I’m not saying that my son’s laundry after his last week as staff at Scout camp is a tad toxic, but the load I just pulled out of the dryer went right back in the washer, with extra detergent and a heaping scoop of borax.

If that doesn’t work, I may have to hang it all outside and let the wind and rain clear out whatever creature from the nether regions has infested his shorts, shirts, and socks.

And if that doesn’t work, we have a firepit. I respect the earth enough to not want that in the landfill.

Also, not sure who needs this information, but if you wash a pack or two of sticky notes in cargo shorts, then run those shorts through a dryer, the little scraps of paper will mold themselves perfectly to the dryer’s drum? Good times, good times.

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Apparently washing my car and watering the garden on the same day gives us two days with bursts of torrential rain. I’ll have to learn how to use this power for good.

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I’m not proud of demanding my payment for pool care duties while my lovely wife was baking her buns on the beach the other week, but I was promised lasagna and I wanted lasagna. I also knew that if I waited much more without collecting, I would never see that tomatoey, cheesy goodness.

So, anyway, she made lasagna and I made bacon fat chocolate chip cookies. It’s these little acts of love that keep our relationship going.

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My wife’s attitude toward the neighborhood wildlife runs within a spectrum. I’d love to see the calculus necessary to describe the area under the curve that runs from “Oh, they’re so precious! I hope we see their babies!” to “Those damned things ate the tops off of all of my tomato plants, and some fool took two parallel bites out of each and every strawberry in the bed!”

If that latter part of the cycle ever coincides with hunting season, I’m going to need a new freezer.

Life is all about those little episodes that sum up how things are going for you.

Take this morning, for example. I spent two hours hunting through every storage compartment and container in my garage to find the 1/2 inch chuck key for my hammer drill. It’s one of those tools that I probably only use once every couple of years, but when I need it, I really need it. It also happens to be the only tool I have with a 1/2 inch chuck, so I don’t exactly have a lot of spares lying around.

After giving up and deciding to go to the hardware store to buy a replacement, I put the drill up on my workbench. It was then that I discovered that the missing chuck key was attached to the power cord.

So, that’s how life has been going lately.

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Drilling into masonry on top of a ladder that’s older than I am in the middle of a July afternoon isn’t as fun as it sounds.

Having done this sort of thing a few times, I set up a fan to move the air around me, took a cold drink with me up that ladder, and made sure to wear a hat and sunscreen. My people are a pale people, after all, and I don’t want to repeat the Sunburnt Neck and Face of 2022.

Even with all that, the air conditioning felt really good after I’d finished and put everything away.

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I must have been doing something noteworthy when I cooked dinner on the outdoor stove this afternoon. At least two of my neighbors came out to see what I was doing.

Dinner tonight was chicken and steak fajitas, with grilled onions, bell pepper, and mushrooms. It’s the last dinner Irish Woman and I have before The Young Prince returns from his last week at Scout camp, so I thought I’d do something nice.

It’s been kind of nice having some one-on-one time with Irish Woman, but it’ll be nice to have the sprog back.

Yesterday, I saw a recipe for rum almond cake and decided to try it. The recipe is very simple – butter, eggs, ground almonds, flour, and liquor.

After baking, you sprinkle more liquor over the cake.

Then, you make an icing with more liquor, then allow the whole thing to chill and soak overnight.

I am glad I decided to try it before giving a piece to Irish Woman for breakfast. It tasted wonderful, but if sold commercially, it would require a special license from the state and a declaration of its proof and distillation location. Going to work with cake on your breath might be a career limiting factor in this circumstance.

Basically, it’s a cocktail you drink with a fork.

Guess this one goes in the after-dinner treat category.

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Speaking of liquor, my neighbor and I did a tasting of two Texas bourbons this weekend.

His offering was Garrison Brothers Boot Flask whiskey. This was a rather spicy tipple that smacks you upside the head, grabs you by the shoulders, and pushes you toward the mechanical bull of life.

I brought over a bottle of Rebecca Creek Small Batch I brought home from my trip to Bugscuffle last winter. In contrast to our other choice, this was a gentle kiss on the neck, followed by cuddling and talks about a second honeymoon.

Irish Woman, being the proud daughter of the Bluegrass she is, declared that there is no such thing as Texas bourbon. She then proceeded to enjoy her Texas bourbon and coke.

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Irish Woman and The Young Prince returned from their Florida trip unscathed. Irish Woman seems to have enjoyed her week on the beach, especially the kayaking to islands overrun by iguanas. Boo seems to have gotten a lot of out of his time snorkeling and crewing a sailing ship.

Picking them up from the Cincinnati airport on the night of July 4th was interesting. They landed right at dusk, so our drive home was punctuated by multiple large fireworks displays. The most interesting was the rather glorious explosions happening over the world’s most patriotic landfill just south of the airport. I’m sure there’s some symbolism there, but I can’t seem to articulate it before coffee.