connecting the cycle
Today gifted us with beautiful warm springlike weather, which unfortunately we weren't in the best shape to totally appreciate. I did manage to get out into the garden a little bit, though—it would have been impossible to resist! Wandering the rows, reveling in the sunshine and the sight of the dirt, I was delighted to see a number of volunteer collard green plants. A feature around here for three years now, they get started from seed in the fall and manage to winter over, providing us with our first crop of garden-fresh produce well earlier than we have any right to expect given the lackadaisical manner in which I run things around here.
Though we don't have nearly enough to harvest yet, it was still nice to see them come up, signaling as they do the promise of much better eating ahead. Not that we're done with last year's crops yet, of course: this evening, for example, we enjoyed some pesto, made from either our basil or a local farmer's (I didn't record) and frozen last August. We weren't anywhere near to being able to eat only local produce this winter, but we managed a good deal better than previous years. If we keep up this rate of improvement, you may expect to see us freed from the tyranny of grocery store by 2015 or so!
making the breast of it
If you've been following me on twitter or facebook this weekend, you already know it's been defective day for me and my global endowments.
Despite being on antibiotics for a mastitis infection I got LAST WEEK, I spent the day shivering and moaning over a new milk clog that developed last night IN THE SAME DAMN PLACE AS THE FIRST INFECTION.
And if that weren't enough to make me whine away a Saturday, the antibiotics are giving me terrible heartburn.
Not like, "Oh gee, digestive backsplash is slightly uncomfortable" heartburn, but more like "Holy fuck, my esophagus us ON FIRE!!!"heartburn. All of a sudden I totally get why there are ten billion prescription medications for this thing.
Needless to say, this is all very frustrating. I already have a finicky child; I don't need my boobs acting like uppity toddlers. For crying out loud, they already get enough of my attention. Pump pump pump. Nurse nurse nurse. My investment in non-underwire-bras and nursing pads and equipment could power some sort of perverse old-age-home version of a vegas-style burlesque show.
You hear that tits? Stop stealing my Saturdays.