Nothing better than a sunny Saturday, chickadees.
Last night, I spent the evening with KD and Tobes, my six-month old godson.
They’re pretty much the best.
After JK’s sad last day at the office, his tiny face was probably the best remedy to my melancholy mood.
This morning, I woke up early and decided to get back to my usual routine.
Which meant bells before 9am.
Gene was happy to see me- he shook my shoulders, called me a Spartan, and tortured me for the next 60 minutes.
I admit that it was just what I needed.
I won’t be able to walk tomorrow.
I have a good life, chickens.
Also this morning, I headed to the Farmers’ Market, where I was happy to learn that strawberries have finally made it into season.
This also means that rhubarb is on its way out.
One unfortunate market-er was flabbergasted to hear this, and I eavesdropped on an awkward, nearly-an-argument he conducted with a farmer.
“This is ridiculous- how can it be over? I miss it every year!” he said.
“Well, it only lasts through the beginning of the season- it’s a short season,” the farmer patiently explained.
At that point, the shopper huffed and puffed and walked off.
It’s a growing season, not a sale at Macy’s, is what I say.
There’s no such thing as an extension at the farm.
And that’s the way it should be, as far as I’m concerned.
Also sighted at the market:
One delightful man, playing his acoustic guitar to the tune of several James Taylor songs.
I loved every second of it.
10 minutes later, a young man joined him with an electric, and then things were really jamming.
I love summer in the city, my friends.
Up tonight, we say goodbye to JK: the This is Actually it Edition.
I’m planning on crying as much as I want.
Also dealing with my grief by making approximately a gross of chicken kebabs.
Do what feels right, chickens.