The Narragansett wall, that is.
Here’s DMP, taking a break from silk flowers and real flowers and vintage flowers and tulle. It’s not all work here, folks. After the sunset, Banjo Man joined us for a short music jam in the basement.
Guess who’s coming for dinner tonight?
They always bring a lot of enthusiasm to the table.
…someone has to do it.
I owe Dancing Mandolin Player big-time. I think I should cook all of her meals this summer (she likes beans and lentils!!). And wash her car (wait a minute, I’ve never washed a car!!) and scrub her bathroom and peel her peaches and husk her corn and turn the pages of her music while she plays her mandolin.
Tomorrow I’m taking her to a colonial seafaring town for breakfast. And to a garden tour in Connecticut. And to Acoustic Music in Guildford to sample new and vintage mandolins. And then, she says, she has more planting to do.
Oh, my goodness. The wedding is going to be gorgeous.
Yes, Dancing Mandolin Player is in Rhode Island!! She has come to rescue me from Floral Wedding Decoration Incompetence Syndrome. Here she is unloading bags of silk garlands from her suitcase.
We went to Home Depot for plants. I had never been in the Home Depot Garden Center before. DMP thought some of the flower baskets needed water, so she found the Home Depot hose and watered them herself. She also very kindly asked for my opinions on various pretty flowers. I had nothing to say except, “I’ll stay right here and guard the carts.”
I bought extra potting soil and extra plants so we wouldn’t run out of flowers so I wouldn’t have to go back to the Home Depot Garden Center by myself and buy more. We had so much stuff in the car that we almost couldn’t fit in another couple of flats of flowers at another garden center. And when we opened the door to the car the Home Depot plastic pots fell out and rolled under the car and DMP panicked and dove to the pavement to retrieve them.
We decided we really didn’t need to go to Walmart after all.
Digging weeds.
Shopping for plants.
Planting the plants.
Watering grass seed.
Moving ladders.
Raking leaves.
Hauling gravel.
Moving dirt.
In other words, getting ready for the wedding!
Is she older than Bill Nighy? A lot older? Or has he had “work done” (my guess) and looks better preserved??
We saw the movie “The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel” two weekends ago. We drove north to the Big Suburb and went to the wrong multiplex theater (my fault) and, on our way to our second-guess multiplex theatre, I called 411 to get the movie info. I won’t detail the frustration of the 3 calls to 411 for a freakin’ phone number, or the rap music that played a commercial before the automated movie info came on, or the hysteria I felt when the fake “voice” kept asking me for the name of the movie, which I couldn’t remember.
I never did get the info, and by the time I stopped hyperventilating we had arrived at theatre #2. Turned out the 4:30 PM Saturday night show was packed with a lot of gray-haired people like us. We raced in as the movie began and then found a seat in the top row. Pant, pant.
The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel was a sweet movie. If you’re a BBCA fan or you love British shows, you’ll recognize the actors, who were wonderful. I’m not sure it will do a lot for India tourism, but then again, maybe it will.
I didn’t have any popcorn or chocolate-covered raisins, so I became obsessed with wondering how old the actors were. Had they been cast correctly? Were the relationships believable? Has Judi Dench gained weight or was that padding underneath her gauzy Indian shirt? I wanted the blouse that the Bitchy Woman wore–I swear it was a Liberty of London print. Damn that fabric envy.
Why does Maggie Smith always get the best lines???? The rest of the cast must have been jealous. I love her.
I want to shop in the Indian markets. With Bill Nighy and Banjo Man. Look at the colors!!!
I want a British accent. And I think everyone in India should have new brooms (if you see the movie you’ll know what I mean) or just give up sweeping altogether.
Look at the fabrics!!!
if this iris could talk, it would tell you that its little plant family came to our front garden in Rhode Island in Banjo Man’s suitcase.
if this iris could talk, it would tell you that its little plant family spent a hundred years growing against Banjo Man’s parents’ and grandparents’ farmhouse in Nebraska.
if this iris could talk, it would tell you that its little plant family traveled from Missouri to Nebraska via wagon train at the end of the nineteenth century.
we don’t know where it was before that, but if this iris could talk it might whisper a rumor about daniel boone.
There was no banjo-playin’ last weekend for Banjo Man.
The father-of-the-bride is the busiest person at our house. He wanted me to go with him to a local garden center to pick out the exact shade of impatiens to match the bride’s bouquet. I’m embarrassed to admit I had a small anxiety attack–I was in the middle of finishing a difficult synopsis and still in my jammies at 11 AM–so Banjo Man kindly retracted the invitation. I in turn rummaged through my stacks of quilting fabrics to find the right shade of pink so he could take fabric to the garden store and not me. Clever, huh???
Last week, while cleaning my teeth, the dental hygienist asked me if I spent a lot of time outdoors. I sort of nodded and went, “Uhnn” and she assumed I’d said, “Hot damn, I sure do!”
She explained she’d recently read that people who spend time outside enjoying nature are healthier and happier and smarter and take less medication. And she knew that I must love the outdoors, because I go out west so much. Hmmm….
I did admit that I liked to spend time sitting on the dock, watching the boats go by and worrying about people tipping over their kayaks.
I didn’t tell her I like to sit outside on the deck of The Pantry and eat ice cream and watch the trucks go by, that my biggest hiking trip is going from the dock to the house, that camping equals hell.
Thank God she didn’t ask me about gardening.
To prove I actually do enjoy nature (in my own way) I’m going to share photos I took at the lake two weeks ago.
Mom and Dad enjoying a cool afternoon by the water.
Look. Naptime.
Uh-oh. The kids just woke up. No, don’t pop out from underneath those nice warm feathers!
Okay, back in the water, all nine of you! Stay together, follow Mom and keep the chirping down. 
1. If you think you’re having a nervous breakdown over the upcoming wedding ceremony in the backyard, even though your daughter is marrying the perfect guy for her and your husband is doing all the yard work and one of your very best friends is flying 3000 miles to help you decorate, should you:
a) have your thyroid tested again
b) have your hormones tested again
c) buy a bottle of tequila and learn how to relax
d) browse more wedding blogs and websites
e) thank everyone who is helping you and, for heaven’s sake, get a grip!
2. If you are depressed and cranky because you are not losing weight despite two years of dieting, exercising, spinach, diet pills, insulin medication, Dr. Oz supplements and bean soups, should you:
a) stop eating fruit
b) buy Spanx
c) have your thyroid tested again–for gout?
d) have your hormones tested again–too much estrogen?
e) give up, eat ice cream and buy housedresses at Walmart: embrace your Inner Granny
f) order more Kindle books on thyroid and hormone issues because doctors really enjoy hearing what you found on the internet
3. If your brain is lethargic, foggy and confused, if you can’t remember how to cook, if you have family coming for the wedding week and need to make do-ahead party food for 40 people for the after-the-wedding party and yet can’t compose a grocery list even though your husband has inventoried everything in the freezer to make it easier, should you:
a) have your hormones tested again–for lack of progesterone?
b) have your thyroid tested again–it’s a mysterious little bugger!
c) start drinking coffee with caffeine
d) browse cooking websites and try not to fall asleep at the desk
4. If your brain is lethargic, foggy and confused, but you have to expand a 10-page concept to a 20 page synopsis and write concepts and characters for two more books in order to sign a new three-book deal and it should have been finished 10 days ago and you used to be smart but now you can’t even compose a grocery list, should you:
a) test the freakin’ hormones and thyroid and anything else that courses through your 60-year old bloodstream yourself by buying your own test kit on the internet and skipping the whole begging-the-doctor scenario?
b) stop feeling sorry for yourself and just write the damn synopsis while eating a $4.00 bag of Lay’s Original Potato Chips and drinking Diet Coke from the gas station
c) stop setting the alarm for 5:30 AM, stop exercising, stop cleaning the kitchen, stop writing and instead plug the violin into the amplifier and play “Midnight on the Water” very, very loudly over and over again until you get a new book idea
d) count the hours until the American Idol finale
That’s it, folks. Tomorrow I will show photos of baby geese. For now, here are turtles. The two on the left are waiting for the results of their thyroid tests. The two on the right are having hot flashes and wondering why they bothered getting out of the water. One of them is craving flies.
This didn’t work out.
I baked the pie shell (lined with aluminum foil, filled with beans). I mashed and cooked 2 cups of fresh strawberries. I drained it, added sugar and cornstarch and boiled and stirred and all that good stuff.
I tried to arrange the berries in a pretty, Martha-Stewart-like way. That didn’t work, because I was running out of patience. I poured the beautiful thick glaze over everything and chilled the pie for the required three hours.
It didn’t work out: the crust was dry, the glaze soupy, the strawberries too sweet.
I made a creole bean recipe in the crock pot. That didn’t work out either. I threw it all in the garbage. On the same pie-baking, bean-cooking day, I made pizza dough in the bread machine. And–you guessed it–that didn’t work out. I had to add a ton of flour and the pizza just didn’t taste all that great: the pesto needed salt, I was low on cheese, the dough had no flavor.
So…I may have to stay at my desk and write from now on. It’s safer here, in the land of romance and Montana and happy endings.
The Cooking Fairy has left the building.
Fourth of July
Glen the Banjo Man
LIVE at the Dump
