Sea to Sea

image: www.thecraftingchicks.com

Normally we are all together but mother is away so the mice played alone. I woke too early, ran the stairs at the beach, went to spin class, bought pound cake, made a summer fruit trifle for the evening, baked French toast casserole for the Fourth of July breakfast, drove to the breakfast and watched George and Martha Washington pose for pictures, ate chocolate frozen bananas after breakfast, watched children wave flags, the young women sing, Don Henley in the car on the way home, wanted to take a toes-up, washed my car in the driveway, read Rachael Ray magazines in the sun, went to Pat's for lessons on how to appliqué like a pro (I am daunted), back to my house for the cream, went to Phipps/Nelsons for block party bbq with hamburgers, bulgar salad (yum), pasta salad, and patriotic desserts (overdid on the bbq potato chips), watched fireworks in the street from the Fair, came home ill from the chips, tired from having much fun.

Bulgur Salad with Feta and Mint

Serves 6

1/2 t table salt

1 1/2 C uncooked bulgur

3 T fresh lemon juice

4 t olive oil

1/2 t black pepper

1/2 C crumbled feta

1/2 C fresh chopped mint leaves

Combine 1 1/2 cups cold water and salt in a small pot; bring to a boil and stir in bulgur. Cover pot, remove from heat, and set aside until bulgur is tender and water is absorbed, about 15 minutes. Fluff bulgur with a fork, allow to cool. Spoon bulgur into a serving bowl. Add lemon juice, oil, and pepper; stir well. Add cheese and mint; serve gently but well.

Summer Sun

by Robert Louis Stevenson
A Child's Garden of Verses

Great is the sun, and wide he goes
Through empty heaven without repose;
And in the blue and glowing days
More thick than rain he showers his rays.

Though closer still the blinds we pull
To keep the shady parlour cool,
Yet he will find a chink or two
To slip his golden fingers through.

The dusty attic spider-clad
He, through the keyhole, maketh glad;
And through the broken edge of tiles
Into the laddered hay-loft smiles.

Meantime his golden face around
He bares to all the garden around,
And sheds a warm and glittering look
Among the ivy's inmost nook.

Above the hills, along the blue,
Round the bright air with footing true,
To please the child, to paint the rose,
The gardener of the World, he goes.

We celebrated the fourth with a community pancake breakfast, homemade hamburger buns, blue cheese burger, sautéed onions, and an evening fireworks party at Fawn's. The summer sun shone bright in this desert. The buns raised in record time.



Fawn's balcony lends onto the city center where the taxpayer's contribute to a show of fire. We enjoyed root beer floats, were regaled by stories of Turkey and travel, and father was jovial. He complemented my teeth twice. This land is your land, this land is my land.