Who's to Know

 what twist of fate will ultimately prompt me to post another blog tale.  It appears that a weekend spent with all of my diminutive actors and the Little Actress might provide the twist.  It was verging on two weeks ago that the HM and I hosted our offspring for a long weekend at a mountain house owned by an Amish man.  This owner is an acquaintance of the HM.  "I've got a house in the mountains," this chap told the HM, "that I rent out  to groups.  I've got only ONE weekend left that is still open for the taking." (My parenthesis: not exactly "taking"...as in, there's a reasonable charge.) 

The HM and I swooped in on the deal.  Ergo, our offspring all took COVID tests prior to traveling to this spot, came up with across-the-board negatives, then went to this mountain house for Indigenous Peoples' Day weekend.  

We had a marvelous time (speaking for myself only, Reader Dear, but surmising it was a mutual sentiment).  Considering this property is Amish-owned, you may suppose it lacked amenities.  You may be quite mistaken, Surmiser Dear! Even though the ample in-ground swimming pool was closed for the season, there was plenty to keep us occupied. 

First Son-in-Law, who truly knows mushrooms, led us all on an interesting Mushroom Expedition.  

Following which, he cooked some up with butter for our eating pleasure.

Just a note of caution, Viewer Dear: One should not go picking toadstools willy-nilly and consuming them.   Without the advice of a mushroom expert, one is liable to find oneself pushing up daisies/mushrooms of one's own! (Aarrgh, Dear Reader, no frowning at Yours Truly.  It wasn't I who made up that old euphemism!)

 

Instead: eat these, wild Shitakes, Blewits, and hmm, what was the name of that other one, the mother lode?!:

No Sooner

did I waken to a rainy day, and tell you about it, Viewer Dear, than I woke up this morning  to  a very wishy-washy day!

It was as though the weather itself couldn't make up its mind!  Should it be Cheerful or sad? Wet or dry? Happy or weeping?  Gloomy or gleeful?  Should it put on shades of yellow, or shades of gray?  Should it be as quiet as sunshine, or sing a song of rain?

In case you are wondering, Reader Dear, the answer is... Yes, I could go on! Now that I've anthropomorphized the weather to such an extent, I've got to confess,  I'm tempted to  write a short work of fiction regarding its dire indecision.  (Or, perhaps a documentary; who's to know?!) But, relax, Dear One.  No sooner had I stepped outside to look for a rainbow, than the weather shook off its debate with itself and got very quiet. It settled on yellow for the rest of the day.  Personally, Reader Dear, I was pleased with the choice.  As beautiful and unique as that dual number the weather had  first put on, I felt  it would not wear well if kept on all day.

All of Life Can be Fickle,

 as any human knows, Reader Dear.

For example, let's say that you've planned an outdoor wedding, a picnic with old friends, or a wing-ding of a yard sale--any outdoor event in which you've invested time and perhaps a degree of energy .  Heck, let's say you have invested nothing at all, but simply planned to finally get the weeds out of your flower beds.  

Yes, yes! At long last, it is going to happen!  (You had told yourself this story the day before, in all caps and with lots of exclamation points! ) There is no way this will not happen!!  You were already envisioning the end of the story: the neat and tidy flower beds; Oh, how lovely!

Prepare yourself, Dear One, because here comes the fickle part.   You awaken to a last-minute plot twist! Your charming tale is in grave danger!

As soon as I can envision another whole story entirely, Reader Dear (one that involves no ark-building, or the necessity to exert any energy outdoors) I'll be sure to let you know!  

Tomorrow will be Too Late

 CORN!!  It's NOW or NEVER! 

Though it might sound corny, Reader Dear...TOMORROW will be TOO LATE!

As the HM declared, "It's got to be today! Tomorrow, I can't pick the corn; and, anyway, tomorrow it will be too late! The corn is starting to get old."

Naturally, I dropped everything on my schedule and did the corniest activity around.  I blanched ears of corn (for the uninitiated, Dear Reader [just in case you happen to be one], "blanching" entails putting the ears of corn into a pot of boiling water and boiling for about six minutes (opinions vary on length of time); that's followed by plunging the ears into icy-cold water]).  Then, I cut the kernels of corn off the cobs of corn, and I froze those kernels in bags labeled, "Corn, about ___ ears, August, 2021" 

It took all of my morning hours to accomplish this feat.

But, you see, otherwise, the HM and I, we wouldn't now  have a total of "about 36 ears" of corn to add to the stash that is already in the freezer.  We can possibly withdraw a portion on a miserable, chilly, late-fall evening, and cook it into a sunshine-yellow-gold dish that tastes like a gloriously warm, yellow-gold summery day!

Between you and me, Dear Reader, I'm so happy  I managed to get to the task in a timely manner!*

*Before it was, you know, TOO LATE!

***************

WOW!

 It's no longer the Fourth of July (anywhere in the world, to my knowledge,  where calendars are being used), but I'm back to this blog in time to show you some nearly-current fireworks, Viewer Dear!  

It was apparently party time at the neighbors' place down the road.  Just briefly out on the balcony after dark last night, I was suddenly treated to a burst of fireworks.  I stayed to watch, and the display lasted nearly fifteen minutes!  As pleasing to me as the (manufactured) light in the sky, was the throng of appreciative guests of the neighbors, whose shouts of delight I could clearly hear between each episodic explosion.

I wowed out loud at least once, Viewer Dear.

And, now, I pass along the opportunity to you (though, obviously, each step removed from the actual experience is likely to elicit less of a Wow! [possibly even,  [though I cringe to imagine] a [yawn] So what?!).