Monday all day long

You kno that Facebook thread "View from my window"
People add their lovely, scenic views that are seeing them through quarantine
So I thought I'd add the view from my kitchen window today
Rest assured the view from my desk windows is a flower-filled delight

At the Alter-Burton compound, Monday started early Sunday morning, like three a.m. I thought I heard wind but dismissed the thought—surely not in July, with no storms predicted. All we had was oppressively hot and humid weather. I did think, as I went from bathroom back to bed, that the patio umbrella was down, but I reasoned it could wait until morning. Back to bed.

Next morning, I saw more destruction. Jacob’s basketball hoop and golf net were down in a tangled mess in the driveway, and a hydrangea from the deck had landed plop! In the bed of pintas. The basketball hoop was a particular concern—it’s really heavy on its own, but it had also been weighted with concrete blocks to keep it from blowing over. So much for that. The saving grace was that it fell straight forward, narrowly missing the cottage, the fence, and my car, which it would have gotten had it gone in any other direction. Tonight, it’s still on the ground—awaiting its fate, I do believe.

So this morning Jordan took Sophie for her annual checkup. Soph, thinking she was going for a joyous walk, bolted out the door, nearly dragging Jordan down and succeeding in making her drop her mega-size glass of ice water all over my kitchen floor. So while I held Sophie’s leash, Jordan was on the floor, mopping up water and ice cubes with my hair-washing towel. It’s best at moments like that to keep quiet, and I did.

In the car, Soph must have figured out that she was going to the vet and not for the anticipated walk, because she pooped—I won’t get graphic except to say it was not easily cleaned up. Sophie never ever does that, so conditions were extreme. At the vet, they didn’t have a room ready, so Jordan had to wait outside with a poopy-bottomed dog. When they did let her in, they were wonderful about cleaning Sophie and giving Jordan stuff to clean the car. When all was said and done, I get back a very subdued dog but with a good health report. Oh, except they couldn’t get a urine sample, probably because she’s peed from nervousness twice while waiting outside. So they sent Jordan home with a kit to take a sample. She says she might be ready to think about that in two days.

So tonight I was going to cook steak fingers like I used to fix for my kids—cube or minute steaks cut into fingers, coated with flour, salt, and pepper, and sautéed, served with lemon juice. I decided I should not crowd the skillet but would do it in two batches, keeping the first batch warm in the toaster oven. So I lost my mind, turned on the skillet, and started the oven heating. And the lights went off, the hot plate and oven both went dead. The breaker box is where I cannot get to it, so I had to call for Jordan. She couldn’t fix it. Thinking we’d solve first things first, I asked if she’d take the meat inside and sauté it. With a sigh she agreed.

She was almost instantly back. “The plastic bag you sent?” she said. “It has no form.” I begged her pardon and said I didn’t have any idea what she was talking about. “It’s not pieces of meat like you said. It’s one big lump, and it looks like brains.” I assured her it was pieces—I had cut them myself this morning, while the meat was still partially frozen—makes easier cutting. “How many pieces?” she demanded. I had to confess that I didn’t count.

Finally she got the breaker fixed and my kitchen was once again active. She brought the meat back out, and I cooked the pieces—in two batches. And made drippings out of the crusty brown parts left in the skillet. It was a good dinner—the meat was flavorful, the potatoes good and better with pan drippings on them, and the salad, as always, wonderful—she has a way with salad.

Okay, I figure we’ve survived Monday and should be home free. But tomorrow she takes my car for its inspection sticker. I don’t even want to think about what could go wrong.

Sweet dreams, y’all.