Eeeek! Has it really been a month since I posted?
Summertime and the livin' is easy? Or summertime and we're-so-busy-I-don't-have-time-to-post?
That depends on the week.
Ramona did two theater camps in June, so
those weeks flew by. Atticus bought our thespian some lovely flowers, and they lasted for ages:
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| What is the purple flower? Some kind of ornamental cabbage? |
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Ramona and I experimented with baking vegan chocolate chip cookies and we discovered that aqua faba (translation: chickpea liquid) is an excellent substitute for eggs. (These were
as good or better than my usual recipe.) Yum.
Speaking of all things vegan, how did Omaha get so lucky as to be the landing spot for
Isa Chandra Moskowitz's incredible vegan restaurant,
Modern Love? Atticus and I recently tried it for the first time and the food was crazy-good. I could eat their gnocchi carbonara all day, every day.
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In pet news, we decided to try a thunder shirt for our poor, anxious doggo:
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"Okay, it's kind of helping. Do you have it in another color?"
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And we're all
truly, madly, deeply happy that fireworks season has passed.
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We did an overnight at our favorite state park. I like to call this kind of getaway "camping" because the trip requires that I pack insect repellent, no make-up, and we must all be on constant alert for ticks. Combine these factors and I can pretend, in casual conversation with other midwesterners, that I enjoy camping. But in reality, I am deeply appreciative of cabins that are equipped with air conditioning and coffee makers.
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And now, for the point of this post -- Poetry Friday!
I shared this poem a few years back, along with
a story about the swallows that nest on our front and back porches. We love them, despite the mess they create. They've made their peace with us (almost no divebombing to speak of these days) and we happily accept their messes in exchange for the joy they provide.
Happy midsummer, and here's to further mash-ups of easy livin' and too-busyness!
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Swallows
by Leonora Speyer
They dip their wings in the sunset,
They dash against the air
As if to break themselves upon its stillness:
In every movement, too swift to count,
Is a revelry of indecision,
A furtive delight in trees they do not desire
And in grasses that shall not know their weight.
They hover and lean toward the meadow
With little edged cries;
And then,
As if frightened at the earth’s nearness,
They seek the high austerity of evening sky
And swirl into its depth.
(This poem is in the public domain.)
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