Saturday we held our annual BBQ. This is about the 8th year we’ve been hosting it. We provide meat (chicken and lamb) and wine; guests bring desserts or salads and lawn chairs. Every year the weather has been perfect. If it rained, it stopped before the event started. If it had been too hot, it cooled down before the event started. Not this year. It was stinking hot—and then the rains came. I guess we were due for bad weather for a change.
After everyone had finished eating and just before the desserts were brought out, the clouds gathered, decided they liked it here, brought their friends and eventually thunder, lightening and rain joined them.
Before the sky darkened, I noticed that my spouse, the one with a shirt “Licensed to Grill” was not around. I went into the house and found him in his chair not well at all. The combination of the heat of the day, heat from the BBQ fire and his hot flashes—which he still gets as still on hormone meds—had left him not well at all. I will spare you the nitty grttiy details—not pretty. I wanted to take a pic of him but friends persuaded me perhaps not. In a few hours the rain stopped and he was fine
In a sense it was fortunate that he became ill just as the rains started. People cleaned up the back yard quickly and efficiently and then I sent people home.
I was not able to take many pics this year. I was busy talking about writing, naturally, and by the time I got any food most of the salads were gone. So the photos here are from this year with a few from last year just to round it all out
Quel Merde. Where’s the corkscrew to open this wine? It’s lost. May, ever helpful, handed me a nail file to open it with. Paul raced out of the house. We found the corkscrew! Cheers all around!!
Before the rains started I had been speaking with Catherine about her latest paining. She didn’t know what to call it. She described it as the back of a young girl with bare feet and a chemise, looking out of a French looking louvered window, with a gentle breeze blowing the curtains, toward a view of a lake and the shore on the other side. It sounded quite haunting. She wasn’t sure if the girl was just day dreaming, or saying good morning to the world (it could have been evening for all Catherine knew). Painting is like writing sometimes in that something is written or painted and the artiest does not know where it came from. It sounded like a wonderful piece and I told her not to worry about the title; it would come to her.
Blogophilia 19.4 Topic: Lost and Found
(Hard, 2pts): use a foreign expression Quel Merde – French – Oh Shit
(Easy, 1pt): mention a nail file