Is it time to change my peppers?

Let's create a haphazard, whimsical kind of blog entry, yes-no?

Change looms. Actually, no... Change is here. It sweeps in on tiny, delicate little winds, in tiny, delicate little ways that I want to believe won't give me a gratuitous smack across face and soul. But yes. They do. Smack away, change! Smack away.

For one thing, after several years of quality and reliability, my computer is being replaced. I expect the new-old one to show up today (it's not new). For almost the last week, I haven't been able to work on any writing. This may not be the computer's fault, not entirely.

Change is also coming in the form of spiritual direction and initiative. I am finally doing something about the uncatalogued mess that is my religious and spiritual efficiencies. My intention(!) is to study more druidism, and, related or not, pay more attention to energies and the moon.

Change is in the furtherance of my technological knowledge! I learned how to create MOBI and EPUB files! While it took me two and a half hours to get all the formatting the way it was supposed to be, my determination and curiosity saw me through! I consider this one of my grandest accomplishments of the last month.

Also, finished writing a book that I first started over two years ago! I'd abandoned it for almost a year, would write in it fitfully and unfaithfully, then finally took the last month to write 123,000 words and complete it! I hate the title, though. I keep hoping some grand title will come along. It is funny how titles are either there before you start writing a piece, or they struggle to unify with the piece even after it's complete. That might just be my psyche.

Cottage life has been pretty dull. It hasn't rained significantly since the start of August, but the eighth month of the year is always the most arid. Cottonwoods are beginning to drop leaves. Some finicky, early-blooming deciduous, like sugar maples and flowering ornamentals, are beginning to show more skin. Lots of the garden flowers look tired, like the red salvia. Strangely, my pansies, planted in April, continue to produce showy blooms. I've wished my strawberries would bloom again, produce another round of fruit, but I think this is a hopeless wish. I have a feeling that strawberries are very recalcitrant and stubborn flowers. This might be why I associate with them so well, of all the flowering fruits.

One more short story of mine is supposed to be coming out in October, in a paperback (I guess?) anthology, and I will relate more details to my numerous readers (ha) when I have them. Two rejections, one significantly more painful than the other and I cannot really figure out why... Usually I just shrug them off after a while, and move on with life. Four short stories released in six months, that's not so bad.

How about I finish up with a recipe? This is an easy, breezy meal good for Indian Summer evenings.

Pepper Pasta

1/2 - 3/4 c. julienne sliced green pepper and sweet red pepper
1/2 c. sliced sweet Vidalia onion
1 medium tomato, chopped
1/2 clove garlic, chopped
2 tbl. vegetable oil
1 1/2 c. pasta, uncooked (or cooked and ready to go)
1/4 tsp. salt
1/4 tsp. ground pepper (or to taste)
1/2 tsp. dried basil
2 tbl Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese (parmesan, or Italian-blend cheese)
1/8 tsp. of dried Italian blend herbs, optional

Pour the 2 tbl of vegetable oil into large skillet. Cook over low-medium heat the peppers and onions until tender. Add garlic and chopped tomato. Make pasta (if necessary); drain. Add pasta to the skillet. Add basil, salt and ground pepper. Heat until hot. Add cheese when serving.

Protein options: Add 3/4 c. diced cooked chicken ... Or add 1/2 drained and rinsed garbanzo beans. Might also be good with tofu, but I've never tried it that way.

Ruled by Zinnias

A few of the zinnias really outdid themselves. Always recommend planting zinnias from zeeds... er... seeds.

 The bee was a nice touch - completely accidental.

Snapdragons have friendly faces. These said "Howdy! Take our picture, too!"

I went out to do weed removal. The ground is hard as rock. Never mind that. I'm sure that weeds die just from me wishing they were dead.

How the birds do whisper...

I've heard a whisper that I am to have a story in an upcoming anthology! It'll be named, and we'll squee about it later, when the anthology is out and able to be purchased. It's a very exciting thing, though, and I feel like I've been dancing around with ice cream cones under the threads of rainbows, and how can that be bad?

I do have a story of Cottage Life.

Oh, dear, do I ever have a story!

We are the perennial recipients of swallows' nests under one of the porches. The swallows are not much to endure. They're beautiful to watch, and I've grown accustomed to their chirping, their expert funambulism as they perch on lines and preen themselves.

Already this year, Tails had to clean up the rather sad little body of one swallow baby who'd fallen from the nest.

A little more than a week later, I was tested in almost the same way. Except my swallow baby was still alive.

I was downstairs doing laundry, and I kept hearing this "cheep, cheep!" I went out the door to look, and couldn't find anything unusual. I went back to the washer. "Cheep, cheep, cheep!" Then I thought, "Oh, no, the bird is inside!"

So I went back to the door and waited.

"Cheep, cheep, cheep!"

No. It wasn't inside. It was definitely outside.

So I looked again. Of course I hadn't seen it right away, it was very small and more like a heap of dried, cut grass than a living creature.

What a terrible thing! At least it was alive, though.

I walked up to it carefully, trying to test its ability to fly. Its wings flapped helplessly. Tiny wings made of tiny feathers. It wasn't going to get back to where it belonged, and I didn't know what else to do but help it.

Whenever I try and help, I inadvertently make things worse. I was terrified to help, afraid that I'd kill it.

But I put on some thick cleaning gloves, knowing that if I tried, I would've at least tried, and leaving it there to be eaten or die was an option worse than dealing with my curse.

I do not. Do not. Recommend. Doing. This. I do not recommend doing this. It's scary trying to save a little bird.

But I had to chase it around the slab of cement for a little while, into the high grassy area nearby, where I was finally able to get a hold of it. To keep it from walking out of my hand, as it seemed inclined to do, my little funambulist-in-training, I covered it with my other hand in a kind of cage, with my fingers splayed, like Gandalf holding the moth. (Now, don't be coy with your geekiness, you know what I'm talking about.) I checked around to find its nest among the rafters of the porch above my head. It's kind of hidden, tucked away behind an aluminum sheet, and not easy to find with the naked eye bothered by sunny glare and dirty spectacles.

I unfolded my hands carefully to check on the baby bird. It'd hunkered into my fingers and closed its eyes. It must've thought, "Oh, right, a parent is on me now and I will just rest! Phew, glad that's over!" It was cute...

After a few more seconds of frantic searching, I finally found an opening between beams and sheet that I could wrench my hand into. At first, the bird was reluctant. I pulled my gloved hand out, little birdie and all, afraid I'd squish him. Then, bravely, I tried again. This time it hopped out, as if it knew exactly where it was!

Now, I was relieved! I waited a few seconds to be sure it didn't fall out again. Then I went upstairs, breathing heavily, and washed the gloves in a solution of diluted bleach, and washed my hands with soap and water.

Through the evening, I checked to be sure the baby bird wasn't again on the ground. It wasn't. I could hear its lone cheep, cheep as its parents swooped in to drop morsels in its beak.

I felt I'd done something good. And the important part is that I tried to do something good.

This is kind of what it looked like. (From Keepers Cottage Wildlife Garden Diary)

4 - A Puddle of Ants

I must write something to get my mind away from ants.

"They're not crawling on me, are they, Tails?"

"I don't see any more. You might wanna shower, though."

"But you said there weren't any more."

"Not that I can see."

Blaaaah!

"You should write a blog entry about this. If this isn't cottage life, I don't know what is."

So, here I am. With Necco Wafers and Kool-aid (strawberry), after changing my clothes... I am getting away from ants.

No matter how far you go, or how hard you run, or how clever you think you are — the ants always find you.

I picked up a pot in the greenhouse, carried it about ten feet, then put it back in the greenhouse... then I noticed a puddle of ants where the pot had been. Puddle. A Puddle of Ants. The spot was so black-brown with the confused and slogging goobery things that, yes, it looked like a puddle. A moving, rippling puddle with a tiny creek of ambling ants leading to and from it...

It's not that I really mind ants. They're small and harmless, and when you squish them, on purpose or accidentally (because they don't know the difference), they smell rather funny—metallic and earthy and soapy. But I like my ants like I like my evil dryads: with an awareness that they're there, but so far off as to be invisible.

Living the cottage life means sharing your precious domain with six- and eight-legged visitors. Unwanted ones. They're like old college mates who stop by — then won't leave. Had the unfortunate detail of smashing a big brown spider in my room the other night. To give you an idea of how things can be here, I keep a fly swatter like Remus Lupin keeps his wand: always at the ready. The kitchen has finally lost most of its insectile infestation after someone of a skillful standing was brought in to remove the ants' bivouac. This blockade hasn't stopped them from acquiring a taste for my room, though they appear there on a small scale — one for every millionth speck of dust. A ratio I can live with. I don't like killing things, even things smaller than me that are threatening the comfort of my abode. I feel it is an abuse of power and a collapse of compassion.

Other than preparing Breezy Day Cottage for spring, there is little going on. Tails is not working on anything.  Other than the yard. And his tan, when, you know, we actually have sunlight and it's not 40 degrees outside.

I've decided to do some rewrites for a short young adult (sorta?) book I wrote a few years ago. That's coming along well, or it does when I sit down and write. I'm using the same world/planet that Tails used for one of his "epics" (he doesn't like that word, epic), but a different country in that world. He's enjoying it, and recently gave me a list of semi-vulgar colloquialisms (used in his epic)... like "gaff the gods!" and "bilk it all!" and "Old as Vaniel's Mere!" which means "as old as the hills." I'm surprised we're not going around the yard saying "Gaff the gods!" to one another...

All and all, I've felt incredibly lazy and overwhelmed by the amount of stuff I have to do and the stuff I want to do. The warmer temperatures have been uplifting, though they keep coming on days of wind (otherwise known as "how the cottage got its name"), and we've had more than our fair share of clouds, too. Considering the winter I had, I've not been too unhappy and sulky, even if my lavender seeds haven't sprung up yet, but, lo, the iris* bulbs are sprouting whether or nay they are in the ground. I should run down and get a photo... It would mean seeing the ants again...

All right, I'm back! The ants were pretty well gone, just a handful looking around dolefully to be sure they were supposed to leave, too. (Can you just imagine their talk? "Hank, where's my hat?" - "Beats me. Last time I saw it you was wearin' it." - "You're no help." -  "Oh, Manny, lookie, I think you're still wearing it!" - "Gaff the gods, I am!") And, as promised, here's a picture of the iris bulbs already sprouting. The other day I was in there repotting plants, and I turned all of the bulbs over so that they might sprout the way they're supposed to. They'll probably be planted around Beltane.

PS: Commenting from non-registered users now accepted, since neither of us realized that wasn't the default setting...

* Correction: these are gladiolus bulbs, not iris.