Greetings and salutations, everyone; yes, once again it is I, your popular host, Mani the purebred border collie, here today to bring you a post which may best be described as a salmagundi. You may remember me from such posts as “Some Adventures”, among so many, many others.
This next picture is me, yesterday, waiting for the beeper on the oven to go off, signalling that whatever was being broiled is done, and that I don’t have to worry about it any more. I don’t like beeping noises.
It turned out that the guy I live with had forgotten to clean the broiler pan from the last time, and the oven started to smoke, so he decided not to broil whatever it was he was going to broil. So I was able to come back inside. You can see, though, what kind of a day it was. Dry.
Things changed today. It snowed. The guy I live with said it was the strangest January snow he’d ever seen. It was wet, like a spring snow. Maybe because it wasn’t very cold today. Usually if it snows here in January, it’s cold. He said that maybe for once the snow would be like rain in January, sinking into the ground instead of evaporating.
One thing I should say, as an aside, is that we are not entirely sure why replies to comments don’t always appear on the blog. I answer everything, as maybe you’ve discovered, using the email program, so there should always be an even number of comments, but sometimes there aren’t. Who knows why.
Bunches of other things happened today; most of them not hugely interesting, but so little happens around here that I thought they might be worth reporting.
The guy I live with got a cane in the mail yesterday, from Brazos Walking Sticks. It’s really nice; made from Texas oak, though it might not be. He doesn’t really need a cane, but thought one would be nice, and maybe he could fend off some of the unleashed dogs we encounter on my walks. That sounded pretty unlikely to me. There are quite a few canes here, all of them inherited, I guess, but he wanted his own.
Then there was the ocular migraine. The “light show”. Or, as the guy I live with called it, a”pre-migrainous scintillating scotoma”. The guy I live with said he had had about fifty of these in the last thirty years. They aren’t dangerous; just annoying. Lots of people have these; I think more woman than men get them. They last about twenty minutes. He doesn’t get migraines, with a headache. His doctor said, though, that he should have his retina looked at when he mentioned them, and when he got his eyes examined for glasses he got to see things like his optic nerve, which he said was cool. Everything was okay.
The reason behind this has more to do with the uninvited guest that anything else. His doctor told him to go on an aspirin regimen quite a while ago, and the ocular migraines stopped. When he had the biopsy, he had to give up the aspirin a week before, and then forgot to start again afterwards, and the day he remembered was the day he had an ocular migraine.
So since he’s having “a procedure” next week, he had to stop the aspiring again, and sure enough, he had another ocular migraine. He can hardly wait to be able to take the aspirin again.
Today he shoveled the walk, driveway, and sidewalk, then shoveled the walk, driveway, and sidewalk of his neighbors two doors down, and three doors down, and across the street. He’s supposed to be exercising more, these days, so I guess that was a good thing.
Of course, snowdrops were ordered.
Apparently this is an utterly delightful book, full of pictures, and stories of gardeners who were “rather keen on snowdrops”.
Which leads me to the actual snowdrops in the upstairs bedroom. Some re-arranging took place today, then everything was re-re-arranged when the re-arrangement turned out to be unsatisfactory. The snowdrops are growing about two millimeters a day.
Okay, enough of that. I don’t find snowdrops anywhere near as interesting as my walks, which are almost always totally excellent. Today’s were no exception.
I had to be dried off with a towel when I got home. I like that a lot more than I did when I was little; I would attack the towel and make it impossible for the guy I live with to get me dry.
I’ll end this somewhat discursive post by showing another picture of the kitchen, taken last night, when pozole was being cooked on the stove. Pozole rojo con pollo, if you wanted to know. Some people spell it posole. The guy I live with doesn’t.
Until next time, then.