Vignettes of This Day
Decided to bake date squares for a change, haven't had them in ages. Made an oatmeal-walnut crumble bottom and top, and it was quick work to get it all into the oven. Used the portable oven which has a tendency to bake things too quickly, and forgot to pay attention, so the topping got slightly burnt, but not enough to really notice when dessert-time rolled around. A telephone call from our granddaughter had caught me off guard; yet another PD day.
When we went out for our daily hour-long ravine walk, the sun couldn't make up its mind, kept peeking out from behind clouds dark enough to bring snow, but which didn't. In fact, yesterday's rain had washed away the slight accumulation of snow from previous days' events. And little Stumpy accosted us no fewer than three times on our ramble through the ravine, on each occasion boldly coming closer and closer, to fetch his peanuts from us.
Button and Riley, our two little dogs, have become accustomed to his appearances, no longer bother themselves about his brief presence, and just get on with other things, further emboldening Stumpy. We keep all the really big peanuts, those with three chambers rather than merely two, especially for him. We're curious about whether squirrels recall where they've hidden peanuts.
Looked that up on the Internet yesterday and the message is a double one; sometimes they do, sometimes they don't. What they do engage in evidently is pretending to bury something in a number of places when they feel they're being watched, before finally burying the edible object, to put off potential hijackers. We're most pleased when Stumpy sits there, eating the peanuts we offer him rather than burying them.
When we were out doing the grocery shopping today, a harried, exasperated young man trying to stock the dairy coolers informed someone's grandma that "lady, they all have the same date", when I was trying to find a more distant-dated lactose-reduced 2% milk carton. "No, they are not!" I responded, to his chagrin, inviting him to use his height to obtain one for me. Poor kid. I thanked him effusively.
We'd left Button and Riley at home on their own when we hied ourselves off for shopping. Little Button, usually so aloof, even with us, whimpered piteously on our return and I scooped her up for a big hug. Littler Riley, generally phlegmatic, indulged in a chorus of howling renting the air with his frustration at the outrage, so he too got scooped up.
When I prepared dinner I decided instead of drizzling olive oil over the cauliflower florets I was baking along with the chicken, that I'd use the newly-prepared salad dressing I put together yesterday for which I'd used lemon juice instead of vinegar with the olive oil and seasonings. After dinner my husband remarked on how odd the cauliflower had tasted; off-putting, he said.
I responded by informing him of what I'd done, for a change. He laughed, hugged me, and recommended that I consider that to have been an unsuccessful initiative. Back to the old way. He had gone out briefly before I served dinner, to snip parsley from the herb garden back of the house. Despite the snow we've had, and the current slightly below-freezing temperature, the parsley is still perkily fresh. Great with our chicken soup.
After dinner, Button, who appears to have forgotten how to ask to be let out, scratched at the sliding glass doors, so I went over and let her out. A few minutes later I heard her bark outside (there, she remembered!) to be let back in. As she so often does when she's been out to do her business, she rushed through the door like a spitfire, racing about with such verve you mightn't believe she's 17.
Two minutes later, as he was clearing away the dishes from the dining room table, my husband exclaimed. She had decided to evacuate right there. Her memory has these dips and lows; she has forgotten occasionally how unhygienic and downright unfriendly it is to do such things in the house. And quite evidently she had forgotten, after she was let out, why she wanted to go outside to begin with.
And then was puzzled by my angry shout at her, informing her that I thought her to be a "bad girl!". I was upset, but not he. He's the one who cleans up such messes, and he laughed uproariously. Thinking about it in that way, it is ridiculous, and chastising her serves no real purpose other than to confuse her.
She looks so adorable, after the much-needed haircut I gave her and Riley two days earlier. That adorability will fast fade and she and he will once again resemble tousled mops.
When we went out for our daily hour-long ravine walk, the sun couldn't make up its mind, kept peeking out from behind clouds dark enough to bring snow, but which didn't. In fact, yesterday's rain had washed away the slight accumulation of snow from previous days' events. And little Stumpy accosted us no fewer than three times on our ramble through the ravine, on each occasion boldly coming closer and closer, to fetch his peanuts from us.
Button and Riley, our two little dogs, have become accustomed to his appearances, no longer bother themselves about his brief presence, and just get on with other things, further emboldening Stumpy. We keep all the really big peanuts, those with three chambers rather than merely two, especially for him. We're curious about whether squirrels recall where they've hidden peanuts.
Looked that up on the Internet yesterday and the message is a double one; sometimes they do, sometimes they don't. What they do engage in evidently is pretending to bury something in a number of places when they feel they're being watched, before finally burying the edible object, to put off potential hijackers. We're most pleased when Stumpy sits there, eating the peanuts we offer him rather than burying them.
When we were out doing the grocery shopping today, a harried, exasperated young man trying to stock the dairy coolers informed someone's grandma that "lady, they all have the same date", when I was trying to find a more distant-dated lactose-reduced 2% milk carton. "No, they are not!" I responded, to his chagrin, inviting him to use his height to obtain one for me. Poor kid. I thanked him effusively.
We'd left Button and Riley at home on their own when we hied ourselves off for shopping. Little Button, usually so aloof, even with us, whimpered piteously on our return and I scooped her up for a big hug. Littler Riley, generally phlegmatic, indulged in a chorus of howling renting the air with his frustration at the outrage, so he too got scooped up.
When I prepared dinner I decided instead of drizzling olive oil over the cauliflower florets I was baking along with the chicken, that I'd use the newly-prepared salad dressing I put together yesterday for which I'd used lemon juice instead of vinegar with the olive oil and seasonings. After dinner my husband remarked on how odd the cauliflower had tasted; off-putting, he said.
I responded by informing him of what I'd done, for a change. He laughed, hugged me, and recommended that I consider that to have been an unsuccessful initiative. Back to the old way. He had gone out briefly before I served dinner, to snip parsley from the herb garden back of the house. Despite the snow we've had, and the current slightly below-freezing temperature, the parsley is still perkily fresh. Great with our chicken soup.
After dinner, Button, who appears to have forgotten how to ask to be let out, scratched at the sliding glass doors, so I went over and let her out. A few minutes later I heard her bark outside (there, she remembered!) to be let back in. As she so often does when she's been out to do her business, she rushed through the door like a spitfire, racing about with such verve you mightn't believe she's 17.
Two minutes later, as he was clearing away the dishes from the dining room table, my husband exclaimed. She had decided to evacuate right there. Her memory has these dips and lows; she has forgotten occasionally how unhygienic and downright unfriendly it is to do such things in the house. And quite evidently she had forgotten, after she was let out, why she wanted to go outside to begin with.
And then was puzzled by my angry shout at her, informing her that I thought her to be a "bad girl!". I was upset, but not he. He's the one who cleans up such messes, and he laughed uproariously. Thinking about it in that way, it is ridiculous, and chastising her serves no real purpose other than to confuse her.
She looks so adorable, after the much-needed haircut I gave her and Riley two days earlier. That adorability will fast fade and she and he will once again resemble tousled mops.
Labels: Animal Stories, Companions, Perambulations
posted by Pieface @ 6:02 PM
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