My dad loves bringing little allergen free treats for E and me to snack on when we visit together.

Yesterday, though, he produced this.

I guess I read the ingredients more carefully than he did.

And immediately passed.

Because.

I am sorry.

But while it may be allergen free, high in protein and, as the back label touts "environmentally sustainable", eating ground up crickets it not high on my list of things to do. Ever.

Ever, ever, ever.

Another year.

Another fun filled day at the Rock County Fair.

Not pictured: all the fair food we ate.

Yesterday was definitely one of those "I'll just be hiding out in the coffee aisle of the grocery store if anyone needs me...um...'k?...thanks..." type of days. 

And don't pretend you don't know exactly what I'm talking about.

I have never really recovered from what happened to my beloved VICTORIA magazine. 

Perhaps this will help ease the still-lingering sense of loss?

I am not a huge Apple or Banana or Orange fan when it comes to eating fruit. 

But these four? I could eat them all day, every day.

This is how I've spent my weekday afternoons for the past month. 

I know. Rough, right?

We are, slowly but surely, working up to remodeling our kitchen. You know, provided the Firefighter and I can come to an agreement on what exactly goes where.

Don't worry. We'll get there.

But one of the things we have known from the start is that our someday kitchen will feature open shelves.

After all, when you are talking about a space roughly 10 x 7 in size, upper cabinets just tend to feel a little, well... overhead-compartment-while-traveling-in-coach...ish?

You know what I mean?

Clunky and constrictive. 

So this past Saturday, amid all the storms and humidity, I gave our storage containers a facelift.

With matching lids and lovely little chalk labels.

They turned out quite nice, don't you think?

Totally open shelf worthy...

Paleo, Vegan, Buckwheat waffles. 

Silver dollar size. 

With cherries and blueberries.

Aren't these fun?

(Ignore the veins and cat scratch...)

They are called FlashTats and they have been EVERYWHERE on Pinterest as of late. 

Looking them up to order off Amazon and finding out they require only the most minimal of commitments (some cutting, 30 seconds, a damp washcloth) I decided to indulge my inner kid. And rock the stick on temporary tattoo look this summer. 

You know, in a slightly more dignified/glittery way. 

(Nothing against a good old classic Hello Kitty or Spiderman, though...)

So. Moving on from the Great Geranium Disaster of earlier this week,

can we just take a minute and drool over my Hydrangea?

Since transplanting it in a less awkward space mere weeks after moving into 1187 it has done, well, not a whole lot. 

One single bloom a year. And that's all.

Not that I am or was complaining. It could have done nothing. It could have died.

But this year?

Wow, right.

I don't know if it simply took three seasons to finally establish itself in it's new location or it likes the Acid Fertilizer I started using this spring but whatever the case I couldn't be happier.

The thing is, though, it used to be blue. And as you can see that is changing. "They" say it is no easy task turning a blue Hydrangea, pink.

But I'm not so convinced. Because I did nothing. Except move it three feet. And if that's not the epitome of easy I don't know what is.

The Acid Fertilizer I am using should, in theory, take it back into the blue-range.

But, you know, we'll see...

There are no photos for today's entry.

You know why?

Because it would have been just too sad...

I have come to the lamentable conclusion that to be a gardener you must also be a masochist.

Only two short days ago I was admiring and delighting in the prolific blooms of the geraniums in my window boxes. These are the same geraniums I dig up every fall, mercilessly prune and over-winter in my daughter's chilly playroom.

This summer they have thanked me for my year-round attention and care by exploding with red, white and salmon colored blossoms. No lie, about thirty flower heads per plant.

See? Prolific.

Well, just before five this morning we had a punishing rainstorm. And I mean PUNISHING.

Do you know what happens to geraniums that sport thirty plus beautiful, heavy flower heads, after a punishing rainstorm? In the shallow confines of a window box, no less...?

Yeah.

Nothing good.

Just a sad aftermath of confetti-like, rain battered, mud caked, limp and plastered to everything petals.

And broken stems.

And up-rooted... roots.

In other words, a mess.

After re-tucking exposed roots and dealing with broken stems I was forced to lessen the remaining strain on the plants by pruning what rain drenched flower heads still remained intact.

As if we both hadn't already endured enough.

Sigh.

I know they will recover. And go on to bloom again. I know they are merely plants. I know there is a deeper lesson to be drawn from here. Perhaps something about feeling proud of an accomplishment I have shockingly little to both do with and evidently zero control over. Namely how beautiful my geraniums once looked.

And yet, still.

For all I do know, there is a part of me that puzzles over why I sign on to go through this willingly every single year.

It's like the warning you give to children whose generally before bed playing turns wild and manic.

"It will only end in tears..."

There are so many things I love about our yard. But one of them is not my complete inability to grow vegetables. 

Of. Any. Kind.

Lettuce. Peas. Tomatoes. Peppers.

Yeah...

It doesn't matter. My yard and the dominating presence of our neighbor's GIANT Black Walnut tree throw an all encompassing no-go over it all.

In the ground. In pots. In raised beds, even.

All a big, fat, depressing NOPE.

So. Thank goodness for the Farmer's Market. 

And my herbs. Because those I can grow.