Uncategorized

Our dear friend, Peggy, has moved back to town from Whitefish, Montana.  We were not going to forgive her for moving away from Montana, where we could easily and shamelessly use her house as a base camp…..but then she fixed us dinner last weekend:

Pesto and dill encrusted salmon, roasted vegetables, Basmati rice, and chocolate-dipped potato chips,

washed down with chocolate wine.

She is SO forgiven.

But not because of any of that.  Nope.

And not because she brought us Montana-made stoneware mugs.  Nope.

And not because her hearth was bright and warm and felt like home.  Nope.

And not because her conversation was engaging and witty as always.  Nope.

She’s forgiven because she made us this:

with cherries she picked by hand, herself.  And to it she added this:

And some of these, which she also made:

Oh, what are those, you wonder?  Cherries.  Hand-pitted by Peggy, herself.  And drowned in 100-proof Vodka.  These ain’t your usual, run-of-the-mill Marachinos, Baby!

She mixed it all together to make this:

And by my second one, I couldn’t even remember she had ever lived in Montana in the first place.

We love you, Peggy!

Critter asked me pitifully today if I would buy him popsicles.  He’d been so good all afternoon, and life is short…why would I say, “No?”

So I told him to add it to my shopping list on the fridge door.

Hours later, as I was assembling My Captain’s Shift’s Breakfast Casserole for tomorrow (he often feeds his guys at line-up.  A well fed army!), I realized I would need to replenish some grocery items.

I turned to my shopping list on the fridge,

…yes, yes, I know, not very organized, is it?  But hey, we LIVE around here.  We don’t have time to be organizing fridge magnets for crying out loud.  Why the heck would anybody worry about crap like that?

and was about to pick up the pencil and add something terribly important on the bottom of the shopping list,

when I came across Critter’s scrawl.

I don’t remember what the hell I was going to write down.  Don’t really care either.  Turns out I’ve got all I need right here.

One of My Captain’s friends, Lisa, found an old photo of him and shared it on Facebook.

In it My Captain, who most certainly was NOT a Captain at the time of the photo, his handsome brother, who is currently a Lieutenant, though HE wasn’t at the time, and their dad, affectionately known as ‘Papa’, are at the scene of a fire.  A fire that occurred decades ago!  A charming photo, it’s easy to note how strongly firefighting runs in this family!

And I about peed myself laughing.

Not because of the old fire gear they were wearing.

Not because of the hair on My Captain’s head.

Not because of how young they all look.

But because of My Captain’s cheesy Mustache.

If ever there were an attempt by a young man to appear older, it would be the cheesy-soft-haired-barely-out-of-peach-fuzz mustache.

Oh don’t worry, it’s much more manly when he grows it out now.  Like, incredibly manly.  As in holy-crap-I-need-to-sit-down-before-I-fall-down manly.  In fact, I have to ask him to shave, just so I can maintain my equilibrium.

And I don’t like scratchy kisses on my soft little bouche.  (That’s french for ‘mouth,’ all you pervs out there.)

How does he handle my teasing of him and his decades-old cheesy mustache picture?  How does he handle me blogging about it?  Well, ….since we’re friends and all,  I’ll be honest, and show you the uncropped photo:

We’re on a Steve Martin kick here at The Little Cottage.

I bought a Carol Burnett DVD a few weeks ago that has Martin in a couple of skits, and Critter has been inspired beyond measure.

It’s astounding when, with his 10-year-old voice, he recites entire comedic monologues, managing to nail it both in timing and inflection.  He captures the essence of the 80’s in the process.  How a kid born in 2003 can ‘get’ 1980’s Steve Martin is beyond me.

I’m filled with pride and awe at his innate comedic talent.

And I live in fear of the first time he uses it on his teacher at school.

Last week I read the wonderfully warm and fuzzy quip: “Life is too short to waste it matching socks,” and thought it was sage advice, indeed.  I offered it up to my Varmint, who at the tender age of 11 is beginning to pay attention to things like that.

But my sweet Varmint spent quite a bit of time doing the exact opposite for her basketball game today.

Literally, she spent more time trying to find mismatched socks than she would have finding matched ones.  And I know some of her team mates did the same thing.

I totally get her strategy:  Baffle the opponent.  Totally understand.  No need to explain….

…..because that is the exact same strategy I use parenting.