stood in the kitchen this morning chopping up a small, round, dark green watermelon that came in our CSA box on Thursday. It was perfectly ripe-- crisp and sweet-- but unlike most of the melons we see these days, it was also full of tiny seeds.

Heidi was next to me, sampling the cubes as I cut. "This is a good, one!" she proclaimed, "Except for the seeds."

I shrugged in agreement. "But it's so old-fashioned," I said. "Remember when we were kids? watermelon always had lots of seeds."

"Right!" she nodded. "We always had to eat it outside."

"I know," I said, "like right after we went out to peel the corn? We ate watermelon."

"Yeah," she replied, "and we spit the seeds into the grass!"

We were silent for a moment, and then she continued, "And wished that watermelons would grow there!"

Yes. That's exactly how it was.

Happy National Watermelon Day!

Monsoon Season

The warm, damp air embraces you the moment you step through any door. Whether the sun is shining, illuminating the clouds, or completely obscured, you are cradled by moisture: wet grass, slick pavements and drips from every leaf. Everything is green, green, so green and smells metallic and earthy, like rain is coming, because it is. 

Plan B

Josh is feeling a little bit better and so we approached this day like a classic summer vacation day. We were on the third hole of the miniature golf course when the first peal of thunder rumbled but were able to play through to thirteen before the rain and lightning chased us off the course. Our fallback was bowling, and so we drove through the torrential storm to knock down a few pins on lane 29 and munch on cheese fries and zucchini sticks.

Once home, we churned our own versions of cereal milk ice cream: a taste test of Cap'n Crunch and Fruity Pebbles. Both versions were creamy and pleasantly off-sweet and slightly salty, and topped with their respective cereals, they were really quite delicious.

Next up? A movie on TV and maybe even a board game, because when summer gives you rain, she also gives you options.

Tour de Chef

Josh is here for a few days, and the other night we were flipping through Netflix and landed on a recent episode of Chef's Table. Each episode profiles a chef, focusing heavily on their artistry and origin story.

We started with the one about Christina Tosi, pastry chef and founder of Milk Bar. The three of us were captivated by her philosophy of food and cooking and charmed by her signature dishes of Crack Pie, Compost Cookies, and Cereal Milk soft serve ice cream.

"You know they have a Milk Bar at the Wharf," I told Heidi and Josh, and so a plan was hatched. We headed over there around 4 o'clock this afternoon, undaunted by rush hour. Once at the place, we ordered soft serve for there and one of everything to take home.

Sitting at the community table savoring the not-so-sweet and salty custard garnished liberally with crunchy cornflake brittle, I sighed. "This is amazing! We should go to every chef's restaurant after we watch the show!" I told Josh. "Who was the guy in episode 1?"

"Massimo somebody," he answered.

"Right!" I agreed and got to googling. "Here it is! Massimo Bottura. He has restaurants in... Modena, Italy. That's all." I shrugged. "Guess we better start packing!"

Who is Your Navigator?

Whaddayadoin! I cried at the driver who first cut me off trying to go right, but then swerved left and slammed on the brakes.

"He's an Uber driver," Josh told me. "I can see his sticker."

And then I knew what he was doing. He was driving with the guidance of his map app through a very confusing circle. Did I feel a bit more empathetic? Maybe, but in any case, I drove purposefully off to Josh's neighborhood pharmacy to fetch his prescription, guided by my own map app.

It was light rush hour traffic all the way, but the route was unfamiliar to me, and I made a few dicey merges. At last we were almost at our destination which was on the left, and the turn by turn directed me to skip three lanes over, make a quick right, and the an immediate U-turn. My eyes widened and my grip tightened on the steering wheel. Looking in the rearview mirror, I punched the accelerator. "I'm just going to Uber it!" I said, and within seconds, we had reached our destination.

Impossible

There was only one thing to do this afternoon after sitting in a dark theater for two and a half hours, eating caramel and cheese corn, and watching Tom Cruise (who is only 3 days younger than I am) run all over Europe in the latest Mission Impossible movie.

Go to the gym!

Bad Dog

Lucy is a cat-crazy canine, so much so that she finds the day lilies where one of our neighbor's cats hang out  irresistible whenever we walk by. This morning we ran into her friend Cooper right there, and when their leashes became entwined in the excitement of seeing each other, I dropped Lucy's, as we do. But before I could stoop to pick up the disentangled leash from the ground, she bolted toward the lilies, nose to the ground, hunting cats.

I heard the jingle of her leash ring as it bounced along the parking lot. Giving chase, I whistled and called her back, LuLuLuLuLu! treats in hand, but she tore off in the opposite direction as if she couldn't hear me. Suddenly she stopped and dashed up some steps, sprinting up and down a walkway that runs along several back gates. She skid to a stop, nose-punched one open, and hurtled inside, gate banging closed behind her.

I, too, mounted the steps, me two at a time, thrust open the gate, and grabbed the collar of my naughty dog, and dragged her away from the neighbors sliding glass door, where she was crouched, staring and waiting, presumably for the cats. As we quickly exited the yard, I glanced to my left. One of the cats was watching the whole show from a patio chair pushed under the outdoor table, and I think she was more than a little amused.