We’re preparing for dinner, in that August way, where first you spend 15 minutes locating the kids, then 15 minutes asking them to come inside, then another 15 de-mudding them enough to be fit for the table. The table is still full of the latest apricot project; our floor is like a modern-art representation of both everyone’s creativity and disinterest in cleaning up after themselves; and I’m double-washing the toothy salad greens (AKA: weeds; we’re between lettuce plantings) because of the spider I found in last night’s lamb’s quarters.
Soaking dandelion greens, purslane and lambs quarters.
“What do you guys want to do to help get dinner on the table?” I ask the kids.
Col: “I’ll sweep the floor.”
Rose: “I’ll dance.”
There’s a few extra people on the property lately, various friends and boyfriends of the downstairs tenants, which is fine with us, annoying (parking-wise) to some of our neighbors, and for Col and Rose, like having endless quarters to deposit in a gumball machine that never empties. “Lets go see who’s downstairs, Coley,” Rose requests 12 times a day. The downstairs folks, these unencumbered 20-something year olds, are so gracious and patient with Col and Rose. I think they see the kids as these delightful little creatures, more amusing and interesting than a figment of their last mushroom trip, which is exactly how we 40-year olds see them.
The shark Col created with the sex-poetry magnets downstairs. Rowan called me in, laughing, to come check this out. See, funnier than his latest mushroom trip.
We participated in a clay oven pizza party this week with the downstairs folks, in which there were Enough Adults to Go Around. Meaning, Dan and I puttered happily around the garden and root cellar knowing vaguely that the kids were somewhere on the property with some adult whose pie graph of patience wasn’t already 75% eaten.
Col and John tending the fire together. Also, I did eavesdrop just a little. Overheard Col telling John the story of how he *almost* accidentally superglued his fingers to a towel. John then relayed his own superglued fingers story for Col. Big friendship for this little 7-year old.
Rowan’s amazing pizza sauce, incidentally cooked in a pot that belonged to a tenant whom we lived with when we lived downstairs in our unencumbered 20′s!
Pizza going in the oven.
The garden is going into August superdrive.
The every 2-3 day tomato haul.
Onions and cabbages getting along.
Gargantuan cabbage leaves, which may or may not be due to pee-fertilizer.
This photo below—of a squash tendril wrapped around a tomato—represents what I love about my garden, about this whole homestead…how well we all intermix.
And finally, Rose cut her hair all by her ownself.
Have a gorgeous, August-filled weekend!