Carnage

The piece leaning against the car is the first piece he tore off: the lid.

We bought a new garden shed for the north side of the house, and it arrived in an enormous cardboard box. I knew that I'd never be able to get the empty box into my car's cargo area to take it to the recycle center,  so I asked for some help breaking it down.

Kermit said that he'd be glad to assist me, and after jumping into the box, he dismantled it from the inside out. I think it took him 30 minutes.

300

Not long after I planted my tomatoes out in the front yard, I was bullshitting with the owner of the empty house next door. "I got over 150 pounds of tomatoes last year, but I had a few unproductive vines. This year, I'm thinking I'll get 300 pounds of tomatoes out of here."

I hoped I wouldn't regret my words later, not wanting to be known as a bullshitter, even though I was in the bullshitting mode.

Then, as can be seen in the previous post, I had a record tomato picking day. A few days later, I added another 44-pound picking. And THEN, on July 3, I broke the record and picked 55 pounds of beautiful, beautiful tomatoes. At that point, I knew I'd get my 300 by the end of tomato season.

On the 28th of July, I hit my goal. 301 pounds of tomatoes from a small suburban front yard. 

 The vines are getting a bit weary at this point, and who can blame them? So I did a stout trimming on the indeterminate vines (Early Girl and Gladiator) and took off all the branches that are done with production or that looked like they would be unproductive. The Shady Ladies are still producing; they're not ready to be pruned just yet. 

I'll keep track of what I pick until the end of the season, of course. But no more bullshitting. I have no idea how many more tomatoes I'll get this year.

That's Kermit beside the tomatoes, being such a good, calm dog. And the picture of the yard is taken from the next door neighbor's yard -- a next door neighbor who will own the house starting tomorrow. Seems like a really nice guy, and he says his wife loves raising tomatoes. Wouldn't that be cool?

Record Tomato Harvest

This morning I enlisted Bernie's help, and we picked tomatoes.

On the tray in front, the variety is "Gladiator" a new variety this year, raised from seed.  On the left, in the low basket, is "Early Girl." The rest are "Shady Lady."

51 pounds, 10 ounces.

In one picking.

That's the most ever. Last year I think the heaviest day brought in 28 pounds. On the other hand, last year I had a number of unproductive loafer vines that just didn't produce worth a damn. This year I went with the big guns (plus Gladiator) because we have a use for some tomato sauce in the future.

Aren't they a bit pale to be picked, you may ask. Not at all, really. They will finish coloring up just fine sitting on my counter.  The ones below started out picked just as blushy as the ones on the table.

They are just as flavorful, too. But the reasons I pick them just as they start to blush are three-fold: one, the sun can cook them on the vine in the afternoon heat; two, if they color up, the bugs bite them and birds peck them; and three, if they get too ripe on the vine, they soften up and the weight of the other tomatoes on the vine crushes them. Tomatoes are not only delicious, but fierce.
 

Here's what I mean about bug bites:

These are Gladiator tomatoes, a paste-type variety with a thin skin. All they have to do is start blushing, and bugs nibble or sting them. They can still be used for sauce, but they look ugly and can rot quickly once the skin is breached.

Incidentally, the description of "Gladiator" from Burpee's Seeds says it's a patio or small garden tomato. That would be only if you don't want to see your patio or small garden until next fall -- all of the plants are wide and taller than I am.


I do have another variety in the yard, a San Marzano that was on the verge of being thrown out at the nursery; I'm a sucker for orphan tomatoes and just brought it home and tucked it in with the sunflowers and overgrown onions. If it produces a fruit, I'll be glad to taste it.

From left to right, Gladiator (8 oz.), Shady Lady (8 oz.), and Early Girl (6 oz.)

 High time for a BLT, I say.

Too Hot

All gone.

For the first time in years, I planted snapdragons this past winter. Here in Central CA, snaps are "winter color." Not this year, though, as we had so much cloud cover and rain that the plants just didn't want to bloom.

Once April rolled around, though, they were beautiful, and grew tall and blossomed and smelled delicious.

June, and a heat wave. I mean HEAT WAVE, with temps in the hundreds for a week. Right now, as I type this, the weather report is that it is 107 out.

I expect heat like this at the end of July, but not in June. Especially since I just stopped wearing winter clothes about 10 days ago.

Even the plants were not expecting it. Bernie's peppers are cooking on the stem; my container corn is withered and trying to tassel too early, and all the snaps have given up. Pansies, too, are suggesting that they are ready for the compost bin.

By this time next week, temps are supposed to be back to a seasonal level. But I wonder how many more plants we're going to lose by then.

The Creepy Day ... and Night

Alex had just snitched the last piece of my bacon that I'd cooked for my breakfast, and was munching it while looking out at the back patio off the kitchen. I was in the front room, fiddling with my computer.

I heard Alex squawk, and she came back-pedaling into the front room, talking around the bacon in her mouth. "A BEHEADED RAT JUST FELL OUT OF THE SKY!!!"

Everybody leaped up and ran to see if she had lost her mind at last.

"Is it an omen, like the wolf pup being dropped into Claudius' lap in I, Claudius?" she asked, a grimace of horror on her face.

No, not likely, but since I've found bird feathers scattered at the exact same spot as the toes-up headless rodent, it seems likely that the little hawk I'd seen being chased by crows earlier in the day had sloppily dropped his lunch.

"Is that our rat?" I asked Bernie. ('Our rat' lives in the neighbor's roof and comes into our yard to steal bird seed and I haven't been able to kill the bastard yet.)

"That's a mouse," he said, disappointed as I was that Rat had not met his demise.

Just then, a scrub jay began to hop down from the tree, purposefully and strangely possessively.

Speculating on whether or not the jay wanted the dead mouse, or could successfully carry it away even if he did want it, we all withdrew to the house and watched from the windows. Sure enough, the jay pounced, grabbed the mouse, and flew off into the neighbor's yard with it.

"Good job on clean up, Jay."

But although a decapitated mouse falling from the sky was creepy enough on its own, that same night brought a troubling incident.

Allergies are really bad here this year, and Bernie and I take turns sleeping on the couch when our sinuses are bothering us. He was on the couch, I'd had a pretty sneezeless day, so I was back on the futon with Kermit. It was a warmish night, so the door to the outside was open.

At some point I felt Kermit roll up from his sprawl, and I turned over to see what looked like a dog sitting outside our sliding screen door. At first I thought that someone had found a black dog and shoved him in our gate, thinking it was Kermit on the loose. But then I remembered locking the gate before bedtime. I disentangled myself from the covers and got up to have a look.

Nothing was there.

I'd have thought I was dreaming, but Kermit was still staring intently at the door. And whatever it was that I saw was sitting, while Kermit was still lying down, so it wasn't a reflection from the glass part of the door.

I shut the door for the rest of the night.

The next day Bernie told me he'd heard something on the fence that woke him up, there being an open window beside the couch.

Makes me kind of nervous now to sleep with the door open.

Dog Toy

The toy I got Kermit for Christmas went right into the trash twenty minutes after he unwrapped it. The packaging said that it was made for aggressive-playing dogs, made from firehose material, made to hold up under rough play.

Plainly they had never tested the toy on Kermit's jaws. I threw it for him once, and then he systematically sawed it into pieces and gutted it.

So I don't buy him cute doggie toys like I used to with Howie, Babe, or Desi (a border collie/collie mix who took excellent care of all his toys) -- there's no point, I might as well throw a ten dollar bill at him and let him shred it.

However, after I filled the salt shakers in the kitchen, I had a sturdy salt box to put in the recycle bag. Had I been wearing shoes, I'd have stomped on it to flatten it and break it down a little, but I had sandals on.

...Oh, wait, I know who can help me with deconstruction. I showed it to Kermit, who was keeping me company as he always does, and then tossed it into the front room. He leaped after it, scooped it up.

The salt box fit in his jaws perfectly, and he began to gallop from the kitchen back door to the front door in eight-foot leaps, growling around his new toy. He tossed it in the air, chased it across the floor, chomped it, capered while shaking it, ran back and forth over and over again.

When he was done scampering and had settled down to eat the box, I traded him a big dog cookie for the container, and took a picture of it to remind me that there is one dog toy I can get for him on a regular basis.

Makes me feel a lot better about being able to give him a new thing to play with. Next time I'll take the label off before I give it to him -- he'll be able to play with it a few minutes longer.

Cucumbers Ahoy!

The other cucumber is not missing, it was transformed. John and I made it into a tzatziki sauce to go with the previously mentioned leg of lamb.

The past two years, I haven't planted cucumbers; I'm pretty much the only one who eats them, and the pot I used to plant them in has been taken over by a dwarf plum tree, and the vines always got buggy anyway. But this year, I had a hankering for fresh cucumber, and the stuff I get in the store tastes like it's crossed with zucchini.

These taste fabulous, and I'm so glad I planted them this year.

So let's talk about the leg of lamb again. I roasted it at 350 degrees in an open pan until the interior temp was 115 (about an hour and a half), then brought it out, wrapped it in foil to let it rest for 15 minutes. The exterior was seasoned with salt, garlic powder and cumin; inside the hole left by the removed bone I had stuffed several split cloves of garlic. It tasted great, and what's more, it was the most tender lamb I have ever cooked.

I was going to use the leftover lamb to make a batch of black bean chili, but with cucumbers like these, forget it. More tzatziki for me!

More New Tricks

Coincidentally, I was watching a Food Network show last night that had a quick feature involving mushrooms sauteed in butter. The feature showcased a bunch of different kind of mushrooms and made me hungry. Then this morning, when we turned on the TV to keep the dogs calm while we were out shopping, there was another show on -- with mushrooms.

While we were out shopping I bought ... mushrooms.

Go figure.

So I chopped five or six white button mushrooms thinly, and grated a fat clove of garlic. I sauteed them both in a pat of butter, then splashed them with white wine -- a tasty Italian pinot grigio -- and continued to cook the browny mushrooms until the liquid was gone. I added a couple splashes of cream, and got a yummy mushroom sauce thereby.

I also cooked up a bag of Crystal Bay frozen mussels with white wine and seasonings. And although SOME PEOPLE say cheese and seafood don't go together, I grated a little bit of fontina cheese, added a couple shakes of parmesan,  and romano, and a few dabs of goat cheese. When the 3 ounces of angel hair pasta were done, I folded them into the creamy mushrooms, added the cheeses and tossed it all together. Put the mussels on top.

Lil and I ate the whole batch.

Never did that before, but I will be doing it again.

New Tricks

Alex brought her phone to me one day recently to show me some art someone had posted on some social media site. (Note the use of the word "some" -- that means I didn't bother to remember the names.)

The worthy experimental artist had put a stem of gypsophilia (baby's breath) on a scanner, and scanned it with the lid of the scanner open. DUH!!

There was a faint illumination from the room the scanner was in, but the ethereal image of the tiny flowers was stunning. Naturally I had to give it a try myself, in my garage studio, which is devoid of light.

I put a stem of my white geraniums on the scanner, turned off all the lights, and from my indoor workspace, fired up the scanner remotely and got this delicious result.

I tried the project with snapdragons, nasturtiums, and sweet peas.

Next I think I'll snitch a few of Bernie's dianthus blooms, which should come out looking like mutated stars in a midnight sky.

Also I should do a good job of cleaning those pesky specks off my scanner's bed.

Seder 2017

Another Seder done.

This was the centerpiece arrangement for Seder this year, with really lovely flowers from Trader Joe's, white chrysanthemums and yellow alstromeria. The leather ferns came from my north-side garden, where they grow rampant.

I can't ever remember a bad Seder, but this one was especially joyous because -- well, we didn't host one last year, and we all missed the tradition. The singing was great, the laughter of company welcome.

John outdid himself by making lamb kofta, little patties of seasoned ground lamb, with a cucumber-yogurt sauce. Eaten with a dab of spicy goat cheese on a little flatbread -- superb. Bernie made a surprisingly delicious rice dish that included onions, garlic, raisins, and roasted cauliflower, with a corn stock gravy. Amazing food!

Oh, I baked two loaves of French bread as my culinary contribution. Actually I baked four; the weather (cold and rainy) affected the dough and the first two loaves were truly horrible. They FELL, and even tasted bad. The second two were great, go figure.

Yeah, I guess we'll do this again next year.

Baby Kittens, Who Could Resist?

The very first in this season's line of kittens for the Crazy Old Tomato Lady's garden.

The variety is "Gladiator" from Burpee's Seed catalog of Roma-like tomatoes. They're supposed to produce some spectacular fruits, so we'll give them a try. I haven't started my own tomatoes for a few years, so this has been a treat. I've moved the seedlings from the sunny window in the front room to the sunnier, hotter window in the kitchen. After the coming chilly nights the next few days, they'll be transitioning to the outdoors by playing on the front porch during the warm afternoons, and being brought back indoors at night.

I hope they do well. The rest of the tomato areas will be inhabited by the wild and wooly Early Girls and the draft-horse powerhouse Shady Ladies.

In addition to tomatoes, we'll be planting sweet corn, watermelons, canteloupes, and maaaaybe a cucumber. And peppers. And I hear Alex is doing herbs. And who knows what else?

Today's weather included drizzle, sunshine, downpours, hail, sun again, and a cold wind. Good for kittens to stay inside a little while longer.

Looks Cool in the Morning

Back in 1986, when I saw my backyard fence look like this, I was sure I had an irresponsible neighbor who was surely going to set the property on fire.

After our drenching rains soaked the world of California, this morning the sun came up in a cloudless sky, and steamed the excess wetness out.

Back in pre-1985 Pennsylvania, fences didn't steam, and February was a month of cold slushy days and dirty snow. Twenty years later, here in the Central Valley, I now know that a smoky-looking fence is a sure sign of spring.

Tools of the Trade

From the left: grooming mitt, leather gloves to protect my hands from cold and potential leash-burns, a thin (and cheap) kennel lead. Then a short black goat-lead (yes, goat, you read that right), two chain collars, a green nylon collar for a dog to wear when he's riding in the car, a leather leash that originally belonged to Babe, and a 10 foot training leash.

Not represented is a soft red slip lead because it was in the car.

Bernie made me this cute wooden rack for Kermit's stuff. It hangs on the wall behind the bedroom door, perfect for a left-handed grab while my right hand signals Kermit to sit or lie down to get ready for an outing.

The mitt and gloves are pretty understandable, but why so many things, and what is their purpose?

The thin kennel lead is something I can tuck in any pocket (I have one in the glove compartment of the car, too) and use to show Kermit what I want him to do, such as lie down and stay put in any given place instead of pestering people. It's a slip lead; it has an eye at one end and a handle on the other. That way it can hang loosely around the dog's neck if the dog is calm, or be tightened under the dog's ears to control his head. What Kermit has learned from it is that he is to pay attention to what I want him to do. It's not a punishment, it's a permit to relax and not have to think things out for himself.

The goat lead is a nylon handle with a snap end. It hooks to Kermit's chain collar. At that arm-length and dog-height, he doesn't need to put any pressure on it to walk properly at my side. Lillian had one when she was showing goats for 4-H, and I knew it could be a useful tool.

The two chain collars ... one was Howie's, and fit Kermit when I got him. A "choke" collar like that should have a four-inch drop -- uhh, that is, if you tighten it up high on the neck under the dog's ears, there should be four inches of chain running to your leash. This kind of collar is not to choke a dog, but a quick tug makes a clanking symbol to Pay Attention Now. Babe's old chain collar is in a secret place in my studio, too big for Kermit, as Kermit doesn't have the heavy thick neck pelt that Babe did. But Howie's chain collar is now too small for his froggy successor.

The nylon collar is simply for car travel, so Kermit can still his head out the window and not put nicks in the glass with the chain collar. I don't like what nylon collars do to fur, so it's strictly a car outfit.

The leather lead is what I use most often lately; the 10 foot training lead is handy for when we're out in the woods and I don't want him off leash to chase squirrels, and was invaluable when Kermit was just learning how to go for a walk -- I could use it as a slip lead to control his big head, but the long length was good for letting him sniff the new world he found himself in.

But lately, he's been "getting it" and walking pretty darn gentlemanly with the leash hanging in a loop, putting no pressure at all on my hand. Makes me feel good, seeing my big dog padding along at my side, checking on my attention to make sure he's doing right.

Right now, he's coiled on an oversized ottoman by my knees, waiting to see what we're going to do next, dozing until I'm ready to move. Oh, good dog.

Happy New Year! And Food! And Dog!

Bernie's grand experiment this past fall was to attempt to grow Brussels sprouts in pots in our front yard farm. I'd given it a half-hearted try the previous year, but planted them too late -- I got to eat some of the foliage, but they never made those cute little mini-cabbage shapes. Bernie has had much more success.

Today he decided that some of them were big enough to eat. So we cooked them in bacon fryings with diced onion. Melt the bacon fat, add the onions, let them sweat down a little, then put in the halved Brussels sprouts, stirring gently now and then. When the color is bright green, cover them and let them steam themselves for a few minutes. Then flavor with salt and garlic powder, stir and steam again. They're done when a fork can penetrate them tenderly.

Holy smoley, they were delicious! Of course, as with just about all food, the sweet intensity of the flavor was so much better coming out of the garden minutes before. Yes, fresh is better than produce that sits in bins for days or weeks.

I love how they look like little knobby palm trees, and based on our culinary experience today, Bernie says he wants to plant a lot more of them next fall. I agree. More Brussels sprouts, more red-leaf lettuce, less spinach and chard and collards.

Yes, of course I have a picture of Kermit on his office chair near the table where I work. When I picked up the camera, he looked at me as though he expected to be photographed. He was very proud of himself today: he helped me unload the throw rugs from the dryer, every one of them. He's a working dog.

2017 is coming in with a deluge. I even heard a rumor that some of the reservoirs are going to fill to pre-drought levels. I certainly hope so, but I'll believe it when I see it. In the mean time, we have tentative plans to visit a somewhat flooded soccer field on Monday -- we're supposed to get a whopper of a rain over the weekend. Kermit is going to love it...

Happy New Year for 2017

In 2016, I did not make as much of an artistic effort as I would have liked. I'm hoping that 2017 will be a little better in that regard.

The big things in 2016? An expanded front yard garden, with over 150 pounds of tomatoes, a year's worth of turnips, my first successful canteloupes and cabbages, and more chard than I can eat or give away.

And Kermit the Frog-Dog. He's about a year and three months old now, hopefully as big as he'll ever get, and blossoming with a sweet and gentle personality. When I first got him, he was very needy-puppy-don't-mess-with-your-laptop, but with the newly-donated furniture in our front room, he has his own chair right behind where I work on the Press. I pull out the computer, and he hops up on his chair and snoozes like a perfect Office Dog. Maybe he'll let me get more art done in the coming year.

In spite of not doing enough art in the past year, I did renew my love/hate relationship with water colors, and revisited my teen efforts (crap, 46 years ago???) with oil pastels.

Do I make any resolutions for the new year? Not really. I'd like to do some art work every day, but I know that it's not, at this time, a realistic goal. I know I'll walk more with Kermit, garden more with 10 raised boxes in the front yard, and learn how to lay hardwood laminate flooring (starting in a week or so). I'll keep the Piker Press going.

That's probably enough.

Happy New Year, everybody.

A Surprise Snack in the Flower Pot

What the heck?

Who knew that ornamental sweet potato vines would produce -- sweet potatoes?

And not only are they edible, they're delicious with a little butter and salt.

Kind of looks like plumbing under the sink, though.

The Frog in Autumn

Some people might say that I am besotted with this dog. I can only counter that I have loved all the dogs I've had in my life. Kermit is no exception.

Kermit is also a dog with NO undercoat. None. Under that flat black hair he is naked. And he gets cold. We've had a few chilly nights, and since we sleep with the door open to the air, I've been awakened at 3am a number of times by a big froggy beast who forcefully pastes himself against my back to get warm. If I drape a blanket over him, he settles in.

So I got him a sweater.

Extra large.

I wasn't sure how stacking would work out after having surgery on my left hand, but it was fine.  A non-stick bandage kept the area clean, a light cotton work glove padded it even more, and then the leather work glove over top -- no problems.

Of course the highs were huddling very close to 100 degrees every day that I stacked -- doesn't matter if I get wood in July or August, the heat always soars for the dirty, strenuous wood-work.

Interestingly, this year the stacking seemed a lot easier, and I worked for longer stretches than previous years. For that, I guess I have Kermit to thank. The priority of walking him each morning for 40 minutes has really paid off in terms of my health.

Speaking of which big black pup, he's really coming along (so to speak) with walking on a leash. We've been walking through town instead of on the outskirts, and I'm pleased with his progress as he adjusts to the hustle and bustle on the streets.

Ahhh ... Football Again

So imagine me, eagerly using the modern technology of Direct TV to search, last Sunday, for the first pre-season NFL football game, the Hall of Fame game.

No one else in the house was particularly interested, largely because the Hall of Fame game is pretty much an exhibition game (it does rhyme with "lame") and has no meaning for the season. Still, it was the Colts and the Packers, and who wouldn't want to see if Andrew Luck has healed up well, and watch for that nasty glint Aaron Rodgers gets in his eyes when he knows his team is going to shellac the opponents?

Right, not many people care, but I'm one of the few.

I find Channel 206 with a minimum of effort (I really, really like Direct TV) and tune in to hear the announcer saying, "We don't know if the game will be canceled or not at this point."

WHAAAAAT????

Apparently some doofus -- maybe that should be capitalized, because I think that this mess may have re-defined the appellation -- some Doofus overseeing the painting of the turf's logos didn't know the difference between field paint and exterior building paint (or didn't bother to check to see what the crew had picked up from Supply) and the field was ruined. Especially after they sprayed some solvent on it trying to fix the mess, and I don't know of any exterior paint solvent that isn't toxic as hell.

Game over. Good thing I didn't make up my chicken wings to eat during the game. Or a plate of noshes, either of which I would not have done for the Hall of Fame game anyway.

But it would have been NFL Football. So I've had to wait another four days. Tonight there are six games being played, and I am going to watch all of them. Well, no, I won't, but whatever game is on, I'm going to watch it.

I'm going to be looking with hungering eyes for those long, bullet-like passes, the fancy footwork of running backs, and the defensive pounces that can sit a quarterback on his butt on the field in seconds. Will Garoppolo start for the Patriots? And will the Denver defense look sharp again this year?

Can't wait to find out!

The Bountiful Summer

For me, this is one of the most beautiful sights of summer: sweet corn -- from my own front yard.

Apparently the raised planter right next to the sidewalk has just the perfect climate for corn, because the plants got eight feet tall and produced full-sized ears. The pretty containers of corn out on the back patio don't do quite so well, not as tall, and with smaller (but not less tasty) ears. Maybe it's because so many people walk by on the sidewalk and admire the urban farming project -- maybe it gives the corn there more self-esteem.

We had plenty of corn from that 6' x 2 1/2' box, enough for several meals (and I mean corn as the main ingredient) and some to put away in the freezer. The variety is Burpee's On Deck corn, developed specifically for container gardening.

The other wonder this year was a successful experiment -- growing canteloupe in a raised bed. I'd never grown canteloupe before, and wasn't sure the plants would set fruit. Well, they sure did! We've been eating canteloupe like crazy, something we just couldn't really afford before. Delicious!

The melon variety, incidentally, is again a Burpee's product: Olympic Express. We plan on planting them again next spring.

But even while we feast on melons and corn and tomatoes, we're looking ahead a month and planning where to place the brussels sprouts, the beets, the turnips -- winter gardening will be much more varied.

Ah, but back to corn. I'd still like to lay in another five or six pounds of sweet corn for winter ... I wonder if the fruit stand up the road has some for a good price.

Moose and Squirrel

Alex sent me this photo of Joma and Kermit with the title "Moose and Squirrel."

Why I'm Quiet

I had surgery on my left hand last Thursday.

The condition is called a "contracture" and it is a gradual tightening of a tendon. This one was in my left index finger, making my finger bend inward. It's been years since it started, and I wasn't worried about it, until this past year, when it seemed to be getting worse rapidly.

Now it's taken care of, the doctor says. In a week, stitches will come out and the mini-cast will come off. In the mean time, typing is a challenge. Well, actually, anything I'd normally do two-handed is a challenge.

But I did walk with Kermit again this morning, and we saw a glorious red sunrise come up through the hazy sky.

Puppies

Just in case anyone was wondering how Kermit is fitting into the household...

Joma is four years old. Kermit is 10 months old. And while we still make sure that Joma is safely out of harm's way when Kermit gets silly-puppy-gallops, he's as gentle as a stuffed toy with her. She does get frustrated when he gets in between her and where she wants to be, mostly because there is no way she can shove him hard enough to make him move.

Joma's shirt? She adores playing "soccer" with kids her age. As you can imagine, it mostly involves kicking a ball and screaming while racing around madly.

28 Pounds

Yes, I did. I picked 28 pounds of tomatoes from my front yard garden.

Bernie snagged probably another pound for his salsa before I got to the scales.

This has been a great year for my tomatoes, with Shady Ladies and Early Girls vying for the prettiest production. However, the tomatoes in the silver bowl are on reserve -- no one who is ambivalent about the taste of tomatoes should eat them, because they are Bush Big Boy, and definitely the best-tasting tomato I've had since I was a kid, and Mom raised Big Boys.

I'm going to go eat one of them now.

P.S. Bernie and I froze five pounds of zucchini this morning, and seven pounds of sweet corn yesterday afternoon. That'll take the bite out of winter!

What?

Since people are not supposed to hang clothes outdoors, according to a city ordinance, I chose to hang some in my living room. 

Fortunately my living room has some large indoor plants -- they got so large I had the roof removed.

And anyone who knows me can tell you that my dog is an indoor dog, as you can tell by his shadowy figure on the rug.

I find that sitting in my comfortable chair in my living room, with my laptop in my lap and my laundry hung from the walls is a very soothing environment, absolutely wonderful for writing.

Artistic, yes? I love this idea of wall-hangings.

Morning Camp

When you camp out, one of the sweetest activities you have is to build a fire, in the evenings to light the night, in the morning to warm you up after you crawl out of your tent.

Kermit and I get up around five-thirty, mumble around doing what we have to do, and then hit the streets (and/or the river walk) by six, and creep in the northside gate around a quarter to seven or so. On select mornings, Bernie has a stack of kindling in the chiminea ready for ignition on the back patio, and my tea water on simmer at the back of the stove.

I must say that on mornings like today, when the temps are still in the 50s, that morning campfire feels mighty good. The sun comes up and adds to the thawing effect on our old bones, whispering to us that soon there will be no point in a fire, that if we are at all cool at 7am, we should count ourselves lucky.

Yes, I will. But I'm very lucky now, too, to sit and sip tea by the morning camp.

Awakened at 2 AM

We were awakened by John booming something about an accident on the street, sometime around 2 am. Bernie went to investigate; I blearily got up and took Kermit out, as puppies have to go when they're rallied from sleep, even if they don't usually get up until six. By the time I got out front, the truck that made those tire tracks in my neighbor's grass had been pushed back off our rosemary bush.

Apparently the driver had fallen asleep.

Right. In point of fact, he had been drinking, according to Bernie and John, who had conversed with the fool before the police arrived and arrested him for DUI. (I missed that drama as well. Thanks, Kermit.)

The wreck knocked down the fence; the truck got hung up in the rosemary bush -- a wild, unruly shrub that I've been itching to yank out for years. Glad I didn't, as it kept the truck from killing my tomatoes and baby shade trees behind it. A couple hours after I took this picture, we did indeed take out the rosemary -- the truck had snapped it off at the roots.

Amazingly, the simple construction of the fence allowed it to be pushed over before it broke, so Bernie was able to pull it upright and pound it back in with a mallet. It looks like it did before. Rustic, maybe, but pretty durable.

Can't say the same for the neighbor's car.

That driver sideswiped her car from tail-lights to headlights, and pushed it up onto the sidewalk. That crunching sound was what woke John up.

Did the driver actually fall asleep, or did he pass out? Judging from how long the destruction went on, I'd say the latter. Shame on him for driving when he was that drunk.

Kermit and Eperis - Dogs

Well, why not take some pictures of our dogs -- especially when they are actually behaving themselves instead of wrestling and crashing around the house? This day, they were tussling and roaring so loudly that we just opened up the back doors and let them take their rowdiness outside. And did they? No, they did not. They settled down on the pool deck and sunbathed quietly.

Kermit is proving to be a wonderful puppy. Based on some physical characteristics, and opinions of other Labrador retriever owners, we've revised his estimated age down a bit. He's only about eight months old.

However, our daily walks are getting much better. He doesn't drag me much at all, and I've become more confident about walking with him. We wake up before six in the morning, and then walk for about 40 minutes before breakfast.

His worst trait? He's still pining for the kids in the family that abandoned him. He sees or hears the kids at school up the street and he just goes into a frantic mood, trying to go to them and find his lost kids. I simply cannot walk him on the street where the school is, except on the weekends.

On Sunday mornings, Bernie and I have been taking Kermit with us when we go to 7am Mass. It's shady and cool where we park, and he can easily wait in the car. The early Mass is a quick one, no music or frills. After Mass, we take him to a dog park in Modesto where he can run loose and chase tennis balls or meet other dogs.

The big surprise is Eperis. Once Kermit entered the household, Ep stopped being a scooty little snotball, and has stepped up his game and become a responsible role model for the younger dog.

When they do get to chasing each other around the yard, Ep likes to evade Kermit by jumping into the pool. Kermit doesn't know how Eperis manages to run in the water yet, but I think in another month Ep will have lured him all the way in.

And of course, Eperis cannot be outdone in cuteness. He knows exactly how to get a belly rub.

There, I've blogged about two good dogs. They're a lot more fun to look at than James Franco.

Why My Teeth Fell Out After Seeing "Oz the Great and Powerful"

Now I know.

The ladies of this household all trooped off to SuperCuts and our favorite hair stylist, Anna, on Saturday afternoon. While Lil was having her massive mane sheared off, I happened to glance at the stack of magazines and saw this magazine with the cover artfully torn.

No, I didn't do it, but I'd like to shake the hand that did.

Big Dog

Kermit the Dog

10 months at most

Alotta cubic feet of canine

Kermit

This is Kermit.

On the evening of March 16, we picked him up at the veterinary clinic. He and I dragged each other around the corner so that we'd have a relatively quiet street to see if we could get him into the car without a crane.

"Let's see if he knows anything about cars," we said, and opened the rear hatch of the Vibe. SPROING! Kermit landed in the back on all fours and -- plunked himself down on the carpet as if riding in a car was something he did all the time.

Earlier that day I had tidied our room, moved some small furniture to make a floor space available, brought in a new water dish, and put down an old blanket for a mat for Kermit to sleep on. I was anticipating having Kermit on a leash 24 hours a day for a few days, to accustom him to Pilarski civilization, keeping him apart from the rest of the household until he was calmed down.

Pffft. He came into the house, sniffed around our room, tried to climb onto the bed. "Aha!" I thought. "He knows what a bed is for." He also knew what the word "Off" meant. He quite readily made use of the blanket mat, so he knew what that was for, too. After a bit, I took him outside, and he knew what a good dog does outside.

In spite of my decision to keep him off the bed, when Bernie crawled under the covers, Kermit lay down right against his legs, and our resolve melted. Kermit slept in between us all night, and even though he is a BIG dog, he took up less space than Ep does when he sleeps with us.

Okay, so this dog knows how to sleep with people, too. He's housebroken, his toenails were cut by a professional groomer, he's sweet, loves people, he's gentle. He doesn't bark. Why in heaven's name would someone just dump him? He was at the animal shelter for over two weeks, and no one tried to find him.

Did someone think that the puppy they were raising was going to stay small? And were not willing to pay the $70 live surrender fee to the shelter? Maybe.

Thursday morning, Kermit got to walk around the house. He met John and Joma (Alex and Lil had paid him a visit on Wednesday) and was polite and happy, and then it was Eperis' turn.

They did okay, too. Ep was a little pissed at another dog in the house, but his herding skills kicked right in and he corralled Kermit in the middle of the living room. Kermit loved it.

We're trying to keep Kermit a little quiet until his incision is healed, but soon he and Eperis are going to have some rowdy times together.

So I've got a dog to wake me at 6:30 with kisses and crashing cuddles. Beats an alarm clock any day.

Yeah, he does look like Sebastian, doesn't he?

Guess I'll Have Those Words on a Sandwich, Pass the Dill Pickles

Too big. Too messy. Too much of a chance.

I was sure he wasn't the dog for me, the timing wasn't right, I didn't have time for a dog, blah, blah, blah.

Then Bernie and I went for a walk around the block. On the other side of Zumstein Street, a little dog ran out of a yard. "There he goes," I said to Bernie as the mutt scrambled down the sidewalk at full speed. But as the dog came past the cars parked over there, he dashed forward, across the street ... right at me. Wiggling madly, he came to my feet to greet me with recognition and delight. There was one white dot on the back of his little red neck, a dot that looked exactly like the dot on the back of the neck of a shelter dog called "Hoagie" that I had met and petted months before -- like last August. "Can this be Hoagie?" I said, just as his owner came running across the street, shouting, "Hoagie!"

"It IS Hoagie! I met this dog at the shelter," I explained to his owner. Bernie and I chatted with Brett for a while, then we went on our ways. I was glad to see that Hoagie had found such a doting owner.

Yet it gave me food for thought. If Hoagie, a dog I petted in passing six months ago, remembered me, what must that big pup think of someone who spent twenty minutes petting and playing with him, someone who just turned around and walked away and never came back?

I'd referred to him (after I met him when talking to Alex) as "that froggy mutt down at the shelter." And standing by my bedroom door looking out at the rain, I thought, "What would I do, call him 'Froggy?' Stupid name for a dog." And I'm not kidding, I heard something like a small voice say, His name is Kermit.

We went down to see him again this morning. Oh, boy, did he ever recognize me. We took him to the Adoption Room to let him interact with us in a quiet setting; we were impressed with his calmness mixed with happy spirits. He didn't bark, he didn't jump. He sat beside me, he came when we clapped for him. I put a leash on him to test how hard I'd have to pull on him to get his attention and direction ... not much at all. And then, on the leash, he just lay down and relaxed.

He'll visit the vet in the morning when Animal Control takes him there for neutering, and by evening, I will have a big, smelly dog with me, a dog named Kermit.

Not Him Either

Last week I went down to the local Animal Shelter to look at a dog. Alex had been down there volunteering, and came home with a tale of a nice puppy reputed to be a Labrador Retriever/German Shepherd mix.

We took him to an outside run and messed with him for about 20 minutes, then I had Alex call Bernie and tell him to come down and look at the dog, too. For having been in an animal shelter kennel for more than a week, he was remarkably mellow, and easily came to lean against my legs; he had a happy demeanor, and was willing to sit. His feet were enormous, though; plainly, even though he was a big puppy, he is going to be a much larger adult. I didn't really see any Shepherd in him, but the Lab was quite evident.

On a whim, Bernie dragged me off to an adoption event at German Shepherd Rescue of Modesto. We petted German Shepherds for about half an hour, big ones, puppies, in-betweens. We came home without a new dog.

The next evening, Alex and John had to go out of town, leaving us in charge of the girls. And of Eperis, who naturally slept in our bed with us because he believes that dogs do sleep in beds with people.

When I woke in the morning, Ep was already watching me, ready for a snuggle. Then I knew that the shelter dog was not for me. That huge puppy would require attention 24/7 for a long time, and I'm not willing to give up the interaction I have with Ep.

The other thing that I realized, thinking about the dogs I'd looked at over the weekend, was that all the German Shepherds we petted didn't really speak to us: they were all looking for their foster-owners. All looking for someone else. And the part-Lab? He wasn't looking for us, he was looking for anybody.

The Lab would have been too big to be a lap dog, anyway, whereas Eperis is obviously not.

I don't know if I'll find another companion dog for me in my life or not. Howie would be a hard act to follow. For the time being, Ep fills in as best he can, at my heels in the kitchen if he hears me get out the cutting board or opening the wrapper of a loaf of bread, greeting me in the mornings with many kisses, staring intensely into my eyes with optimism and good nature.

I'm content for now.

Predation

I was standing at the kitchen door that leads out onto the patio. A grey piece of fuzziness drifted down from the hopseed tree. And then another, more obviously a fluffy feather.

And then another!

And more, a veritable shower of feathers, not just downy chest fluff, but primary feathers as well. We stepped out the door to see who was plucking what up in the tree, and a small hawk flew away, leaving an avalanche of feathers hung up on the twigs and leaves.

An inspection of the feathers:

I knew immediately what the species of lunch was. And if that wasn't clear enough, there was this:

Delicious, crunchy fresh cedar wax-wing.

Why couldn't it have been one of those noisy, pesty mockingbirds?

The Moon and I

Never was able to take a picture of a full moon before, without the image horribly over-exposing. My "old" camera just couldn't do it. This image was taken with the "new" camera, a Sony DSC H400. And no tripod.

Not yet, anyway. I love the ZOOM on this new camera, but wow, I have to seriously lean on something and hold my breath to use it. When the moon was full last week, I leaned against the back of the house, held up the camera ... I did not know until then that the camera will focus even if you're not touching the shoot button.

I'm a little intimidated by a camera that's smarter than I am.

Goodbye, Mike

The illustration is one I did for the Piker Press story "The Health Club Gallery Tour" by Michael Price. He really got a kick out of it, and we planned on re-releasing the story when I got around to doing more illustrations for him.

Mike wrote stories for the Press for the last four years ... well, he wrote for the sake of writing, and the Press benefited from his work. The last one that got published was "Zucchini Bread: The Recipe" and this morning, I looked at the comments pending approval and found an ominous one:

"My taste buds loved many slices of Mike's zucchini bread over the years, and I will save this recipe since, unfortunately, Mike made his last loaves this past month. RIP, Mike."

My taste buds loved many slices of Mike's zucchini bread over the years, and I will save this recipe since, unfortunately, Mike made his last loaves this past month. RIP, Mike. - See more at: http://www.pikerpress.com/article.php?aID=6186#sthash.QETTDymd.dpuf

My taste buds loved many slices of Mike's zucchini bread over the years, and I will save this recipe since, unfortunately, Mike made his last loaves this past month. RIP, Mike. - See more at: http://www.pikerpress.com/article.php?aID=6186#sthash.QETTDymd.dpuf

My taste buds loved many slices of Mike's zucchini bread over the years, and I will save this recipe since, unfortunately, Mike made his last loaves this past month. RIP, Mike. - See more at: http://www.pikerpress.com/article.php?aID=6186#sthash.QETTDymd.dpuf

My taste buds loved many slices of Mike's zucchini bread over the years, and I will save this recipe since, unfortunately, Mike made his last loaves this past month. RIP, Mike. - See more at: http://www.pikerpress.com/article.php?aID=6186#sthash.QETTDymd.dpuf

My taste buds loved many slices of Mike's zucchini bread over the years, and I will save this recipe since, unfortunately, Mike made his last loaves this past month. RIP, Mike. - See more at: http://www.pikerpress.com/article.php?aID=6186#sthash.QETTDymd.dpuf

What a horrible joke someone has made, I thought, and then Googled Mike's name and town to see if there was an obituary. I couldn't find one, so I emailed the commenter directly and asked for an explanation. And got the worst possible one.

Mike died last Friday night.

Mike was more than a Piker Press contributor. He and I shared a great interest in NFL football; he was always ready to hear my latest rant about unsportsmanlike conduct or unbelievable plays. Our last correspondence was about this year's Superbowl and how we hoped (grudgingly) that Denver would win so that Cam Newton would SHUT UP.

We discovered we were both gardeners, too, (something to do in Off-Season) raising tomatoes and zucchini and whatnot, comparing varieties and techniques and the climates of Minnesota and California.

This past June, Mike submitted a piece to the Press called "Lest We Forget," about a -- letter? speech? -- to his deceased father, with a quote near the end of it:



"Hell, now I might as well just wait and deliver [this] in person.
Shouldn't be long now, Dad."

Ah, Mike, I wish you hadn't been right, and I'm going to miss you a lot, my friend.

New Stuff

This mockingbird was still a bit fluffed-up and grumpy-looking when I poked my head out the kitchen door and snapped this photo. It's not the greatest subject matter, the composition is ... meh. The big thing about the picture is that it is one of the first ones on my new camera.

I stayed with Sony, as my old ("old") camera has lasted for nine years. The new creature is another Cyber-shot, a Sony DSC H400. There's a lot more camera there, with a 63x zoom, and a host of features I have yet to explore.

People who know digital cameras well tend to sneer at the "Point and Shoot" cameras, but I think that this new toy is going to do everything I need it to do and then some, and I didn't have to spend a thousand dollars on it. The salesman at Best Buy was introducing me to a camera that -- in order to do what my old camera could -- would require me to buy two lenses in addition. Uh, no.

Looking forward to lots of new ways to shoot pics.

The Development of Language

This is Joan Maria, AKA Joma, adorably assisting her grandfather in his culinary experimentation.

Joma is three and a half. She's been a little slow to master the use of vocal language ... or so they say. She certainly understands everything that is said to her, and there have been odd moments when words and sentences come out so clearly that it's amazing. She calls her big sister "Loa" -- but when Bernie teasingly pretended not to know who "Loa" was, Joma said, with a little exasperation, "Lillian." It wasn't that she couldn't say the name, but rather that she had decided for herself to re-christen her sister.

Ask her to say any word, though, and you get silence. At least here at home; her teacher at pre-school speech therapy has no problems with Joma's cooperation. Joma says what and when she wants to.

Bernie and I were hanging out with our grand-daughters a few nights ago. The TV was on, and Bernie wanted Lillian to watch a travel program about Laos with him. He'd recorded it a few weeks earlier, and this was the first chance he'd had to show it to her. Joma was playing with her toy cars on the floor beside him, ignoring the conversations around her.

He thumbed the remote down through the menu of recordings. And then did it again. And again. And then realized that somewhere along the line, he'd deleted the show.

"Dammit!" he said, shaking his fist in the air.

"DAMMIT!" Joma shrieked in merriment, leaping to her feet. "Dammit, dammit, dammit, dammit!" She crawled into Bernie's lap, laughing, "Dammit! Dammit-dammit-dammit!"

No difficulties with initial consonants at all. No hesitation about final consonants or middle consonants or the production of vowels, either. What's more, she knew that "Dammit" was an expletive, and thought it hilariously funny to say it.

She hasn't said it since that night; most likely she's saving up that performance for the most shocking and inopportune time. I hope it's not at pre-school ...