We've been terribly busy around here of late, mostly with celebrating whether it be our anniversary, fathers, or my cousin's upcoming nuptials. Last night Stu and I had dinner out at Kensington Kitchen, whose patio is entirely not overrated. We were in Peterborough for the weekend where fun was had, and we went strawberry picking with my dad on Sunday. Indeed, I had a bucket of berries and if all goes well (fingers crossed), by this time tomorrow I should have four tubs of jam. How exciting! I am obsessed with learning how to preserve, and one day I'll have to tell you the story of of how Pickle Me This got its name. Among other stories to be told within the next few days. I'm bursting with them, but I just haven't had the time. Things are promising to wind down soon, and this weekend we've got on nothing. Which is perfect. Just finished reading Carry Me Down by M.J. Hyland, and I'll review it here tomorrow. A little poetic action, also reading It's Hard to be Hip Over Thirty by Judith Viorst, and loving it-- strikes me as early Nora Ephron in verse. And tonight, a page or two before I fall asleep, I will begin Making it Up by Penelope Lively, who I've never failed to love. I'm looking quite forward to that.
The garden is desperate for weeding.
