Rain

One of the things I really love about this house is the enormous, noisy fan in the hallway ceiling. When you turn it on it has a pleasant, echo-y, clockwork sound, and it sucks air out of the house and vents it through the attic. Fresh air comes in through the doors if you open them, through the cockroach holes if you don't.
It's best on wet rainy days like today, because it makes the whole house smell like wet grass and wind.
Mr. L is in Austin playing softball. The kids and I just finished making a double batch of chocolate chip cookies, and we're sitting dow to watch Tale of Despereaux. It looks like something Graeme Base drew, but it sounds pretty stupid.

We'll see.

Swagbucks

Y'all should check out this spiffy pyramid scheme.




The idea is, everytime you use this engine you may or may not win 'swagbucks', which can be spent on stuff. They have Amazon.com giftcards, video games, etc. if you join through this link, everytime you win a buck I win a buck, up to 100.

I found this on the website http://frugalhacks.com/.

Just puttin' that out there.

Hooray, booze!

I was going to post this in the comments section, but it got too long. In answer to your question, at first, I just wanted to learn how to drink bourbon straight.
I always wondered if the experts that like to go on about bouquet, 'the nose', the finish, etc were serious or just BS'ing. After a couple of weeks, I can finally tell the difference between several different kinds. I tried 1776 first, drinking a glass every evening, but couldn't appreciate it because it tasted like rubbing alcohol. Then I tried Rebel Yell, which also tasted like antiseptic but it was cheap, so who cares.

As I got used to it, I started to notice the flavor, the texture, and even appreciate the burn. I've also tried Fighting Cock, Maker's Mark, Woodford Reserve, and noticed I gravitate more towards the rye whiskeys. This made me think that I would like scotch since it's not supposed to be as sweet as bourbon. I DO like it, ...and now I'm thinking I'll just work my way through all the whiskeys, American, Scottish, Irish and Canadian.

Updates!

Updates!

I have cooked, skinned, and devoured a cow's tongue, and it was delicious.
Gag if you must, you have NO IDEA what you're missing.
Mmmmmm, lengua tacos. I got pictures of me with the tongue, but I can't find the cord for my camera right now.

I bought an ice-shaver last year and used it intermittently, and we recently broke it out again. I thought it would be cheaper than the popsicles (we go through about 100 every week), but the syrup is expensive, one bottle only makes two batches and it's primarily high fructose corn syrup.
So what'd I do? I found a recipe to make my own out of suger and kool-aid!
It is sooooooo good. We made mango syrup today and it tastes like the snow cones from the overpriced Hawaiian raspa stand.
In case you want to give it a try, here's the recipe:

1 cup white sugar
1 cup water
2 packages of koolaid

In a saucepan, stir together the sugar and water.
Bring to a boil, and boil for about 1 minute.

Remove from heat, and stir in the drink mix.
Allow to cool, and store in a container for pouring.
Pour over shaved ice to flavor.

SOOOOO amazing. The machine I have is the Hamilton Beach ice shaver from Target. It was $20, I think.
WORTH IT.

I've tried most of the bourbons on my list, so I moved onto Scotch this week. I got Johnny Walker red label...It's okay, but I feel like it could be better. Pete thought it was gross, but he hasn't been as diligent as I about training his palete.
It's a tough job, but someone's got to do it.

My garden!

I mop on Friday. I move the fridge and freezer, clean behind and underneath them, RAID the walls, mop the bathroom floor, etc.
The past month or so, every Saturday without fail, it has rained. the mud from the backyard all migrates into the shiny kitchen floor, so by the time Monday rolls around you can't tell the floor's been cleaned.
I decided to wait until Monday to mop, and now the sky is trying to hold in the rain so it can screw up my kitchen floor again.

ANYWAY, since I'm not mopping today, I thought I'd take some pictures of my garden.

This is my Rosemary. Not so very impressive, until you realize that this plant came over from the apartment, has survived at least 3 transplants, and is somehow still thriving.




This my Texas Lilac. It seems to be taking off, probably because it's planted right over Tango's body.
Mmmm, that's good compost!




Here are my bell peppers! Bow before their healthful green shine! May they live to become big and tasty.



Basil! Regular globe basil. The love affair continues.








And here's a long shot of the garden. In the cage is a tomato, there's a hot pepper plant, the orange pot has baby chives, and as you can see the vinka are growing well. The marigolds seem to have given up, though.

For your amusement:

Childe Roland To The Dark Tower Came
by Robert Browning
1855


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I.

My first thought was, he lied in every word,
That hoary cripple, with malicious eye
Askance to watch the working of his lie
On mine, and mouth scarce able to afford
Suppression of the glee, that pursed and scored
Its edge, at one more victim gained thereby.

II.

What else should he be set for, with his staff?
What, save to waylay with his lies, ensnare
All travellers who might find him posted there,
And ask the road? I guessed what skull-like laugh
Would break, what crutch 'gin write my epitaph
For pastime in the dusty thoroughfare,

III.

If at his counsel I should turn aside
Into that ominous tract which, all agree,
Hides the Dark Tower. Yet acquiescingly
I did turn as he pointed: neither pride
Nor hope rekindling at the end descried,
So much as gladness that some end might be.

IV.

For, what with my whole world-wide wandering,
What with my search drawn out thro' years, my hope
Dwindled into a ghost not fit to cope
With that obstreperous joy success would bring,
I hardly tried now to rebuke the spring
My heart made, finding failure in its scope.

V.

As when a sick man very near to death
Seems dead indeed, and feels begin and end
The tears and takes the farewell of each friend,
And hears one bid the other go, draw breath
Freelier outside, (``since all is o'er,'' he saith,
``And the blow falIen no grieving can amend;'')

VI.

While some discuss if near the other graves
Be room enough for this, and when a day
Suits best for carrying the corpse away,
With care about the banners, scarves and staves:
And still the man hears all, and only craves
He may not shame such tender love and stay.

VII.

Thus, I had so long suffered in this quest,
Heard failure prophesied so oft, been writ
So many times among ``The Band''---to wit,
The knights who to the Dark Tower's search addressed
Their steps---that just to fail as they, seemed best,
And all the doubt was now---should I be fit?

VIII.

So, quiet as despair, I turned from him,
That hateful cripple, out of his highway
Into the path he pointed. All the day
Had been a dreary one at best, and dim
Was settling to its close, yet shot one grim
Red leer to see the plain catch its estray.

IX.

For mark! no sooner was I fairly found
Pledged to the plain, after a pace or two,
Than, pausing to throw backward a last view
O'er the safe road, 'twas gone; grey plain all round:
Nothing but plain to the horizon's bound.
I might go on; nought else remained to do.

X.

So, on I went. I think I never saw
Such starved ignoble nature; nothing throve:
For flowers---as well expect a cedar grove!
But cockle, spurge, according to their law
Might propagate their kind, with none to awe,
You'd think; a burr had been a treasure-trove.

XI.

No! penury, inertness and grimace,
In some strange sort, were the land's portion. ``See
``Or shut your eyes,'' said nature peevishly,
``It nothing skills: I cannot help my case:
``'Tis the Last judgment's fire must cure this place,
``Calcine its clods and set my prisoners free.''

XII.

If there pushed any ragged thistle-stalk
Above its mates, the head was chopped; the bents
Were jealous else. What made those holes and rents
In the dock's harsh swarth leaves, bruised as to baulk
All hope of greenness?'tis a brute must walk
Pashing their life out, with a brute's intents.

XIII.

As for the grass, it grew as scant as hair
In leprosy; thin dry blades pricked the mud
Which underneath looked kneaded up with blood.
One stiff blind horse, his every bone a-stare,
Stood stupefied, however he came there:
Thrust out past service from the devil's stud!

XIV.

Alive? he might be dead for aught I know,
With that red gaunt and colloped neck a-strain,
And shut eyes underneath the rusty mane;
Seldom went such grotesqueness with such woe;
I never saw a brute I hated so;
He must be wicked to deserve such pain.

XV.

I shut my eyes and turned them on my heart.
As a man calls for wine before he fights,
I asked one draught of earlier, happier sights,
Ere fitly I could hope to play my part.
Think first, fight afterwards---the soldier's art:
One taste of the old time sets all to rights.

XVI.

Not it! I fancied Cuthbert's reddening face
Beneath its garniture of curly gold,
Dear fellow, till I almost felt him fold
An arm in mine to fix me to the place,
That way he used. Alas, one night's disgrace!
Out went my heart's new fire and left it cold.

XVII.

Giles then, the soul of honour---there he stands
Frank as ten years ago when knighted first.
What honest man should dare (he said) he durst.
Good---but the scene shifts---faugh! what hangman hands
Pin to his breast a parchment? His own bands
Read it. Poor traitor, spit upon and curst!

XVIII.

Better this present than a past like that;
Back therefore to my darkening path again!
No sound, no sight as far as eye could strain.
Will the night send a howlet or a bat?
I asked: when something on the dismal flat
Came to arrest my thoughts and change their train.

XIX.

A sudden little river crossed my path
As unexpected as a serpent comes.
No sluggish tide congenial to the glooms;
This, as it frothed by, might have been a bath
For the fiend's glowing hoof---to see the wrath
Of its black eddy bespate with flakes and spumes.

XX.

So petty yet so spiteful! All along,
Low scrubby alders kneeled down over it;
Drenched willows flung them headlong in a fit
Of route despair, a suicidal throng:
The river which had done them all the wrong,
Whate'er that was, rolled by, deterred no whit.

XXI.

Which, while I forded,---good saints, how I feared
To set my foot upon a dead man's cheek,
Each step, or feel the spear I thrust to seek
For hollows, tangled in his hair or beard!
---It may have been a water-rat I speared,
But, ugh! it sounded like a baby's shriek.

XXII.

Glad was I when I reached the other bank.
Now for a better country. Vain presage!
Who were the strugglers, what war did they wage,
Whose savage trample thus could pad the dank
Soil to a plash? Toads in a poisoned tank,
Or wild cats in a red-hot iron cage---

XXIII.

The fight must so have seemed in that fell cirque.
What penned them there, with all the plain to choose?
No foot-print leading to that horrid mews,
None out of it. Mad brewage set to work
Their brains, no doubt, like galley-slaves the Turk
Pits for his pastime, Christians against Jews.

XXIV.

And more than that---a furlong on---why, there!
What bad use was that engine for, that wheel,
Or brake, not wheel---that harrow fit to reel
Men's bodies out like silk? with all the air
Of Tophet's* tool, on earth left unaware,
Or brought to sharpen its rusty teeth of steel.

XXV.

Then came a bit of stubbed ground, once a wood,
Next a marsh, it would seem, and now mere earth
Desperate and done with; (so a fool finds mirth,
Makes a thing and then mars it, till his mood
Changes and off he goes!) within a rood---
Bog, clay and rubble, sand and stark black dearth.

XXVI.

Now blotches rankling, coloured gay and grim,
Now patches where some leanness of the soil's
Broke into moss or substances like boils;
Then came some palsied oak, a cleft in him
Like a distorted mouth that splits its rim
Gaping at death, and dies while it recoils.

XXVII.

And just as far as ever from the end!
Nought in the distance but the evening, nought
To point my footstep further! At the thought,
great black bird, Apollyon's bosom-friend,
Sailed past, nor beat his wide wing dragon-penned
That brushed my cap---perchance the guide I sought.

XXVIII.

For, looking up, aware I somehow grew,
'Spite of the dusk, the plain had given place
All round to mountains---with such name to grace
Mere ugly heights and heaps now stolen in view.
How thus they had surprised me,---solve it, you!
How to get from them was no clearer case.

XXIX.

Yet half I seemed to recognize some trick
Of mischief happened to me, God knows when---
In a bad dream perhaps. Here ended, then,
Progress this way. When, in the very nick
Of giving up, one time more, came a click
As when a trap shuts---you're inside the den!

XXX.

Burningly it came on me all at once,
This was the place! those two hills on the right,
Crouched like two bulls locked horn in horn in fight;
While to the left, a tall scalped mountain... Dunce,
Dotard, a-dozing at the very nonce,
After a life spent training for the sight!

XXXI.

What in the midst lay but the Tower itself?
The round squat turret, blind as the fool's heart,
Built of brown stone, without a counter-part
In the whole world. The tempest's mocking elf
Points to the shipman thus the unseen shelf
He strikes on, only when the timbers start.

XXXII.

Not see? because of night perhaps?---why, day
Came back again for that! before it left,
The dying sunset kindled through a cleft:
The hills, like giants at a hunting, lay,
Chin upon hand, to see the game at bay,---
``Now stab and end the creature---to the heft!''

XXXIII.

Not hear? when noise was everywhere! it tolled
Increasing like a bell. Names in my ears
Of all the lost adventurers my peers,---
How such a one was strong, and such was bold,
And such was fortunate, yet, each of old
Lost, lost! one moment knelled the woe of years.

XXXIV.

There they stood, ranged along the hill-sides, met
To view the last of me, a living frame
For one more picture! in a sheet of flame
I saw them and I knew them all. And yet
Dauntless the slug-horn to my lips I set,
And blew. ``Childe Roland to the Dark Tower came.''

*Tophet or Topheth (Hebrew: תופת ha-tōpheth‎) is believed to be a location in Jerusalem, in the Valley of Hinnom, where the Canaanites sacrificed children to the god Moloch by burning them alive.

More playground pictures.

Because let's face it, this is the coolest thing you've ever seen.