You may recall that last spring, a pair of quails made a nest and laid some eggs in my pretty geranium plant. The two took turns sitting on the eggs. The eggs hadn’t hatched yet when we left at the beginning of May, but when we returned for my niece’s wedding early in June, most of the eggs were hatched — hopefully, successfully — and the nest was empty. Later that week, we saw what I presume to be a mama quail and a papa quail, followed by three or four baby quails. I realize that I am creating a story, but I’m sticking to it. Earlier this week, I glanced out the window and saw two quails standing on the counter where the container sat last spring, and where the eggs were laid. Again, in my world, the quails were checking out potential nesting spots. I quickly drove to Lowes and bought a geranium plant to set on that same counter. We’ll see. I’m like a nervous grandmother.
As I had hoped, at my doctor’s appointment on Monday, he gave me permission to lose the boot. I am once again free to put both feet on the ground. In fact, he released me from the boot with no restrictions. I can get a pedicure. I can wear flip flops. I could polka (if only I could polka). My foot continues to be swollen, especially if I spend too much time on my feet. I am not complaining because it is nice to be able to get up from my chair at my whim and walk around the house, not sounding like Frankenstein’s monster. It might take some time for the swelling to go down, but I will be patient. And my toe is as straight as can be.
Bill has spent the past week or so concentrating on golf. Our Canadian neighbor Dale has accompanied him a couple of time to the driving range, where he claims to have gone from awful to passable. So passable, in fact, that he bought himself an inexpensive set of clubs. Today or tomorrow, there is talk of playing a round of golf. The weather has certainly been cooperating. Yesterday was near 90 degrees. Straight from heat to air conditioning.
Yesterday was Ash Wednesday, the beginning of Lent. Catholics (and maybe others) abstain from meat on Ash Wednesday, and every Friday during Lent. As I have said many times before, eating fish is no sacrifice for me, but it is for my husband. Last night it was my turn to cook. I made a delicious meal that included shrimp and garlic and lemon and butter, served over rice. It was delicious, and certainly didn’t feel like a sacrifice to me. For the first time ever, I took the shrimp shells and made a shrimp broth which I intend to use for Friday’s meal. It’s between gumbo and risotto. Thoughts?