Special Order

My hash browns this morning were the best yet since our breakfast club started meeting in June. Shredded potatoes were served in an oblong, crisp on the outside and tender within. Even so, I gave my breakfast only 4.5 out of 5 stars because they weren't quite crispy enough. 

Mary's pancakes weren't quite fluffy enough, either, but Heidi loved her BLT. "The bacon was cooked perfectly!" she reported, "not a single chewy spot." 

Perhaps the difference was that she had asked for her bacon to be extra crisp, although that hadn't necessarily done the trick elsewhere. As we discussed our breakfasts, I considered her request, and it occurred to me that I could order my potatoes extra crispy, too. I'm going to try that next time.

Unfortunately? Just asking won't make the pancakes any fluffier.

Not So Much Anymore

I remember a time when muggy summer days with temperatures in the mid to high 80s seemed unbearable. Stepping outside was like being wrapped in a tepid, soggy compress, along with an instant headache from the hazy sun in your eyes and the cicadas screaming in the trees. All the pools were like bath water, so the only relief was to draw the curtains, crank the a/c, lie on the couch, and watch movies on HBO in the darkened TV room, praying for a thunderstorm.  But even if it did rain, there was still too much moisture in the atmosphere for any nighttime relief, so the whole ordeal was on repeat until a front swept through, delivering cooler, dryer air.

But after the heatwave a couple of weeks ago? 

Days like those seem downright pleasant.

86 and Muggy? Yes, Please!

Update

Lately, my go-to breakfast has been one I thought I created myself: a slice of homemade sourdough toast, a smear of burrata, and a pile of local peach slices topped with just a sprinkle of cinnamon sugar. The invention is heavenly; each bite tastes like summer itself. 

This morning, as I prepared my usual meal, I realized that the dish was just a slightly elevated version of a classic sandwich my mom made for us when we were kids. Hers was cream cheese on white bread with peach jam made from fruit we had picked ourselves at a nearby orchard. 

Good stuff then, good stuff now.

Members of the Club

When the steady rain tapered to a drizzle this afternoon, we leashed up Lucy and set off for a loop around the neighborhood, with a stop at the garden. At the top of Superman Hill, we heard the far-off electronic strains of Pop Goes the Weasel, and we knew the ice cream truck was near. Of course, the four little girls in bathing suits dashing down a nearby driveway to wait excitedly on the curb only confirmed our observation. 

I was smiling when the big white van pulled up to serve anycomers, and when I looked up, I saw a young man hurrying over to join the crowd. He paused, and I did, too; there was something familiar about his eyes. "Do I know you?" I pointed.

It was only then I registered his shirt. A faded dolphin jumped from the waves above the words Dolphin Team 2018-19. "Weren't you my English teacher?" he said.

"Yeah!" I answered. "I can't believe you're still wearing that shirt!" 

"I know," he agreed. "I can't believe it still fits!"

In truth, the shirt was a little tight over his chest and biceps, but not necessarily in a bad way, and I was touched that he wore it at all, five years after sixth grade.

It still looks good!" I told him. "Enjoy your ice cream."

Gotta Get Down on Friday

"Do you have any plans for the weekend?" Heidi asked our neighbor this morning.

"Not really," he shrugged. "We are going to Costco this evening, though." He seemed genuinely excited, more than your typical mid-30s guy he was.

"That's always fun," I laughed.

"I like to call it 'clubbing'," he joked. "To be honest, it's as close to any club as we've been in a while."

"That's funny," I said. "Do you remember it used to actually be called Price Club before it was Costco?"

He shook his head. "I never heard that before."

"Well," I told him, "the history only adds to your experience. You're going price clubbing tonight!"

I'm Calling It

Okay, look. 

Yesterday, President Biden called Defense Secretary Lloyd Austin "the Black man" during an interview with BET.

No way that guy will stay in the race.

Macro Economics

We have been taking advantage of summer by increasing our workouts. In addition to yoga in the morning (me), personal training sessions three times a week (Heidi), and a daily trip to the pool to swim and tread water, we have been doing cardio at the gym and playing pickleball. As a result?

I am tired and

starving!

Nothing we EVER have in our house is what I want to eat, either, so I end up being cranky every afternoon. 

Today, I tossed aside the book I was reading and stomped into the kitchen. Finding the usual nothing, I decided to go to the grocery, ostensibly to shop for dinner. "Maybe you can look at snacks while you're there," Heidi suggested as I practically stormed out the door.

At the store, I was drawn to lunch meat, cooked seafood, and cheese, so I filled my handbasket with an assortment of those items, none of which were on my list. Back home, I made an announcement: 

"I think I need more protein!" 

And once I gobbled down a little grilled chicken? I felt much better.