It was 83 F at 7 this morning.
Maeve was sprawled on the bathroom floor, paws skyward. I picked her up and moved her to the bedroom, where there is air conditioning. She complained briefly but quickly found a patch of unoccupied floor and resumed the paws-skyward pose.
The remainder of the bedroom floor was occupied by Boo Dog, who prefers the belly-pressed-against-floorboards pose.
Fergus spent yesterday afternoon napping on a south-facing windowsill. De gustibus non disputandum, especially when the tastes are those of a pocket panther.
The Viking celebrated the Fourth in front of the smoker. He does not like to 'waste fire,' he says, so this was an occasion to cook a couple of roasts as well as burgers and brats. I should not have to turn on the oven this week, and I am grateful.
I messed around with a honey-ancho compound butter that turned out to be too hot in its own way, even by the Viking's standards of too hot is never hot enough. I added another stick of butter to cut the chile, and packed the leftovers into an ice cube tray. Once frozen I popped the flowers out and stowed them in a freezer bag.
(I interpret the 'intended to be filled with water only' warning on the ice cube trays as meaning 'don't use these to make Jell-O shooters' but figure it's best not to count on the trays as long-term storage anyway).
The daylilies and tomatoes are thriving. Last night, for the first time in six weeks, I did not wake up at 4 am from dreams about work, and in the waking world the fever there seems to have run its course (and the patient may live. A miracle!) I am trying not to think too far ahead to what August may be like.
Jay Wright, Desire’s Persistence