I planted some of my morning glory seedlings under this planter. Two days ago, we discovered that the rabbits had eaten half of them. It’s not a loss I take lightly — hence the chicken wire.
Any morning glories that I planted in pots are now elevated. Others remain vulnerable.
Sometimes the rabbits’ destruction doesn’t appear to have anything to do with eating. The strewn plant matter gives the feel of a murder scene.
Stupid me. I didn’t put this geranium up on a side table after noticing the decapitation of a big blossom yesterday and this morning all the flowers were gone. Scattered about on the stone as if by a psycho killer.
After last summer when not a single iris bloomed, I’m happy to report there are flowers this year! Over by the black walnut tree too.
A new slaw recipe went well with pork chops and mashed potatoes last night. Toasted walnuts and crisp apples for variety.
These were thick chops, but I still could have overcooked them. It happens more than I care to admit. The magic method? Searing each side for two minutes stovetop, then sticking skillet in a hot oven (400 degrees) for 12 minutes. They were perfect. (Notably, I cut my chop up right away — had I let it rest as recommended it might have lost some juicy tenderness).
One sultry afternoon driving past the lake this week, I was flooded with the felt sense of Danny as a toddler. The days when “excavators” were “ekabators” and “snacks” were “nacks.” It wasn’t a memory per se, but rather a sensory experience of sharing the muggy heat and slight fear that sometimes preceded a thunderstorm. Holding him close.
One woman in our Parent Suicide Loss support group has been writing letters to her son for seven years. She has twenty notebooks full of them. I thought I’d give it a go and this week penned three letters to Danny. In the first two, every sentence began, “I’m sorry…”
