Never, in all of my 79 years* have I eaten breakfast on a regular basis.

Oh I know. I know, I know, I know, I know, I know, I KNOW!!

BECAUSE IT IS TRUE!

And with that, I resume the search.

[ If only to put off working on a proposal for a whole lot of new work. ]

Happy Thanksgiving!

I’m laying on the couch in the dark. It’s 6:00 am. And I’m writing this from the tiny keypad of my phone. It is both the most cool and the most frustrating thing, all at the same time.

I got out of bed because I couldn’t sleep. I was being [...]]]>

Happy Thanksgiving!

I’m laying on the couch in the dark. It’s 6:00 am. And I’m writing this from the tiny keypad of my phone. It is both the most cool and the most frustrating thing, all at the same time.

I got out of bed because I couldn’t sleep. I was being tormented by dreams of that damn turkey, haunting me from the basement fridge. –And I’m not even a nervous turkey cook!

Or am I?

I dreamt that I took the turkey out of the oven to flip it and realized that I had started it breast-side up. I was supposed to start it breast side down. So I flipped it over, and it was suddenly too big for the pan — and all the pan juices overflowed onto the floor.

While I’m not a nervous turkey cook I do worry that I won’t have enough pan juices for the gravy. Gravy, as you know, is the most important part of the entire meal.

Anyway, this post will reach you too late, I fear.

The biggest lie they tell you at Thanksgiving: transfer your turkey from the freezer to the refrigerator 3-5 days before you cook it so that it can safely defrost at the correct temperature.

What a load of crap!

I do it every year. And every year I remove a frozen-solid turkey from my fridge.

So tell me: am I the only person this happens to?

If not, I certainly hope you discovered this yesterday and not this morning. I can’t really save you now, but for what it’s worth, the fastest way I’ve found to remedy a frozen bird is to submerge it in water.

But honestly, you might still be screwed.

Call the guests and push it back an hour or two. Or go to the liquor store and buy more booze.

It’ll be fine.

I just wonder when someone — anyone! — will publicly admit that it will take a month to defrost an 18 pound turkey in a normal fridge.

And I’m not even sure of that.

I got this idea when I was making kale chips last weekend. When I looked online to see if people do it, I found recipes for deep fried beet chips. But, if you have been reading this site for any length of time, you know my stance on deep frying. And not because [...]]]>  

I got this idea when I was making kale chips last weekend. When I looked online to see if people do it, I found recipes for deep fried beet chips. But, if you have been reading this site for any length of time, you know my stance on deep frying. And not because it’s bad for you. But because it makes my house (and hair) smell.

So.

Being hungover, I have a command post set up  on the couch where I can order people around and be close to the junk food.

My last set of orders was to Charlie to go pick me some beets. I’ve had a burst of energy since taking 3 Advil and 3 Excedrin. Plus, two lattes, several handfuls of pita chips. Some kale chips (it’s a super food you know), a Baby Ruth, steel cut oatmeal with pomegranate seeds, some almonds and… I’m sure there is more. Well, actually the microwave keeps beeping at me because I forgot that I put in some Velveeta and Rotel cheese dip. Once I start in on that, I’m going to, for sure, have to have an ice cold Coke to go with it.

So anyway. Charlie picked me the beets and I peeled them and sliced them paper thin on the mandolin.

I poured oil over them all and placed them on a cookie sheet, not overlapping, and generously salted and peppered.

I baked them at 250 for about 40 minutes. I had to use a spatula to carefully scrape them off the cookie sheet without breaking because they were so thin.

Sickening good. And remember: I hate beets. So this is quite astonishing to me.

I might have to eat them all.

So my new thing, besides *finally* learning to bake kale chips without burning them, is eating kale raw. I’m obsessed. I’m a Kale evangelist. I should be this fervent as a Christian. Seriously.

I bring my kale salad around saying “wanna try some?”

And today (actually about a month ago, as that is when [...]]]>

So my new thing, besides *finally* learning to bake kale chips without burning them, is eating kale raw. I’m obsessed. I’m a Kale evangelist. I should be this fervent as a Christian. Seriously.

I bring my kale salad around saying “wanna try some?”

And today (actually about a month ago, as that is when I first started writing this post) I brought a bowl of kale chips to Morgan’s soccer game passing them out at the gate while I worked on tickets. All takers were smitten, except Paster Greg, who agreed that I should be that fervent for Jesus, and also said they’d good with ketchup — which I took as the single strike against them.

I usually grow just black tuscan kale, which is the long skinny leaved variety favored in Italy.

[Cuz I'm so cultured.]

This year, I also grew a box of Red Russion. Which, isn’t red at all, but is perfect for my salads and chips. Not that the black tuscan isn’t good for those things, mind you. It just that… oh never mind. It seriously doesn’t matter.

Here’s a question for you to ask the produce manager the next time you go grocery shopping (which for me is hopefully never): WHY THE HELL IS THIS KALE SO EXPENSIVE?

And if you aren’t comfortable with such a bold question to a perfect stranger (and swearing), then how about this one: WHAT IN THE SAM HILL CAN I DO WITH 5 KALE LEAVES?

These are both totally fair questions. Kale should not be expensive this time of year. It’s like arugula, which is like a weed. Yet you can only buy the daintiest little bunches of it for something like $5. Crazy. Meanwhile there is this kale revolution going on everywhere: recipes, online, restaurants… I’m waxing poetic all the live long day. My friends go to the store to buy some (because my house apparently isn’t as convenient as a grocery store), and you have to pay $3 for 5 medium sized leaves that will cook to nothing and serve about one person. It is seriously crazy. We need to start a mutiny.

Well, you can. I’ve got a lot of things to do today and besides, I’ve got enough kale to last me until 2014.

The other day, I read about using kale to make some kind of pesto sauce. Frankly, the blog I read it on is one that I accidentally subscribed to and can’t figure out how to unsubscribe. The blog drives me literally bonkers. And yet I can’t help peeking when they show up in my inbox because I love to hate this woman. She is an unadulterated and shameless COPYCAT of www.latartinegourmande.com, who you could also hate but for entirely different reasons (jealousy). The copycat styles her photos the exact same way LaTartine does, which is very unique to her (and gorgeous). And worse, she tries to write in the exact same voice — which is crazy because latartine is French and english is her second language! aaaah it just drives me to drink. I’ve got to figure out how to unsubscribe. Anyway, forgive my rant. The copycat did mention a kale pesto that sounded intriguing… She probably copied it from somewhere.

For now, in addition to my kale posts (I was going to link them for your convenience, but I found I’ve written way too much about kale. Just type it in the search box and see for yourself.) from previous years, here is my latest and greatest way to devour my crop:

Kale & Mustard Greens* Chips:

These are everywhere online. But here’s my I-tried-it-so-you-don’t-have-to-suffer-the-same-fate advice: bake at 250 degrees for about 20-30 minutes, turning and removing just before they turn brown. Lots of recipes have you bake them at 400 or higher for a minute or two. It is impossible to keep most of them from burning at that temp.

Take out any bigger sized stems, because these take way to long to get crispy and you’ll burn the leaves waiting for it to happen.

Rub the leaves between your hands to distribute the olive oil.

Salt (and pepper) generously! I also like to sprinkle a little hot chili powder on them for a little zing.

Now that it’s not humid in MN, they keep a long time in a big bowl in the pantry. Keep them on the counter and you’ll find yourself eating them instead of crap food.

Kale Salad:

Why don’t I have any pictures of this? I know not.

Anyway, here’s the deal: cut up into salad size pieces, toss with about 1/2 teaspoon of salt for a medium sized bowl of kale, (probably about 2 or 3 lame grocery store bunches) a tablespoon of olive oil and the juice from a half of lemon. Stir it all up and let it sit about 30 to 60 minutes. That’s all it takes to tenderize the leaves. Then mix with just about anything tossed with a little more lemon and olive oil to taste. Here are some I’ve tried and loved:

• apples, almonds & quinnoa
• butternut squash & craisins
• wild rice and pears

(Never fear: road warriors will be completed, as promised, by christmas.)

Why?

Because I started washing windows yesterday. Because it always rains the day after I wash windows. Inexplicably. Without fail. I don’t actually believe that, and yet… it hasn’t rained for something like 75 days, I wash windows yesterday and even though the [...]]]> You may thank me, drought-striken Minnesotans, for this unexpected, unforecasted rainy Saturday.

Why?

Because I started washing windows yesterday. Because it always rains the day after I wash windows. Inexplicably. Without fail. I don’t actually believe that, and yet… it hasn’t rained for something like 75 days, I wash windows yesterday and even though the forecast from last night doesn’t call for rain, it is currently raining.

Coincidence?

I remain on the fence.

And while we are on the subject of windows, you may think I’m overly ambitious. That my windows may not actually need to be washed.

I disagree.

For that is what each and every window looks like. And understand this: it is ever-so-difficult to capture those spots in a picture. Because that picture doesn’t do justice to the overall effect of gray water spots covering every entire window in our house. (Of which there are 67 and I have washed 15. Not that I’m keeping track.)

The spots are from the Plunkett’s man, sprayed in September to deal with our boxelder bugs and asian beetle problem.

Last year we couldn’t spray because we were painting the house. It was a melee! I was actually feeling quite smug about the whole thing and thinking I wouldn’t spray this year either, because it was only really bad for a few weeks and *presto!* they were gone.

Only they weren’t gone. I slept with, vacuumed — and even almost ate – boxelder bugs on a daily basis throughout winter and well in to summer. They were fricken everywhere. So this year I bowed to the chemical god, suppressed my holier-than-thou organic attitude and called Plunkett’s.

And the trade off is this. The window spots. Which are a beast to remove. Even with a nylon scrubby  they remain visible when the sun hits the window just right.

Whatever.

I’m ticked I can’t continue on my window-washing death march. I was all ready to tackle the remaining main-floor windows when it started misting.

Instead, I turn to the garden.

And the rotting vegetables on my counter.

And the kale.– Though that is fodder for another post. (One I started writing about 2 weeks ago and have yet to complete, actually.)

And the apples, which I haven’t even wrapped my mind around yet. And the longer I procrastinate, the less I will have to deal with because the wasps are steadily working on ingesting each and every apple.

Did you know that? That wasps eat apples? Literally eat them so that when they are done it looks like a human took a bite?

Anyway.

Here’s another “Did you know”:

Did you know that if you don’t harvest your carrots in a timely fashion, that someone else will?

Who?

I know who, but I did not get a picture of the culprit. Here is all the remains of the evidence.

I also hope to deal with the already-mentioned-rotting tomatoes today, that I harvested over a month ago, but weren’t totally ripe at the time.

Now they are going to bad. In addition to my own festering stash, it seems I was visited by a tomato fairy, who generously came to let my dogs out one day that I was gone last week, who deposited some of her own on my counter as a “gift.”

And just when I think I am getting to the end of this thankless task, I go out to the garage and trip over this:

Not to mention, this surprise — found when I was gathering sheets from the garden as it started to rain:

It will never end, I tell you. Never.

We got up bright and early to hike to the highest peak we could see from our site. There was no trail, so we blazed our own.

The Reluctant Hiker became the Angry Hiker about half way up.

We find it best to leaver her to wander, bringing up the [...]]]> Wednesday 8/12.

We got up bright and early to hike to the highest peak we could see from our site. There was no trail, so we blazed our own.

The Reluctant Hiker became the Angry Hiker about half way up.

We find it best to leaver her to wander, bringing up the rear, where she can talk herself into the benefits of an active lifestyle. It usually works and it did today as well.

At the top of our fire scarred peak, we took a bunch of self timers… (sorry in advance. got lots of pictures – finally)

and headed down for a big breakfast — to include BACON! Charlie manned the “toaster,”

Dave cooked the bacon and Morgan…

I can’t remember. I do know she briefly toasted, but lost that duty when she presser her hot poker into Charlie’s knee.

I have no idea how she did it, but amidst all the yelling and drama, somehow she turned it in to Charlie’s fault. He didn’t miss her when she wandered away. Probably to apply make-up in the back seat again…

Morgan had a BLT (where T=turkey). Dave had a BLT (where T=tomato). Charlie had E&T (where T=toast and E=eggs). Then Charlie had a BLS (where S=sandwich) and I had a massive, 2-egg bacon and cheese sandwich on a moldy ciabatta bun.

Sound gross?

Well it wasn’t.

Thunder sounded in the distance and we scrambled to pack up. Jen and Morgan used the leftover warm water from dishes (clean, unused water, that is) to quickly shave our beastly legs. Morgan lacerated herself in many places blaming the carnage on “too many goosebumps.” Honestly, she took like 15 minutes to shave her SHINS. I didn’t know this: you apparently must exfoliate before shaving. How can it be that I’m 47 and have been missing this pre-requisite for smooth legs? And still she managed to cut herself in about six places.

And speaking of exfoliation, can you please give Charlie a squirt of that stuff? He has found that he appreciates a good exfoliating face wash. He likes how it makes his face feel…

Oh Lord help me.

We headed out through Challis, toward Stanley and the “majestic mountains” we sought toward our next adventure.

Stanley was…hmmm….How shall I say? Disappointing. Kinda hot. Dusty. And just, well, hickish. The campgrounds sucked — from the Lakeside units to the corrals.

Yes, the scenery was lovely, but the road work, people, and campgrounds were not our “cup of tea” (to quote Carlos again). We considered dispersed camping again, but there really weren’t that many options. Finally I just said “let’s just get the Hell out of here.”

And so we did.

Hightailing it further down I75 and trying to get a little closer to Sun Valley, the designated shopping mecca of the trip.

It’s just crazy to us the campgrounds people choose. Ick. Ick. Ick. And crowded! We all just look at them and think — well maybe it’s only me who thinks this — “Where will I pee?” Or, “What if I walk out of the camper in my underwear?” Or even, “What if I fart too loud?”

You see the problem that a crowded campground presents?

And so it goes. We diss’ed all the lake campgrounds. Western state campers flock to lakes. We, of the 10,000 lakes, don’t need a lake to feel like we are on vacation. We rejected over six campgrounds on our quest, eventually reaching the Sawtooth National Recreation Center Headquarters building and found out that — surprise! — we could disperse camp anywhere! And even have a fire! (No wonder we didn’t get in trouble last night…).

So that’s what we did, finding a pretty good spot just a few miles down from the headquarters building. We passed some PRIMO spots right on the North Fork of the Big Wood River, but most were taken. There was one open spot, but Dainty Dave was too weeny to attempt it. waa! waa!

I will say this: the axel swap we did last year with the new bigger tires is AWESOME. The tires aren’t even bald yet, the camper bounces around like a real 4WD rig. Love it. We researched getting a new camper on the drive home last year and I spent probably 4 straight hours of the last leg that Dave drove reading online, eventually finding all kinds of sights detailing camper modifications. There are people who document every little thing they do to their campers. Can you imagine?

Ha. I only realized as I wrote that last bit how hypocritical I sound.

Anyway, we got the idea to put bigger axle on the camper while in Ouray last year during one of our tire blow outs. Last fall, I brought the trailer to Rodney at Highway 55 Trailer Sales in Rockford. He’s the best! It was a relatively inexpensive upgrade. The three new tires cost more than the actual axel. It really goes over the bumps and rocks well. Dave totally could have gotten into that spot…

INTERJECTION: As I write this, the kids are over by the camp stove brushing their teeth and getting ready for bed. I just heard Charlie ask for Morgan’s exfoliating face wash again. When she said NO he said “But I like how it made my face feel.” END OF INTERJECTION

Anyway, the second best thing about the new tires and axel is that it looks cool. The third best thing is that you can now see it out of the back window and rear view mirror, which is ever-helpful for backing up.

I digress.

We went to a different spot NOT on the river because weeny Dave didn’t want to attempt the back our awesome little camper into such a narrow spot. –It totally could have snuck in there. I swear. It was our 5th night of camping and our fourth site. And even though we say — EVERY YEAR — that we aren’t going to move as much, we always do. We must like it.

One thing we have improved on this year is our timing. We have yet to come screaming into a site at dusk and eating in the dark. Bravo for us. It’s only taken us about ten years to get that part right. Here, outside of Ketchum, we set up camp about 4 pm, leaving us plenty ‘O time for drinks and appies. Charlie and I took a bracing river bath in the stream across the road. I must say, it’s a lot easier camping now that I’m way less vain about my hair. I can’t tell if it’s because I don’t care, but I actually don’t think it looks all that bad! [update: after reviewing the pictures, I must retract this statement.]

We cooked our last official meal: Flank steak kabobs with onions, peppers, and zucchini. We also had beets that we cooked in the fire a couple nights ago. Tomato/mozzarella/avocado/arugula salad. And a big, fat, happy belly.

I confess: I don’t actually mind picking raspberries even though I pretend that is it a huge ordeal (It is.). That it takes a really long time. (It does.) And that I have tons of other pressing things to do. (I do.)

But.

If you happen to be listening to a good book on [...]]]>

I confess: I don’t actually mind picking raspberries even though I pretend that is it a huge ordeal (It is.). That it takes a really long time. (It does.) And that I have tons of other pressing things to do. (I do.)

But.

If you happen to be listening to a good book on Audible, and the sun is shining… really: how bad can it be?

(I don’t really want Dave to know this, so please don’t tell him. It works in my favor to have this to hang over his head for those Sundays that he is forced to dust.)

So, it is raspberry time of year again. Mine ripen in the fall. Most others seem to have them in the summer, but I like fall berries. That way, I don’t curse (as much) when I’m making jam and heating up the house with my stove and boiling water for canning. I cannot imagine having to do that in July and August.

We’ve had fresh berries for well over a month now, but it is just today that I’m filling up my picking basket that holds about 16 cups.

I remember when my kids would eat four cups of berries in a single sitting. They don’t eat them as much anymore. They OD’d I guess. So most go into jam.

If you live nearby, the offer stands: come on over and pick some. Just don’t complain when you find you are not alone:

(He’s big, by the way. Maybe an inch and a half long in the body alone!)

And my favorite, who hopped away before I could get a better picture:

OK, OK. I gotta go work now. Cuz Lord knows I’ll be picking more raspberries in another 2 days.

Up early… Well, not really. We’ve pretty much been up early everyday. We, as in Jen, Dave and Charlie. Morgan is working on pushing the weekly average night’s sleep to 15 hours. Today’s 7 am roll call might have cut it down to 14.

We ate a quick breakfast of [...]]]> Tuesday, 8/7/12.

Up early… Well, not really. We’ve pretty much been up early everyday. We, as in Jen, Dave and Charlie. Morgan is working on pushing the weekly average night’s sleep to 15 hours. Today’s 7 am roll call might have cut it down to 14.

We ate a quick breakfast of coffee, toast and pop tarts, depending on who you are.

We met Emmet and Toby right on time (a rarity for a Menke) in the tiny metropolis of Connor. Texts and emails were gathered, as planned, and we headed up to the drop off point on the Bitterroot River. Morgan and I were in a boat with Emmet, and Charlie and Dave were with Toby.

It was super fun. Kind of like a lazy white water trip with no paddling, which is traded out for the fun of casting a fly rod.

Definitely Dave and Charlie had the technique down. Morgan and I… well we followed direction. And we improved. However, by the end, my hand was frozen into a claw from holding the pole, so intent was I to “do it right.” Meanwhile, Morgan, who was up front in the boat, ws so spastically casting that every time she drew her rod back, the fly was ripped out of the water with such force I thought she had a fish. It made for a lot of excitement.

Morgan caught the first fish. (Well actually Emmet caught the first fish on his first cast while demonstrating to us how to cast. No other fish was caught for about an hour). It was a little hybrid trout.

I later caught a big rainbow that Emmet made a lot of fuss over. Fly fishing shouldn’t be stressful, but I will tell you that I was under an extreme amount of stress as I brought that fish in. It seemed to mean an awful lot to Emmet and I didn’t want to disappoint him.

During the last half mile of the float, Morgan’s pole finally gave up the good-fight and actually separated from itself as she casted it apart. Through all our snags and crossed lines, Emmet was ever-patient, gentle and filled with good humor. When she casted her rod apart you could have sliced the tension with a knife. As he told her to “FREEZE. Don’t MOVE.” The only thing I could compare it to would be if he was diffusing a bomb that was strapped to her chest. The rods must be expensive?

Anyway. After we finished and got out and Emmet took the raft out of the river, Dave and Charlie floated up about 15 minutes behind us, all quiet grace and elegance. Long beautiful casts with the sun behind them. Kind of made me feel sorry for Emmet.

They each had caught “a few good sized trout.” But have no pictures to show for it and therefore I don’t believe them.

Because Emmet and Toby didn’t get the message that we switched from a full day to a half day in time, they had already purchased box lunches for us. We bought the box lunches from them and ate them on the way back to camp. It was a good call (my idea, of course). They were DEE-LUXE turkey sammies with sides of sprouts, tomato, lettuce, pickled peppers and onions and came with a veggie pack and ranch dip (that even Morgan liked!). And a cookie.

It saved us time upon returning to camp and breaking down. It was HOT – 93 degrees. But the grotto made it bearable. I love the grotto…

The plan this morning was to head north to Coeur D’Alene, Idaho and camp up there somewhere near the lake. But during the float with Emmet, intermixed with all him humorous “Ah! Black fly!” outbursts, aimed at Morgan to parody her damnation of our infested camping site, he said “Majestic mountains? If you are looking for that, head south toward Stanley and Sun Valley.”

I mentioned that to Dave on the car ride back and low and behold, that is what we are doing. We are literally that uncommitted to a plan. I think that’s a good thing?

But I’m not sure, actually. There might be a fair amount of rationalizing going on, on my part.

Basically, we backtracked about an hour from Darby to Lost Trail Pass and continued south on 93 into Salmon, Idaho. Awesome, awesome road scenery. I was driving that leg and the only bad part was coming around the outside corner on a hairpin turn. A smallish gold car, coming the other way, came screaming around the inside turn and began skidding out toward us. The car was as close to being on two wheels as I’ve ever seen. I fully expected it to either continue to skid directly into us or to roll over and off the cliff, possibly taking us with them.

Since I am prone to exaggeration, I read the above to Dave and Charlie and they agree it is true:

[I am in the Porcupine Mountains and forgot to scan the signatures! Check back in a week]

What? Why isn’t Morgan’s signature on there? No, she isn’t sleeping. She’s watching “Step Up Two,” which I believe we stole from the Murnane cabin and which I believe I later tried to pay for, but Kathy wouldn’t let me. Anyway, I’m not asking for her signature because she exaggerates just as much as I do — if not more — and because when the incident occurred, she was in the back seat watching a movie and probably doesn’t even know it happened. Mostly, we only hear from her when we go thru a town and she deigns to grace us with her verbal skills: “HEY. Is there any SERVICE here?” Or, more commonly, when she has her headphones on and is whisper-singing far too loudly. Other than that, we could be driving in circles for hours and she would never know. As long as we set up camp in a different spot, we could probably stay within 5 miles every day and she would be none the wiser.

It started to get late, so we began poking around campsites off of 93 starting with the Cottonwood Recreation Area. I can’t speak for others, but Charlie said it best as we spun thru the paved sites on the Salmon River at about 30 mph: “This is not the campground for us.”

We are learning (all over again, as we can never seem to remember this from year to year) that “Recreation Areas” are a sure tip-off that we will not like the camping options. So I don’t know why we even bother to look. Instead, we drove up Morgan Creek Road, encouraged by the good karma of the name. Ten miles up a gorgeous road along a green draw, we came upon Morgan Creek Campground. Basically it was a gravel parking lot with two itty bitty tents pitched and a forest service truck parked next to one with two guys inside eating.

Disbelieving the obvious, we asked, “Is this Morgan Creek Campground?” Yep.

“How is Little West Fork Campground?” (the next and last option further up the road.) They said, “Really, really nice!”

So on we drove, eventually coming upon Little Fork, which was virtually identical to Morgan Creek with the exception that instead of two tiny tents, it included a pop-up camper, an outhouse and a picnic table inside a corral. To keep you safe from charging cattle? Seriously odd.There were no actual sites. You apparently just set up on the cul de sac.

Curiosity got the better of us: Where does this well maintained, single-lane road go, do you suppose?

Up. Up. Up. To a trailhead that goes in to Frank Church River of No Return Wilderness Area. That’s the God’s honest truth. It’s the largest wilderness area in the U.S.A. At the very, very top, which took another 30 minutes to drive, there were yet another two itty bitty tents set up. It slays me that you can drive for hours on a road, never seeing another car or live person for miles and miles and find, at the end of the road, at the top of a mountain, a “full” campsite. Because we have a penchant for solitude, we turned around and headed back down to a flat little turn-out we had spied on the way up  and disperse camped.

We knew that was legal. We just didn’t know if a campfire was legal. But seriously, who would ever know?

To explain just how remote we were is difficult.

So it was a bit of a surprise, about 8:30 pm, as dusk set in and we were finishing dinner, to hear a car coming up the road from far away. With a small fire burning and camping right off the road, we were totally busted. Charlie, rule follower that he is, was a nervous wreck. He had about five minutes of agony because it took that long for the car to appear. By that time he had scurried in to the Suburban to hide. And it wasn’t a car. it was a Forest Service truck. We braced for the encounter, each of us running over in our minds how best to profess our ignorance and play dumb. The truck drove by. Each occupant smiling and waving.

Huh. I guess you can have fires.

Charlie was relieved!

Morgan was never worried.

Dinner was MY favorite: Green Curry, together with Morgan’s 2nd favorite: boil-in-a-bag rice. This year we added chinese long beans, zucchini, eggplant and a sad handful of my sugar snap peas. It was awesome.

Dave bet me I couldn’t stay up till 10 pm. So I did. Writing this very entry to it’s full conclusion, enjoying this apparently totally legal fire.