Wow. Obviously there are a lot of you out there with too much squash on your hands! Try the pound cake. Honestly.
Anyway, it's high summer, and mowing the lawn was a seriously sweaty endeavor (and to think that this time last year, I was bundled in cashmere, admiring icebergs. HA!). But working in the garden is always rewarding in its own right, and an hour and a half yielded a tidier lawn, if not perfect beds.
I'm getting little phone calls and emails from my brother, small siren songs: it's hot (but nice at night!); the swimming pool is refreshing; we could go look at caves.
I think back to high school, the hot vinyl seats of my friend KR's car, Pat Benatar blasting out of the the tape deck, the two of us screeching at the top of our lungs as we went off to hunt down pointe shoes before school started. Amazing to think that I used to wander and bike my way through the burning asphalt streets in 114F temperatures, and never thought twice about it.
The cool silence of the deep end of the pool.
I could use a break. I can almost taste Sonoran food, El Charro, maybe or one of the other multitudinous places in the area. I can almost feel the chill of a monsoon storm, smell ozone and wet sage.
Nostalgia. A kind of pain.
All those summers, and the joys of summers since.
Go listen to some good music: "Heartbreaker" from the album In the Heat of the Night by Pat Benatar. I still love belting this one out at the top of my lungs.