Renovation

Since the weather’s cooled off  I’ve resumed rehabbing the building that’s going to be a workshop and sort of catch-all storage for junk we’re not prepared to throw away yet. I don’t know whether it’s scraping old, alligatored paint with a faulty respirator duct-taped to my head, climbing around on scaffolding, or just finally shifting my ass a bit,  but I’m beat by the end of the day. Despite that, I decided this evening to do something with the haul of poblano peppers we got from the garden. I purchased two sets from Barnes supply in Durham around mid-April, thinking we’d harvest four or five peppers from them.

We’ve probably harvested 25-30 of them so far, and there’s quite a few left on the plants.

I don’t have the patience to roast the skins off them, and it doesn’t seem to matter. I thought they might work well in a casserole with some  grain-based veggie chorizo,  roasted potatoes, olive oil, cheese, olive oil, cheese, and cheese. One thing about these particular poblanos is the lack of the mildness for which they were advertised. I have learned to handle them with gloves.

cholesterol packed!

Beat its ass, Moe.

Talking to God.

For a while I thought I was on some sort of a spiritual quest. Then I realized that  a person’s avenues to God might be determined by genetics, money, and hard work. I would have fallen back on science, and the notion of discipline and the grindstone of rationality had I been equipped with something resembling a brain, but the god of such things buggered me stupid, and left me wondering awake at night just how many people have I unintentionally hollowed out by being willful, or vapid, or neglectful. The world’s religions say it’s simple. All a matter of the ear. I salute them.

My sole question is, why does it seem like all the jerks get to have an audience with God, and then go on to write his name in the firmament. Stravinsky was a jerk. Nabokov. Bernini, Caravaggio, Joyce. All jerks.

But I don’t care, much. As long as they do shit like this.

The Big Time

Llewd,  Fred and Jack are doing a brief public appearance at a local county fair. We went to visit them last night, to see if they’ve picked up any bad habits from the carnys. Fred appeared to be enjoying the attention, and from the way he was checking people’s hands and pockets, the funnel cakes, fried Three Musketeers bars and cotton candy. Jack was mopey, but it appears his section of the floor isn’t as rich and varied in snacks. He was yelling at people to come over and show him some love, but they don’t speak mule, and they think he’s pissed at them or something.

Only one more day, Jack, then it’s carrots for you.

Llewd is parked beside a Belted Galway cow, and is demonstrating the Flehmen response to the youngsters.

“Why is he sniffing her like that?”

Possible responses:

“He is trying to determine her suitability as a mommy?”

“Her wind song stays on his mind?”

“The last time he traveled anywhere and got put in a pen, he got pussy.”

Don’t lose it!

The outer edge of glam

The tools of atavism

I’m sorry, folks. My dream was to be able to work my ass off all day and then blog about it, or paint pictures of it. But whenever I have to work my ass off, I’m just like everyone else. Box wine, motherfuckers!

Here some damn pictures.

We are going into a new path in the woods. We are doubling our output of feces and crazy.

self image

From Cactus ractus

Standpipes

We’re back in a drought.  My wife and one of the beagles have been attacked by venomous insects.  The beagle has recovered.

The hint of fall that was in the air for a couple of days has disappeared, and I’ve still got fencing to do.  And I’m due for a stinging.

Ray Dell. Stung simultaneously by paper wasps and yellowjackets.

a couple of angels