I grew a total of two beautiful spaghetti squash this year. I cut them open and was a little surprised to see the green. They had developed plenty of mature seeds so ripeness shouldn’t have been an issue. They tasted fine. Maybe the green parts a little firmer than the other parts. And long as I don’t develop cramps tonight or anything, I call them a success. Even though they didn’t spaghettify very well; but that’s just me. I can’t seem to make spaghetti squash behave like it’s supposed to, but it still tastes fine.

Part of me is not at all sorry when produce season comes to an end. It gets tiring being a slave to what comes out of the garden, and it becomes very attractive and slothful to transform back to a typical American who just buys what she feels like from a supermarket.

How to Live, Summer Edition

Yesterday we biked the Chambly Canal, which was one of our perennial favorites pre-pandemic. Very nice to see everything just where we left it, including beloved brewery Bedondaine.

The route takes one along a stretch of gorgeous canal-front homes, and allows one to see pleasure boaters being raised and lowered in the various canal locks. I spent the day covetous of the boats, the beautiful homes and properties, and most of all the swimming pools (high 80s). (We saw many swimming pools, and only ONCE did we see people in any of them – why is that always the case?)

Today, though, I sat on my own back porch listening to the sounds of nature reading my Sunday Time & WSJ. And I didn’t think any of those homeowners had anything on me.
The Irish Pub where we ended the night:

No, actually we ended the night eating ice cream cones from the freezer of a Mobil station in Georgia. A summer Saturday is not complete without ice cream.

Luckily It Rarely Happens

I got a very nice email from somebody who bought 4 skeins (“the whole lot the store had”) of my yarn at Six Loose Ladies. Asking if I had any more. I had to tell her that all my colors are really one of a kind. “I love all the colors and how they work together. The yarn is thick and so nice to touch.” she said. It’s a crazy feeling, when someone likes something you did that much, and you don’t think it’s that great at all. Kind of a cognitive dissonance.

Can You Camus

The other night I was picking up Vietnamese takeout, like I do every 2-3 weeks. For the first time I noticed a selection of books by the register. I saw DUNE and I saw BEING & NOTHINGNESS by Jean Paul Sartre, which is quite a hefty tome. When Michael came back – the kid who always runs the front of the house, it’s a family place – I say “kid” but I haven’t the foggiest how old he is, just younger than me – I said, “That’s quite a selection of books you have there.” He said, “I get bored,” in his deadpan way. I said, “Jean Paul Sartre!?” He said, “Yeah, I think I have MYTH OF SISYPHUS back there too… It just helps to know that existential dread goes back a long way.”

MYTH OF SISYPHUS is a book by Albert Camus, but the actual myth was that Sisyphus was doomed to roll a boulder uphill, only to have it roll back down again, for all eternity. If I’d had my wits about me, the next thing I would have said was, “Is your job like rolling a boulder uphill for all eternity? Handing out those phos and spring rolls, over and over? Serving that old red-headed chick the exact same damn order, every second Tuesday? Over and over and over?”

I don’t know, you just never think of the guy who packs up your Vietnamese takeout having such a rich inner philosophical life, but why the hell not? I should be the only one who reads Camus?