"Hot enough for ya?" Standard conversational opener after seven days of triple-digit heat. The very air is condensed, hard to breathe. It presses against skin with a tangible weight. Smoke from wildfires burning clear across the valley has made its way to the foothills, scenting and flavoring the air. That in itself is a danger, masking the warning smell of smoke should a nearby fire break out. All we can do about the weather is talk.
The venom from one little wasp sting is powerful stuff. Swelling in my hand is such that I can't hold a coffee cup this morning, and is working its way past the wrist. Milking was an experience yesterday. With fingers like stiff sausages, today it will be more difficult still. I might be a little panicky had I not recently gone through this with the other hand.
Perhaps I misjudged Sparrow's male appeal. Last night he had not one but two females enticed to his bachelor pad. Three sets of shiny black eyes follow me as I move about putting the girls into their stalls, the birds sitting motionless.
One thing about gardeners, they love to share. Debbie K. came by yesterday with a gift of tomatoes, green onions, and zucchini. Last night, grated squash, chopped green onion, eggs, a little Bisquick and a good squirt of sriracha made wonderful zucchini pancakes for dinner.
It's supposed to be only (only!) ninety-eight today. I hope that wasn't just talk.