Burning buckthorn

To say that I love winter would be a lie. The plants die back; the wind slaps you in the face when you go outside. Travel can be difficult and dangerous. I wouldn’t say I hate winter either. I tolerate it. It feels good to snuggle into my sweatshirt and wool socks, have a lovely cup of tea in the afternoon. Certainly, I am ready to be done with gardening.

Most of the farmers in the area are done harvesting the soybeans. Now I can’t go anywhere without being stuck behind a combine or a tractor pulling grain wagons. In a week or two, weather permitting, the fields will be empty, resting up for spring.

We had our annual Halloween bonfire Sunday. Terry spent two days cutting up the three buckthorn trees that he’d girdled in May and making a massive brush pile by the fire ring. “I’ve noticed that any tree with ‘thorn’ in the name has really dense wood,” he reported. “That buckthorn will burn nice.”

Jane, Kate, Pat, and Nancy came out to help with the burn. They drove back while I got my boots on and walked. By the time I rounded the willows, flames were shooting into the sky. Terry didn’t waste any time! Here’s how it looked when I got closer.

Pat by the fire with a huge pile of buckthorn brush to be burned

Here’s a picture of the fire and brush pile from the other angle, taken at 2:25.

The fire at 2:25 p.m.

Pat, Nancy, Terry, and Hilda did the majority of the fire feeding. I was on injured reserve for this event due to a wee bit of surgery last week. I was forbidden to bend or twist. I sat with Jane and Kate, moving my chair away from the fire when it got too hot and closer when I was too cold. Now and then, there would be general agreement that the fire needed to burn down before any more wood went on. Everyone would sit down for about three minutes, then Pat and/or Terry would hop up and start stoking. Some people just can’t sit still.

Pat and Terry feeding the fire

Terry throwing on another branch

A brief rest time while the fire burned down

Terry had stashed our Christmas trees from last year out by the fire ring. Here is a video of our concolor fir burning up.

By 3:40, all the brush was on the fire. 

3:40 p.m, one hour and 20 minutes after the fire started, the brush pile was gone.

Pat went wandering off in the woods to see if she could find a few more dead sticks. She also checked the creek for arrowheads (she has never found one), and came back with a round, metal object. “What is this?” she asked.

“The top of a lawnmower,” Terry replied immediately. I only knew that it looked familiar. It would have taken me awhile to place it.

“I’m sure it’s an Indian lawnmower,” I said, trying to be helpful.

By 3:55, the fire was burning down. It would smolder the rest of the night. Buckthorn is dense wood. Terry went out several times to turn it and be sure it was behaving itself. The rest of us played a bit of Mexican train while the lasagna baked. Hilda made garlic bread, and we had cherry pie for dessert. It was a nice celebration of fall before the inevitable hunkering down.

The fire at 3:55, still cranking out the BTUs.

Cleaning out the garden

Frost or no frost, the end of October is high time to clean out the garden. My folks moved here 10 years ago, and for the first several years, the killing frost came on September 15. It is now October 23, and we still have not seen 32°F. Maybe by the end of this week, maybe not. 

Hilda picked all the pole beans that were left. Some of them were not mature enough to dry. She divided them between us to be eaten as fresh limas, which are delicious. I prefer them to dried, actually, but shelling them is a big pain.

Fresh lima beans in many colors

Saturday was a nice dry day. The ground was moist enough that the earth staples pulled out easily. I’m in the midst of trying to get my pelvis realigned; my physical therapist forbid me from bending over and pulling. Terry helped out by pulling the landscape cloth up, staples and all. I sat in a chair to take the staples out and roll the cloth up. Here are the fruits of our labors.

Rolls of landscape cloth awaiting winter storage

Meanwhile, Hilda worked at removing the landscape cloth from the tomato grid. She wanted to be sure it got bagged and labeled separately. We have had too many years of trying to guess which pieces went with which parts of the garden.

Hilda pulls up the landscape cloth from the tomatoes

We are so ready to be done gardening for the year. When I wasn’t outside this weekend, I was putting up peppers. I roasted, skinned and deseeded poblano peppers for the freezer. I made three pints of pickled jalapeno peppers and some cheese-filled poppers. I made a double batch of stuffed peppers. And there are still apples in the refrigerator that need attention. I have no room left in my freezers and no inclination to do any more putting up. But the Brussels sprouts are still in the garden! We have to plant garlic, too.

Will the pullets ever start laying? They seem to be getting less skittish. I was able to touch one of the Black Star pullets. She just barely started the Squat of Maturity. That was a week ago. No pullet eggs yet. The Black Star chickens are not a homogeneous as I thought they would be. Juanita and Lupita look a lot alike, but Carmelita has much more brown around her collar.

Carmelita

I have noticed that many black chickens have iridescent green highlights, which you can see in this picture of Lupita.  

Lupita with her iridescent green highlights

The Ameracauna typically have a great deal of diversity in coloration, but this year, they all look very similar. This picture shows the slightly darker Consuela in front and the somewhat lighter Rosa Dolores in back, with Lupita and Juanita on either side.

Consuela  in front, Lupita, Rosa Dolores, and Juanita left to right in the back.

Mom and Dad's Anniversary

As of October 15, 2017, my parents have been married 62 years. We don’t wait for the 10-year increment anymore—every year is a celebration. Terry got out a pencil to calculate what year they were married. When he came up with a very familiar 1955, he said, “Oh yeah! I’m 62!” He’s not likely to forget the year again.

A couple weeks ago, Dad went on a mysterious mission to Rockford. When he came back, he took me aside and asked if I could 1) contact Doug to see if he and Pam could come to dinner on the 15^th and 2) call Franchesco’s Ristorante to firm up reservations for 4 (if they couldn’t come) or 6 (if they could) in the private Wine Room. A florist would be delivering flowers. And don’t tell Hilda. It was a surprise.

Doug and Pam could come. I called the restaurant, but the woman to whom I spoke did not inspire confidence. I called a week later, and sure enough, there was no reservation on the books. I felt better about the second call because I could hear typing in the background. I felt completely good about everything when I got a reminder call on Saturday. Whew.

Doug and Pam were just getting out of their car when we drove into the parking lot. I beeped the horn, and Pam turned around. Hilda was thinking, “That woman looks a lot like Pam” when she realized that it was Pam! She was surprised. Mission accomplished.

The Wine Room was lovely. It was actually an antechamber outside of the small room where the wine racks were and was just big enough for a table for six. Here are Mom and Dad with the flowers.

Mom and Dad with fresh roses and other flowers

We began with champagne, bread with seasoned olive oil, and two kinds of focaccia. Hilda and I split a tomato/basil focaccia; Pam and Doug shared the onion and rosemary.

We ordered appetizers of fried calamari and coconut shrimp. “Shall I put in two orders of the shrimp?” the waitress asked, “It’s three to an order.” We thought that was an excellent suggestion. The shrimp was plated on a sweet/sour/hot sauce on half the plate and a mango based sauce on the other half. The calamari came with a spicy dipping sauce and marinara. I forgot to take a picture.

Some had house salads. I had a cup of lobster bisque, which was awesome. It had little pieces of lobster in it, which I liked better than the version that is entirely pureed.

I had ricotta stuffed gnocchi with tomato and basil. All of the pasta dishes came with a big chip of melted Parmesan. I love that. The gnocchi were pillows of soft potato pasta surrounding seasoned ricotta. Not something I care to try at home. Regular gnocchi is enough work.

Ricotta stuffed gnoochi with tomato and basil

Hilda and Terry and linguini and shrimp with aiglio/olio sauce. Dad had chicken Parmesan. Doug had lamb chops, and Pam had Chilean Seabass with forbidden (black) rice. We traded bites around. I had never had black rice before. It had a sweet, floral flavor that was familiar (probably from the sauce), but I couldn’t place it. Franchesco’s advertises Farm to Table, but I refrained from asking the waitress if the seabass was local.

Doug ordered Chardonnay for us, and got a glass of red for himself, since white doesn’t go with lamb. One bottle of wine was just the right amount for 5—one glass a piece.

For dessert we shared three huge pieces of New York cheesecake drizzled with chocolate and caramel. I remembered to take a picture of those, but not until they were almost eaten. I got one with pralines as well. Not that we needed dessert… Doug had a double expresso so he could stay awake for the drive back to Harbert, MI. Hilda, Dad, and Terry had decafs. Pam and I stuck with water. The others bequeathed their leftover cheesecake to Terry and me. We put it all in one container and added it to the bag with our leftover entrees—enough for two lunches each.

Group photo, back row left to right, Pam, Doug, me, Terry; front row, Hilda and Dad

As we waited for the bill, Pam mentioned the sign in the wine room. 

The wine room with a compelling command

“Should we sign out the wine?” Pam asked. “It is a command—please sign out ALL wine.” The wine room did not appear to be locked. Terry had inspected it through the glass door and estimated that there were 1300 bottles of wine in there. He’s very quantitative like that. It was kind of a funny sign. We didn’t act on it, though. We all have plenty of wine in stock.

I wore the same outfit that I bought for the 50^th anniversary dinner at Charlie Trotter’s kitchen. I was relieved that it was neither too big nor too small after 12 years. I cannot help but reflect on the differences in the two events. Then we had course after course of tiny bites of things that were often outside my comfort zone (e.g. fish eggs) and/or not cooked quite as much as I would have liked (e.g. barely warm salmon) but all with outstanding sauces, and a new bottle of wine with nearly every course. It went on for hours. Doug got us rooms in hotels on Michigan Avenue, Mom and Dad at the International; Terry and I at the Holiday Inn nearby. Hoo-boy—that was one epic hangover I had the next morning.

And then there was this year. Comfort food in a quiet, nearby place, one glass of champagne, one glass of wine, 35 minutes to drive home, and in my own bed by 9:00. I felt great this morning. Am I glad I went to Charlie Trotter’s? Absolutely. It was an experience I will never forget. But we’re in a good place now, too.

Rain at last

Last week was more of the same. Rain was forecast for Wednesday, moved back to Thursday, then Friday. We were supposed to get one to three inches. It sprinkled briefly Friday evening, which was cause to celebrate in our house. I slept restlessly all night listening for the sound of rain on the window well cover. I thought maybe I heard a little pitter patter. By morning, though, the rain gauge looked like this. One to three inches, my ass.

The rain gauge Saturday morning. There is rain in there, honest!

We had a bit more during the day. Terry called it 25/100. I think he was being generous. A quarter of an inch after 51 days of no rain doesn’t count. I worked on cleaning up the garden during intermittent light showers. I got the pea trellis and the fence around the lettuce taken down. I raked the straw off the garlic bed and pulled up one row of landscape cloth. The little bit of rain we had did loosen up the earth staples. It also got the landscape cloth wetter than I would have liked for winter storage. I pulled up one more piece and gave it up until drier weather.

One of our watermelons had a dry stem. Unlike some fruits that store starches and convert them to sugar after they are picked (like pears), melons get pumped full of sugar from the vine at the last minute. Once the vine is dead, the melon will get no sweeter. I picked it. It looked pretty good, but was only about a 7 on a scale of 10. The biggest melon still has a green vine. We’ll leave it as long as we can.

The first watermelon

We have had many, many cantaloupe. As is usual, we have been eating all the damaged ones and giving the best ones away. Why do we do that? Enough, I said to myself. I am keeping a perfect, large melon all for myself. Here it is. Good for me, I say. It was delicious.

A perfect cantaloupe, just for me.

My other project for the weekend was applesauce. I made a batch on Saturday and another on Sunday. Applesauce is the simplest thing ever. The ingredients are apples, heat, and just enough water to keep the apples from sticking. There are two schools of thought on applesauce. I am of the “peel the apples first” school. Hilda is in the “leave the peels on and put it through a food mill when it’s cooked” school. My method produced tan applesauce; Hilda’s produces pink applesauce. My method is more work up front and less work at the end. The real reason I peel, however, is because I haven’t quite made the capitulation to eating bugs, and taking off the peel reveals any minor infestations. I did eat termites in Belize, so I’m getting close.

Apples

Applesauce, not quite done

What about the rain? Sunday was cloudless. Again. Our next hope was yesterday. The College meteorologist, Paul, said that front would hold together better and we should get at least an inch. Last night I truly did here rain pounding on the window well cover all night long. This was the rain gauge this morning. Hooray!

Rain gauge this morning--2.4"!

All that rain, and there weren’t any puddles in the ditches by the road. The thirsty soil sucked it all in. I no longer have to worry that it will never rain again. I can only hope that 57 days without rain at the end of every summer is not going to be the new normal.

Drought

It has been 46 days since we had rain. One front after another shows up on the radar, seemingly headed for us, then dodges to the east or west. MCC’s meteorology instructor told me that this is the first time he’s seen a whole month go by without rain in the 20 years he’s been here. Maybe, maybe, there will be rain Wednesday. We can only hope.

When it gets very dry, the grass dies over the drain field. I assume because the soil is shallow over the pipes. It’s a paradox, really. You would think the drain field would be wetter. Probably the wastewater doesn’t get out that far.

Dead grass over the pipes in the drain field

The ground has developed huge cracks. I checked yesterday to see if they went all the way to hell, but in fact, they are only 4.5”

Cracks in the ground 4.5" deep

As long as it is so very dry, I began taking up the landscape cloth between the rows of corn. It’s a right messy job in the mud, let me tell you. At least the dust will shake off. If I wear a dust mask, it’s not too bad on the respiratory tract. Also, I did not have to pick off any slugs or earthworms clinging to the underside. Perhaps the slug population has been knocked back by the prolonged drought.

Corn with the landscape cloth removed

In order to pull up the landscape cloth, I had to pry up the earth staples. In moister soil, one can just tug on the cloth and the staples will slide right out of the ground. Under current conditions, however, the cloth would rip around the staples. One at a time, I pulled them out with the tool shown below. This is the only thing we’ve ever found that could do the task without bending. Sadly, there are no identifying marks on it whatsoever. If it breaks, we are at a loss to find another.

Best earth staple puller ever

This is what an earth staple looks like

I sat on a small rolling garden stool, working close to the ground. The crab grass by this time was way over my head from this position. I got a load of seeds down my neck as I scooted along. In fact, I had seeds everywhere before I was done Crab grass seeds are pricklier than I imagined. Obviously designed for dispersal on fur or, in my case, socks.

Hilda took all the cages off the tomatoes, which had gone senescent. Terry moved the cages to his trees to keep the deer from rubbing on them as the rut begins. One season follows another.

Sad, sad tomato carcasses

My butterfly garden continues to produce new blooms. Here is the largest Echinacea I’ve ever seen along with some yellow coneflowers.

Coneflowers in the butterfly garden

The yellow flower is sneezeweed. It is flanked by some very healthy New England aster.

Sneezeweed and New England aster

My lisianthus are finally looking really good, just in time for the frost (although last week was in the 90’s and following a brief cool down over the weekend, we are headed for the 80s again). Hilda started them from tiny seeds sometime around last Christmas. Tiny seeds produced tiny plants. We potted them up at the beginning of summer, but something was odd about them, and the stems refused to elongate. Finally, a shoot went up from each rosette. The flowers started to form. And then the damned ground squirrels chewed off every damned bud. I moved the pots off the ground and waited for the stems to grow again. Here they are, at long last.

Lisianthus blooming at last

I didn’t think I would like the peach-colored ones (or was it apricot?) but they are lovely.

Peach-colored lisianthus

Saturday night, we once again used our human secret weapon of night vision to put leg bands on the pullets and transfer them to Coop 1. Chickens don’t see well at night, which makes them relatively easy to catch and work with. When we looked in before going inside, Juanita and Idalis, the two boldest of the bunch, were at the top of the ladder. The other four were still milling about the floor.

We were up early Sunday moving the fence back where it usually is. I was relieved when we let the girls out that the pullets did not try to walk through the fence to get back to Coop 2. They walked right up to the fence, but stopped there. They were, perhaps, a bit wistful.

The fence repositioned, cutting off Coop 2 from the Coop 1 run.

With the run secured, I went in to have my tea and warm up. When I went back out after breakfast to take down the chick fence, I didn’t see the pullets outside. I found them all on the roost as if they needed to make up for not roosting the night before.

Pullets on the roost in the middle of the day

Hilda said they all seem to be getting along fine today. Now if the pullets would just start laying, but no signs of maturity yet. 

Thanksgiving in September

It seemed like a good idea at the time.

My motivation was that I wanted to make a raspberry pie before the first frost. I love raspberry pie, and traditionally we have had the first frost in mid- to late September. Pie is Share Food. You need to distribute those calories widely. I asked Pat for some open dates, and she picked September 24, the day she and Nancy were going to be in the neighborhood anyway for the Farm Walk.

As long as people were coming over, I thought, why not get one of the giant turkeys out of the freezer? We could have a nice turkey dinner, not too much fuss, just dressing, mashed potatoes, and a veg, with raspberry pie for dessert. Easy peasy.

What I didn’t know is that a persistent heat wave was going to keep temperatures in the 90’s. Not what I had envisioned for a Sunday in late September when I planned to leave the oven on nearly the whole day.

Outdoor temperature 92.5 degrees. At the end of September?

No matter. I got out a 22-pound turkey to thaw a week in advance. Also a week in advance, I made a loaf of sourdough bread. I cut it in cubes and dried it out for the stuffing. I always question my sanity when I make bread for the express purpose of letting it go stale, but the stuffing is way better with homemade bread. Trust me.

Twenty-two pounds of turkey. Who else could I invite? Kate came to mind. She loves both turkey and raspberries. As luck would have it, she had no other plans. With 8 total diners, we would at least come out even with the pie.

Faithful readers may recall the fiasco of cooking half of the 32-pound tom turkey last Thanksgiving. I thought it would never get done. Hilda, bless her heart, found a recipe from Cook’s Country for cooking a large bird in 3 hours using a baking bag. I was game to try anything to speed up the process. Jane, bless her heart, knew exactly where to find baking bags at Meijer when we were shopping on Friday. Check.

Saturday I started prepping for the pie by mixing the crust and crushing enough raspberries to make two cups of juice.

I was proud of myself when I found the recipe for brining in the first place I looked. The options were for a 12- to 14-hour brine or a 4- to 6-hour brine. I figured I needed to start roasting at 1:00 on Sunday. Not wanting to get up at midnight to put the turkey in brine, I opted for the 4- to 6-hour version. I was up early Sunday mixing a total of 2.5 gallons of brine, 1 cup of table salt per gallon, and putting the turkey in it. Other little victories included finding a stock pot large enough for brine and turkey, and being able to get the whole thing in the spare refrigerator.

Brining the turkey

Next, I blind baked the pie crust. While it was baking, I mixed the raspberry juice with 3 tablespoons of corn starch and ¼ cup sugar. I brought it to a boil and cooked it 5 minutes, stirring the whole time so it wouldn’t stick to the bottom. While the raspberry goo cooled, I washed a quart of raspberries and spread them on a towel to dry. Then the goo was cool enough that it would not cook the raspberries and the crust was completely cooled, I mixed the raspberries with the goo and poured it into the crust. I covered it with plastic wrap and put it in the refrigerator to chill. I also put in a bowl and the beaters for the mixer. Heavy cream whips better when everything is cold.

In the middle of the night Saturday, it occurred to me that I had forgotten about the cranberries. Terry would miss cranberries if I didn’t make them. I had a bag in the freezer, which I put in a saucepan with a cup of sugar and a bit of water. After the berries popped and the sauce thickened, I put it in a bowl and got that in the refrigerator too.

The day was going by quickly. I kept thinking I would sit down for a minute to rest once I got a particular task done, but by the time one task was done, there would be something else to do. I did sit down to eat lunch. Before I knew it, 1:00 was rushing up, and it was time to put the turkey in the bag. “Remove the turkey from the brine, rinse it well, and dry it with paper towels.” It sounds so simple. Wrangling 22 pounds of raw turkey is not that easy. I could not get the wings folded behind the back. I finally got mad enough to make it happen, but one side popped out again when I got the bird in the bag. At that point, I thought, “Screw it.” 

The turkey in the bag

The turkey finally got in the oven at 1:23. They had better not be kidding about that 3 hour thing. Dinner was to be served at 5:30, and the turkey was supposed to rest for an hour before carving.

On to the dressing. I put the bread cubes in a large bowl and added chicken broth to soften them. I sautéed mushrooms, onions, and celery in butter and added that to the bread along with fresh parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme (really!). After checking for seasoning, I added three eggs, mixed well, and put it in a casserole.

Lord, it took me forever to prep the herbs. The turkey recipe suggested making herb butter to put on top of the sliced turkey before serving. It called for a tablespoon each of rosemary and thyme. The rosemary was the work of minutes. And then there was picking off all those tiny thyme leaves to make a tablespoon plus what I needed for the dressing. I put the rosemary and thyme in a glass measuring cup along with a stick of butter and set the whole thing by the stove so I would remember to put it in the microwave for one minute before drizzling it over the carved turkey.

I delivered the dressing upstairs to bake in Hilda’s oven, since there was no room in mine. Hilda had been working on scalloped corn and mashed potatoes. She simmered home-grown frozen sweet corn in half and half for 20 minutes, put it in a casserole, covered it with bread crumbs, and baked it. She put the mashed potatoes in a crock pot to keep warm.

I whipped the cream with a little vanilla and powdered sugar. I spread the whipped cream on the pie and decorated with 9 perfect raspberries that I had set aside. I crossed “pie” off my list.

Jane got to the house at 4:00 to help with the gravy.  The turkey wasn’t done, so we watched the Bears game for a while.

Kate arrived at 4:30 and hung out in the kitchen with Jane and me. She took over as photographer when I took the turkey out of the oven and cut the bag away.

Cutting the bag off the turkey

As promised by Cook’s Country, the turkey was browned, at least on the top. And it was done in about three and a half hours.

The turkey out of the bag

Because the turkey was in a bag, we couldn’t use the usual method of flour in the pan drippings. Kate assumed the role of Recipe Reader as Jane and I put together the gravy from the juices that had accumulated in the bag. The gravy turned out quite well, although perhaps not quite as good as pan-drippings gravy.

Pat and Nancy had a great time on the farm walk. They joined us a bit after 5:00. We sat down to dinner close to 5:30 as planned. The mashed potatoes had developed a lovely brown crust around the sides of the crock pot. The scalloped corn was to die for.

Counterclockwise from bottom: turkey, mashed potatoes, dressing, scalloped corn

Sometime in the evening, it occurred to me that September 24 was after September 19, and I had completely forgotten Pat’s birthday. Hilda found a candle for Pat’s piece of pie, and she was just as happy as if it had been on her actual birthday.

Pat with  her late birthday pie

Kate enjoyed the pie, too

When I got back to my kitchen at the end of the evening, there was the herb butter, uncooked  by the stove. Damn. All that work picking the thyme leaves off the stems for naught. I'll have to find something else to use it on.

Even though it was too hot to be roasting a turkey, at the end of the day, we had a fun meal with friends, I have a big space in my freezer that wasn’t there before, and I haven’t had to cook all week. All good.

Weights and measures

Avoirdupois is stupid. Avoirdupois is the archaic English system of weights (16 drams to the ounce; 16 ounces to the pound, etc.) that had been abandoned by every civilized nation on earth except the United States. If you fear conversion, you should not. You already drink water from half liter bottles, and I bet you don’t even worry about how many ounces that is. As a scientist, I went metric years ago. I am more likely to estimate length in cm than inches. Once you get a feel for how big each unit is, you just live in that world. The only difficulty I can see is in converting recipes, but that will only have to be done once and only when avoirdupois cups and measuring spoons are no long available.

Those of you who saw me in person last week know that I am riddled with disease and pestilence. When I gave the first exam Tuesday, all I heard from the students were sniffles and coughs. I didn’t stand a chance. Thus, I was in the market for some cough syrup, having finished what was left in the medicine cabinet from my last cold. Long ago when I was a respiratory therapist, I learned that cough suppressants and expectorants should not be taken together as they work at cross purposes. The function of a cough suppressant is obvious. An expectorant is designed to make you expectorate, that is cough up the crap that is in your lungs. Taking both together, the reasoning went, loosens the crap in your lungs and lets it sit there.

Over the years, however, it has gotten increasingly difficult to find cough syrup that does not have both (in addition to various combinations of pain reliever, decongestants, and antihistamines). In fact, I could find only one pure cough suppressant, a 12-hour formulation that seemed like a good idea. I hoped to make it through the day Thursday without having an embarrassing fit of hacking in front of the students. The dose was 10 ml, easily understood to all and sundry as “fill to the line on the cup in the box.” No ounce-to-ml conversion needed. The size of the bottle? 89 ml (3 fl oz). They can’t put in one more ml and sell it as a full 9 doses? Stupid.

Cough syrup sold in bottles of 8.9 doses

The cough suppressant without expectorant wasn’t so good either. After the first night on the new medicine, I had some serious chest congestion that wouldn’t budge. So I went to the store for some expectorant tablets.

My plan was to rest and drink lots of fluids Friday afternoon and Saturday. Then I was going to wake up well this morning. My plan did not work out. I am distinctly not all better. I still have coughing spells right down to my socks and need to keep up a steady diet of cold medications. I have not one shred of ambition. So tired of coughing. So tired, period. I feel that I will never have any energy again. I am, in fact, having a good old wallow today. Poor me. Maybe I’ll have a little nap.