This is why you should never leave home

Travel. Pffft. Whatever. Expensive, annoying, and overrated. Stay home and live your life already.

As mentioned in the last post, Phrodaux and I recently returned from our annual pilgrimage to the sun.Vitamin D therapy aside, maybe we just should have stayed home. Why? We are so glad you asked.

* Travel is no fun. First, we're up BEFORE 4 AM to get to the airport on time, after a night of checking the clock to make sure we didn't oversleep (as in, we really didn't sleep at all). The departing plane leaves late, after many less than helpful updates from the captain ("Well, folks, the second engine just won't turn over." "OK folks, looks like they found a kink in the line..." and so on). Arriving late for a tight connection leads to one of the Fairy Queen's least favorite activities in the world, sprinting through a terminal to be one of the last five people on the only plane that goes to Zihuatanejo every day, arriving at her seat out of breath and anxious, to be greeted by the stink eye of the entitled breeder army who thought they could take over her precious aisle seat for the toddler they did not bother to buy a ticket for.

* And while we're ranting: Alaska Airlines, you knew that connection was too tight. You did. And yet you set it up that way anyhow. Because you, less than lovely Alaska Airlines scheduling people, were not going to be the ones with no worldly goods for the first 48 hours of your vacation. Because of course the suitcase did not make the plane we ran for. Suffice it to say that one t-shirt is not enough in a hot climate. But also that Queen Tina of Casa Kitty will always find you a toothbrush and a bottle of shampoo.

* Even when travel IS lovely (see previous post), you're not HOME. And Phrodaux and I are poster children for homebodiness (look at me, I invented a word). Quoting Phrodaux: We bought property so we could avoid getting on airplanes.  Honestly, if we could be here, why do we go away???

The problem is, the farm does not look like this right now. It looks gray and damp and in some places a little floody (another story). In the middle of winter, the FQ wants to feel like this:

But that doesn't happen at the farm until August. Or maybe even Labor Day. That drinking straight from the bottle of Cava might have been induced by the thought of going back to work. Though she loves her job. Honest. But this might be a digression.

ANYWAY

* At home you can MAKE things. Or at least, we do. All the time these days. This week started with pizza,

Vietnamese rice salad and pan bagnat, included a mid-week stop for homemade ricotta and granola (two separate dishes, promise), and culminated with a big dumpling adventure, courtesy of our friend the cutest chef ever, Jenn Louis. If you live in PDX, go to Lincoln already. Or at the very least, go eat a friend chicken sandwich at Sunshine Tavern. I know it's bad for you. Eat it once a year and you'll be fine. Somewhere in the ether of the tubes is a picture of our fancy ricotta and kale dumplings. But the name is pretty too:

And speaking of making things, you all made stuff for xmas presents, right? I mean, honestly, do any of us need any more stuff? We do not. You have 11 months. Get cracking. Here's what we did this year. Steal if you need to:

Pear ginger preserves. There was also raspberry jam, sour cherry jam, pickled cauliflower, pickled beets, pickled apples & onions, pickled cherries, pickled asparagus, 5 gallons of dill pickles (!!! That was Phrodaux!!!), ketchup, hot sauce, hmm, something else...I forget.

Chile powder, ground from the chiles we grew and dried. Test tube stands made by Phrodaux. Tear gas incident during chile grinding survived by all.

  * On travel vacations (as opposed to hunker down at home vacations), there are NO DOGS. Or, rather, there are tons of dogs - random beach dogs and I-checked-my- papers-at-immigration traveling dogs and street dogs who stretch across the road and play chicken (and win!) with the cars and trucks and taxis. But none of these are OUR dogs. They go to grandma camp when we travel, where they play with Westie cousins and get baths and trims. It is hard for us to be without them. They would love our Mexico beach vacation, but it would be a terrible idea to take them there. Mo in particular would bark at every dog, cat, person, lizard, bird and possibly wave. We would never actually relax.

Bird? Wave? LIZARD?

Nubie in MOTION!

It's really good to be home with them.

Home. That's the point, really. We like to go away, for a little while. Then we get itchy - after about 2 days - and we want to be home. Now we are. All is well.

This is why you should travel

Phrodaux and I are just back from our annual winter Vitamin D therapy trip, a week of sun, ocean swimming, fish tacos, and tequila. It's going on 10 years now that we've headed across the border (way across) for a rejuvenating week. We highly recommend it, for a number of reasons:

* Relaxation: If you stay home, you'll do stuff. Really. You'll say that you are just going to take it easy and relax and before you know it, all contents of the linen closet are on the floor and you are organizing. Or something breaks and there is no concierge to call. And the phone rings and the cupboard is bare and you have to do stuff. That is not relaxing.

 

Don't forget to wash your feet!

Instead, imagine this blissful routine:

1. Roll out of bed and go get coffee, barefoot. On the way, admire the tropical garden (and many cats - but that's a different story).
   
2. Enjoy coffee in hammock while listening to waves.
3. Eventually eat a little breakfast in a palapa-roofed dining room without walls.
4. Head to the beach chair you've staked out. Read, nap, watch waves.
5. When you have the energy for it, walk on the beach, swim in the warm ocean, and poke around the tidepools.
6. Return to beach chair. Rest up after all that exertion.
7. At some point, rinse the sand off and go have lunch. Aguachile and a margarita. Or shrimp tacos and a bottle of Victoria, lime and salt on the side.
8. Nap.
9. Repeat steps 4, 5, 6, rinse again, meet your sweetie for sunset margaritas.
10. Have dinner in a restaurant without walls but very possibly with children, dogs, lizards, and hammocks. Oh, and amazing food (chile rellenos, chicken mole, coconut shrimp, you get the picture).
    
11. As you stagger home, consider stopping for gelato. FQ always orders lemon, Phrodaux knows better and gets coconut. FQ samples his and says, "Oh, that's better." Every time.
12. Sprawl out on the bed, watch some old TV show, fall asleep full and calm and warm and peaceful.

That, my friends, is why you travel. You will never do so little at home.

 But wait, there's more!

* Wildlife encounters: This trip alone, we saw whales and dolphins swimming by, a big iguana in the iguana tree and little ones munching on leaves next to our lunch table, a baby crocodile, a puffer fish, all sizes & shapes of crabs, urchins and anemones, pelicans, butterflies, an assortment of beach dogs, and an army of cats.

Some years the wildlife is even more exotic: an armadillo in our garden!

Baby turtles are hatching! Good thing there are a lot of them...what with the gulls, the dogs, the waves, and the clueless people, it's hard to get on out to the ocean blue if you're a baby tortuga!

* We never thought we'd say this (being misanthropists and all), but vacation friends are a factor. Here's to you, crazy multi-time zone girls and house of Canadians. In hideous Eugene, OR for a garden thing we met one half of the NYC Fab Twins, our beloved MV. A couple of years later in upstate NY for Fab Twin MV's major birthday shindig, we met our LA pals, the mogul & his mate (pseudonym someday), folks who have become major parts of our lives. Weird but true.

So, tiny little sweet peas, the moral of this story is: Leave home once in a while. Pick a nice place. Go there and chill. Get some color in your cheeks (everyone will remark on it when you get back to normal life). Enjoy more than 7 hours of daylight at the turning of the year. Take a nap. Walk right out into the ocean. Eat one more taco than you think you should because the restaurant owner's abuela made those tortillas right there, over the fire.  Send us a postcard.

December, not October.

Damn the Gregorian calendar.

October is the tenth month of the year, octopus (octopi, octopuses, Octopussy starring Roger Moore, my second least favorite Bond, but Octopussy...nope, not that digression, not that sorta blog, see the entire rest of the intertubes) have 8 legs, squids have 10 (well, really 8 arms and 2 more tentacles , but not that sorta a quibbly blog) but the month is not Squidtober (that would be soooo cool) it is October. December (which really should have been called Squidtober, Xmas decorations would have a much cooler bent), not the 10th month, the twelfth.

(none of the other squid would let him play there squiddly games, ba-rump-pa-pu-pum)

so... (yep, did it). There once was a calendar, let's call it Romulus (or Roman, but I like trek better than wars...and really a Remus calendar?... I'll never make that internet search mistake again...), there were 10 pictures of cute cats, 10 pictures of sloths getting baths, maybe one or two with pretty much nekid girls using their oh-so-augmented secondary sex traits to make men who fix things buy tires and tools (I've been to many places that sell tires and tools and have seen nary a thong, THANK ALL THE POWERS THAT BE THAT I HAVE NOT SEEN NARY A THONG AT/ON THOSE, ew). Did I digress? thoughts of thongs and Bond girls...hmm Moneypenny...) Romulus. Romulus pretty much started in March. March the time when a young man's thoughts turn to green chicks selling monster truck tires and spud wrenches.

(...or no.)

...so basically, f-you January and February (except the one day that Fairy Queen was birthded, feel free to send prezzies now, there is time).

(yah, I know, we both thought it was June and July, but that is another post, stay tuned for another exciting adventure of "Calendar wars: Julian vs. Gregorian, a rumble in the early modern ages until 1929!" ok, not that catchy, but think of it coming from a wrestling AAAaaa-NOUnnnn-CERRrrrr surrounded by scantily clad car mechanics holding up signs with "Ianuarius" and "Sextilis" among others...

(now we are a talkin'...)

Has this happened to you? part deux...and duck genitalia.

 apparently this is a "thing" {FQ: It is! See Sledgehammer & Waffles}

We do something, then we thinks, does this happen to us this often and not happen to others?

(usually the sane answer is "yes, just you and the voices in your head")


FQ: We're not nitwits, honest. We start down a path and it seems like a good idea and it turns out to be a good idea but somewhere in the middle we think: WTF??? We are tear gassing ourselves here.

Exhibit A: Homegrown Horseradish Sauce (picture Phrodaux in snorkeling mask & goggles, FQ hiding upstairs) (Phrodaux: I was watching "Star wars: ep 1 the racist diaries" at the same time, so not all the fault of horseradish)

Exhibit B: 2 pounds of chilies (grown on the farm), frizzled in the food dryer, then ground into magic powder AT THE SAME TIME and IN THE SAME KITCHEN AS the FQ cooking dinner. Dogs hiding, humans crying and sneezing and gasping for air.

... but on the plus side ENDORPHINS!!! Did you know the same chemicals that are responsible for "runner's high" you can get from hot chilies? Capsaicin is an amazing thing. It is an irritant to mammals (or yummy depending on who you are) but birds don't get the whole pain receptor misfire thing. One might think "weird" but one would be wrong (stupid and foolish one, all the other numbers, real, imaginary [i] and even the irrational numbers are laughing at you). Birds eat chilies, then poop out the seeds.

while on the other hand artificial grape flavor is used as a bird repellent, as it has much the same effect on fowl as chili does on us...

beware my purple Popsicle...

...speaking of which... duck penises (penii?) twist counterclockwise and can be as long as the duck's body vs. duck vaginas (vagii?) that twist clockwise and have multiple dead ends for misdirection... go look it up, it's true, and there is more (beware that particular rabbit hole of exploration, which can twist both counterclockwise or clockwise much like the topic)  weirder than the artifical grape thing. Birds are f-ing weird.

 (trust me this is the picture that should be here... there are worse)

...and as a grammatical side note (as you know your oh so humble Phrodaux is all about the grammaticaling) the plural of "chili" can be "chilis", "chiles", "chillies" or "chilies". Now you know, and knowing is half to five eighths of the battle, yo.

Nubie Part 2: And that's why Nubie is a very bad dog

Once upon a time, Phrodaux had a remarkable dog. I cannot write much about her here, because Pook (aka Ms. Bear) deserves a post or seven all her own. The remarkable thing relevant to this post, though, is that Pook ate EVERYTHING and never got sick.

Everything. Honest. Not just regular doggie bad stuff like chocolate (though one Christmas she got plenty of that) but weird stuff like raw rice, raw potatoes, olive oil, oil paint. Hot pepper from a can (she chewed through the can). This list goes on and on and on.

Nubie never met Pook; she left us in June of 2003 and Nubie came along that September. But the FQ believes that dogs somehow transmit knowledge over time. Pook's gift to Nubie, then, was this message: Food is EVERYWHERE. You just have to go get it.

So. A normal Friday night trip to the farm. FQ closes down her classroom soon after small people depart, heads for home. Phrodaux has the car packed up, pups are itching to go. We drive and drive and drive and finally stop at this nice place for tomatoes (more canning!), corn, apples, and a cantaloupe.

(Phrodaux here: don't forget the oh so cute farm stand girls and boys that work there, I believe they breed them there along with the organic produce and pods that they will someday replace our leaders with, end side note)

Produce gets wedged into the nooks and crannies of the car, as we are all packed up for a farm weekend and there isn't much room. The melon goes on the floor of the back seat.

Phrodaux resumes driving, but soon FQ smells something funny. Something sweet. Something...melony. She can't see what's happening exactly behind her, but she can wind her freakishly long arms around behind the seat to find this:

 "Pull over pull over pull over! Nubie ate the cantaloupe!" are the next words out of her mouth.

Ate the cantaloupe. Through the rind? Who does that??? Well, Nubie. And before him, Ms. Pook - who knocked a melon off the kitchen island and chewed through the rind. People would say, "Oh, your dog has food issues - why don't you put stuff up?" And our response was always: What stuff? Whose dogs eat cantaloupe?!?!?!

Clearly, Nubie does. And doesn't feel even slightly bad about it.

Phrodaux was no help. FQ was panicking over the ingestion of melon rind - honestly, that can't be good for anyone, right? - but Phrodaux laughed and laughed and laughed. Nubie? He just wanted us to drive faster. Hurry up and get there, mom. It's time for dinner.

 

(Phrodaux further side note: still laughing!)

doing unnatural things with gourds...

It is October.

month of leaves and moons changing color.

month of harvest.

month of bringing in plants late at night that we really shouldn't have purchased in the first place given where we live because it is going to freeze.

month of apples and people doing odd, semi-violent, and definitely unnatural things to innocent gourds.

I speak of that oh so magical wonderland located east of the city of bridges and beards, home of fall bearing fruit trees, aging yuppy windsurfers and best of all... wait for it...

PUMPKIN FUNLAND!!!

(nothin' says fun... or night terrors.. like a punkin' headed hipster or two...  check out the beards. Oh, and by the way, you have died of dysentery, sorry.)

so...

once a year, we drive up the gorge, we buy many pumpkins for the FQ's teachin' and ed-u-ca-dudication type stuff and apples, many, many apples.

If you don't know, there are more than "red", "yellow", "green", and "jolly rancher" (which are also green) types of apples.

And finally, finally, when the all-overs have subsided, we enter PUMPKIN FUNLAND!!!

Pick a theme: Iconic Movies, maybe. Or The Fifty States (capitals are important, as are capitols). Or maybe Presidents. Whatever. Then imagine that the farm elves who run PUMPKIN FUNLAND!!! created what you imagined out of random s###t they found in the attic, plus gourds. So many, many, squash like, gourd like things that become heads and feet and bodies, and creatures.

There are hand-lettered signs describing each vignette.

Sometimes they are misspelled, and they often cannot control their apostrophes.
(Note: it is NOTTTTTTTT apostrophe's because nothing belongs to the apostrophe!).

But that is part of the charm.

(this would be an arty picture, or an accident, let's go with art)

After PUMPKIN FUNLAND!!! we end up at a pub somewhere, eating average food and (Phrodaux) drinking average beer but enjoying the month that is October. Sometimes an old timey steam train would be a-chuggin' by, but that might be the beer. Everything smells like apples (or beer). And it's a whole year before we have to see The Wizard of Oz acted out in gourds (BEER!).

(ah, that pumpkin afterglow...)

(no matter how many times Phrodaux suggests it, he still is waiting for "Showgirls: The Movie" done in pumpkins, but the restraining order is a good sign.)

Now is the Thursday of our discontent and cheese.

so....

Many of my posts start off with...

so...

why is that? time to form a thought? I'm not an "um" or "ah" guy when speaking (please don't do that, just stop). Maybe I need a bit to get going, but once going, then you have to feign some sort of seizure or hear your mother calling to escape with some remains of sanity...

so..
 
It's Thursday (notice I didn't say "Its Thursday", in that case I would have had to explain what actually possesses Thursday that I was speaking/typing of (and really Thursday belongs to everyone, now that NBC has forsaken us). Bugs me almost as much as "moot" vs. "mute", by the way, mimes are both, and the all time bug Phrodaux word, "biweekly" which means both/either every other week or twice a week. Close enough, that every f-ing time someone uses that f-ing word they need to explain which f-ing meaning, they f-ing mean that defeats the whole f-ing point of having an f-ing word in the f-ing first f-ing place. f-ing.)

so.

It is Thursday (no contraction/possessive to worry about here), that means that it is one of my designated nights to cook (two nights a week are preordained).

(double, double,  toil and trouble, be it salmon burgers or cheesy sammiches? and please, please hold the baboon's blood, think of my cholesterol)

{FQ Sidebar: Except it's not. Thursday, that is. It's Sunday. This post took a while. So I'm up here fiddling with it while Phrodaux is downstairs making pizza (I did make the crust! And remember to buy cheese...I'm not a total slacker.) Anyway, maybe you read this now, maybe you wait until Thursday. For the effect and all. Or not. Up to you. Rebel.}

The other night is Sunday, but we shall not speak of Sunday today, as today is the day of Thor, and be the day/eve of cheese sandwiches or salmon burgers and the fries of the potato that be sweet and yammy that is what doth occur on Thor's day, not the day of the Sun, that would would be pizza, but I say too much... verily.


forsooth.

Have I mentioned salmon burgers and/or cheesy sammiches?

Now we are entering a "food portion" of our bloggy postings.

Thursdays are one of my fixed point days of cooking, it isn't like if something comes up, I'm still compelled to make the food, but it all started long ago, back when the FQ and I were busy people who did things like take yoga classes and bettering ourselves, as a note we are still busy people just less flexible busy people, and maybe some less bettering, but that would be judgmental, you morally bad, bad person. On yoga day, we would come home and be our indecisive selves and spin and spin and spin about what we wanted for dinner. At some point we were past the "we should have eaten something" but not yet to the "oh screw it, we'll have canola oil and couch stuffing."

or...

one thing I learned when I used to travel to Europe for work (another long story) is that at some point, you need to have pre-made some decisions, so first night was always seafood pizza and two wit beers at "La Fontana" otherwise it was "wander about Eindhoven until all the restaurants close and go to bed crazy (well, either way that was likely to happen, but maybe crazy and fed is better).

so..

on Thursday it is one of the nites that Phrodaux regularly cooks (have I mentioned this?)


Cheese sammiches.

there are two-ish versions. This is about "regular cheese sammiches" both come with potatoes (both sweet and potatoe-ee)

 (this would be the beginning of starchy portion of the dinner)

The starchy part.

 Starts by cutting up a sweet potato (garnet "yam", though I think yam mostly occur in Africa, but another story) and a yellow potato, then boiling in as much water as you can fit in your largest pot, with a tablespoon (ish, I don't measure) of baking soda for ~one to two minutes. The soda breaks down the cell of the tubers, and releases starches to the surface that makes for a nice crust.

once boiled, then drained, then back to the pot with olive oil, some butter (for the "flavor", quotes, more "quotes") and spices.

those would be, turmeric (which while may be good for being an anti-cancer, help with arthritis, Alzheimer’s disease, and stomach ulcers thing, is also yummy), smokey paprika, salt (which has been reported to drive demons from the good, but also maybe makes blood pressure higher), pepper, curry, cumin, etc., etc., etc (which may, blah, blah, blah, but also might boogidy, boogidy, boo)...

Then dumped onto the cookie sheet that you have been pre-heating in the oven for 450f the whole time that the water was pre-heating and starchies boiling. (did I forget to mention that, oops)

spread the fries out so they are not touching each other which makes them come out more crispy... (is "crispy" an absolute? like "wrong", "dead", "pregnant", or "republican", as a side, all things that should be avoided).

15 minutes in the oven at 450f (I have nothing "funny" to say about that, as long as "funny" is not absolute, like "republican")

 (this is the beginning of the cheesy portion of the dinner)

while the potatoes are ovenning...

cheese. About 4.5 to 5.5 oz of mozzarella (not the fresh kind, but the pizza kind), and sharp cheddar, grated together. (really, any combination of mozzarella and some more flavorful cheese, sometimes hard cheeses, some other combination. The mozzarella is for the rubber sandwich factor, a childhood reference)

Mix with an egg (stay with me), and sweet chili sauce (a tablespoon or two, yes, ish).

 (this is not a crime scene)

 (did I mention the guacamole? I make some version of guac, but blah, blah)

...so the bread. We use just store bought sourdough, though the Fairy Queen makes very very nice bread, the store version is taller and given that it is abused by Phrodaux's "cooking" (note the quotes, used "properly") is just fine, back up.

so the bread. Pan is oiled and buttered (oh baby) the bread is toasted on one side, then flipped. guac with green chilies added, and the cheese. Pre-toasted inside, then the other piece with the pre-toasted in.

I added some butter, because butter is love, and cardio pulmonary disease, and love.

Toast all four slices of bread side one in oil/butter,  then flip two pieces, add goo and cheese, put the remaining pre-toasted with toasted in, on top.

grill until cheese is goo, and the bread down is starting to golden, flip.
(there is a potato step here from above, but you already know that)
 toast some more, until bread down is golden and cheese is starting to make a mess.

 (here is a cute dog, who monitors the prep'ing of dinner and letting us know that the Costco chewies are not up to his high standards, you cheap bastages)

 (this would be the potatoe-ee part of dinner, fresh out of the oven, note the spacing, makes for more crispy, or just "crispy" if "crispy" is an absolute, unlike "zaftig")

The potatoes, they are in for about 20mins, about 15min in the sandwiches go on the fire. When the timer goes off, you flip the sands. you also take the fries out and shuffle them. Mostly to piss them off, but also to try to get more even toastieness (is toasty absolute?)

Turn off the oven, the residual heat be enough, verily. Once the sandwiches are done, the fries are good. Now dish. I can't believe she is wearing that, mee-yow.

 (the sammich stands alone, like "the cheese" which... stands... alone... I'm batman)

  (looks like dinner)

 (home made catsup, katchup, katsup, whatevers, though yummy, is not that different than that you can buy for much less than you can make it for, just sayin', like vasectomies, yes, you can do it at home, but better to leave it to those with better tools.)

{FQ Sidebar: For the longest time, I've wanted to make ketchup, condiment of choice in Fairy Queen world, along with peanut butter and Dijon mustard. Note to all: BUY YOUR KETCHUP. Pay the $3 with a smile on your face because otherwise, this is what awaits you: 7 pounds of tomatoes, 4 hot, steamy (not the sexy kind of steamy) hours, endless straining - marry well, ladies, Phrodaux did ALL the straining - and at the end of it all, when you're sick of everything and just want to go swimming already, you have 5 half pint jars. Buy your ketchup and be grateful.}

 (here is where FQ says "are you going to feed me, or keep taking f-ing pictures)

 (phrodaux keeps taking pictures)

(my plate is the cleaner one, as I am a tidy, tidy person... shut up, I'm a delicate flower...though apparently I may have eaten my fork)

...soon will come pizza, which is the other Phrodaux biweekly (twice a week) dinner.

And that's why the Nubie is a champ

Our poor guy Nubie has always kind of been the second string sort of dog. He joined us when the late, great Odin was still in his prime, and that was a dog that lived up to his name. Anubis, despite the big and portentous name, never stood a chance to be the rock star in the house. Rather, he was Nubie, because much of the world seemed brand new and possibly slightly threatening (while Odin was scared of not one single thing on the planet).

HOWEVER. We realized recently that while Mo gets most of the time & photos on this here blog type thing, Nubie is in fact a rock star after all.

He quietly reminded us of this during a recent week (a whole week! 9 straight days!) at the farm. There was cousin play (two more westies for a few days), where he got to be off leash all the time because he's the only one who won't run blindly off in pursuit of deer, mice, or bug shadows. There was creek swimming and rock hopping and long walks and all that stuff. But somewhere in there the FQ got a hankering for new scenery, so we went off on a little field trip to this purty spot, Clear Lake.

Attribution: Gary Halvorson, Oregon State Archives(see, FQ follows rules)

I did my homework, checking out the details of the hike: 4.6 miles, seemed doable. We packed snacks and water and leashes and beasts and off we went. Well, this day was HOT. And I had clearly not packed enough water. And the direction we started off in took us away from the lake for way too long. At some point we started to doubt the wisdom of this particular walk and the accuracy of that 4.6 miles (which, at the time, I remembered as 4.3 but who is counting?).

After a while, Phrodaux and I started to worry about Nubie: 11 year old dog on a long, hot hike. There was a lot of panting, but nothing more than regular interest in drinking. After a while we realized that the panting was mostly about being FIRST on the trail. Get out of the way, Mo, Nubie coming through!

This is not a swimming lake, too deep and cold. But there are many little paths down to the water's edge for toe dunking, boats, etc. Once we were all really hot and sweaty and crabby, Nubie turned into Lake Access Inspector. This place? Yeah, works. There he'd be, belly down in the cold water, lapping it up at the same time. This place? No, muddy or serpent-filled or otherwise no good - keep moving. And he'd herd us all back up to the trail.

Finally we made it all the way around the lake and expected both boys to crash out in the back seat on the way home. Here is Mo, wiped out:

But here is Nubie, saying, as far as we can tell, 4.3, 4.6 whatever. Bring it on. With treats, please.

His response to this high-exertion day got us thinking about all the other ways that Anubis is a super hero with amazing powers. Such as:

• Dowsing: This guy can find belly-dunking water whenever it's needed.

•  Object Distinction: The whole toy vs. pillow thing is too much for Mr. Mo to grasp. But Nubie totally gets it.

• Bedding Compiler: If the question is, how many pillows and blankets does it take to make Nubie comfortable, the answer is always At least one more.
  
  

•  Camera Eluder: Anubis has an uncanny ability to move the instant the camera clicks. This post would have been done a long time ago if he'd hold still more often.

Check out this one: Bedding & Blur, all in one!

It's been a summer of major farm time, lots of walks, swims, guests, adventures. As far as we can tell, Nubie is OK with all that. I think the caption that goes with this picture is: What next?