The bathroom looks amazingly better. The ceiling has been mudded, the wallpaper finished — it looks like a bathroom near completion instead of a semi-civilized hole to pee in. Unfortunately, we need more mud, which means a trip to town, which means we may as well pick up some veggies, more hummus, more appropriate shade cloth for Siberia….
I see why a trip to town, 20 minutes away, turns hours long and eats the day.
We collected a gallon of berries in half an hour, when dusk made it impossible to pick berries without picking thorns. Ouch! They were wonderful al Mascarpone (which means with gangster from Madagascar*. Don’t ask me, I just report the trivia, I don’t make it up…), and wonderful compoted and heaped over buckwheat pancakes this morning. More are definately in order, however.
- Get it together, Mnarra:
- Augh! Kill whichever puppy has gas! [chokes] Nothing worse than a puppy whistling at one end….
- Finish this damned chapter so I can get to fun stuff, like death-threats and enormous guilt
- Get supplies from town
- Hang shade cloth on Siberia
- Water Siberia
- Write about puppy
- Finish mudding the bathroom
- Make beer
- Write critiques for the1st100words
- Pick more berries tonight
*I have just been informed that I was mistaken about the etymology of al Mascarpone. Mascarpone is a small village in northern Italy, known for producing a wide variety of neutered chickens for show gardens, presumably for the benfit of the upper classes. Apparently, these are bred free-range and ubiquitous. You can’t swing…well, a dead castrato rooster without hitting one. Any dish, therefor, eaten in this town was eaten in the company of modified poultry. Fruit al Mascarpone, being fruit with a rich cheese sauce, actually refers to the origins of the dish, and should be interpreted as “fruit eaten in the company of castrated chickens.”