Banjo Cousteau in 1993
Nineteen years ago Banjo Man and I went on a cruise. He learned how to snorkel.
I didn’t.
He saw fish. I didn’t.
He ate two entrees at every dinner. I didn’t.
He wore a baggy bathing suit. I didn’t.
We both agreed not to wind surf.
But I did stupidly agree to play a game with a balloon between my thighs. And no, you cannot see the pictures.
People are talking about mushrooms right now. About hunting for them, finding them, identifying them, keeping their locations secret, cooking with them, drying them…you get the idea.
Look closely at this photo. Do you see the plate of mushrooms there?
We ate them in orzo last night after band practice. You can read all about it here , at Retired Mountain Lady’s blog (she’s the mushroom expert).
My Montana friend told me she recently found almost 6 pounds of Morels while she was hiking.
While she was hiking. This is why I’ve never seen a wild mushroom.
But if I ever decide to take up hiking, I’m going to buy this book, because wild mushrooms are absolutely delicious.
Old house:
New house:
Food:
View:
Paparazzi:
Yes, the sun came out. It didn’t stay long, but its presence was so exciting I ran for the camera.
I cropped this photo to look like an ancient Celtic burial site. It’s actually the path to Will’s fire pit.
I think we need to have a campfire and sacrifice some marshmallows to the Sun God. Seven days of rain is enough rain, don’t you think?
I saw my thighs today.
Something bad happened over the winter. They didn’t look like this last September. I guess when I officially turned 60 my thighs turned to cottage cheese and rippled up like potato chips.
No, I don’t want to think about potato chips.
I thought 2+ years of biking on a machine EVERY FREAKIN’ DAY would give me Thighs of Steel. Thighs of Granite. Thighs Like An Olympic Speed Skater.
This was not true. In fact, it’s a mean, dirty lie.
I saw my thighs today, in the evil mirror of a dressing room while trying on a pair of jeans. I was stunned. These were not my legs. I certainly didn’t expect to see the thighs that sported a cute pair of brown velvet “hot pants” in 1970, but these weren’t even the thighs of last summer.
I saw my thighs today, in this 1978 photo. The upside is I’m not changing diapers, baking bread or pitting cherries anymore. But I might look for a pair of vintage Dr. Scholl leg-shaping sandals on ebay. I could wear them on the exercise bike and pretend all this exercise is working.
Hail Monday afternoon.
Monday evening: sky at My French Friend Janou’s house.
Poker Monday night.
I won $1.75.
My gambling New Orleans grandmother would have been proud.
Note: this post was mistakenly published a few days ago when I hit the wrong button and didn’t realize it until the following morning, so you might be reading this twice and getting very confused and suffering severe deja vu. Do not be upset. It’s not your fault and there is nothing misfiring in your brain cells. I’m posting this now because it is Tuesday night and I hustled off to bed at 8 PM while the guys did the dishes. After a glorious day of music lessons and shopping-for-a-shower-gift in town, my Rowing Machine Injury flared up and, instead of showing you photos of yesterday’s hail storm and poker game, I am going to read for 30 seconds before crashing to sleep with “Rollin’ In My Sweet Baby’s Arms” repeating over and over again in my brain.
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We saw Nanci Griffith April 23rd. With the same good friends we’d seen her with about 20 years ago in Boston (though none of us could remember the year exactly).
It was wonderful. She was wonderful, with that unique voice and Texas accent and beautiful songs. “Never Goin Back” was one of my favorites of the evening. I especially liked the harmony on the chorus.
If you have a few minutes, enjoy.
Song list from Sunday night:
Sunday night band practice has become an important—very, very important—part of the weekly routine here in the mountains.
Banjo Man and I had heard about Sunday night band practices. So twenty-one hours after we landed in Spokane, we (including Steel Guitar Man, also known as GL) were loading up our instruments and bowls of Black Bean Salad (with avocado lime dressing, recipe from Whole Foods, btw, but it really needs a lot more lime juice and cilantro) and music and microphone cord and amplifier and heading up the hill.
It was an event. The room was rockin’. Horns, mandolins, steel guitar, bass guitar, snare drum, recorder, keyboard, washboard, harmonica and accordion!!!
After we played for two or three or sixteen hours, we’d worked up an appetite. So we ate chicken and homemade pizza and garlic bread, brussel sprouts, black bean salad and whatever else the band members and Retired Mountain Lady/Keyboard Player put in front of us.
Retired Mountain Lady makes wine. Peach wine. PEACH WINE.
We drank some. It was so good I wanted to lick the bottle. I could have blamed my behavior on jet lag, but no one in this crowd would have believed me.
Dancing Mandolin Player brought desserts. Desserts, plural. Strawberry rhubarb pie and a fruit tart.
As my father used to say, “Life is good.”
and more packing…this time trying to fit all of our groceries into the compact car.
There are a lot of beans and vegetables in those grocery bags. Plus a bag of chocolate chips.
Uh-oh. Looks like they found the chocolate chips!!
We don’t know what kind of car we rented last night. So we call it the “Chevy Something”. It’s quite spiffy.
Tonight we are going “up the hill” for our first band practice with the new sound equipment. The band has been practicing every Sunday night since January, when the sound equipment arrived. I heard rumors of a pot luck supper and some wine-tasting, too.
Music and food!! Is there anything better???!!!
Fourth of July
Glen the Banjo Man
LIVE at the Dump
