Y'all, my sons can really talk. They could win any sort of narrative award. They would make any Republican want to veto the filibuster option. Their stories often head into inane land, and I think to myself or simply say aloud, "what are you talking about? why? and can you please stop soon?" I love those buddies more than anything, but good grief, people, sometimes enough is enough. It's both better and worse that they regularly mind-meld in pretend world. Oliver will say, "Jack, heretoba beebee" and Jack will immediately respond, "right, Oliver, but not now." WTF? I'm left scratching my head while they laugh like hyenas (and probably scratch their butts). I'm so happy they have each other, and I am beyond grateful that they get along so well, but sometimes, I'm like, "wow, what is going on and why must you have me as an active ear during all this nonsensical banter?" It does make my head spin at times. I'm glad for wine. We took full advantage of today's warmth and played outside for much of the afternoon. They were filthy when we came in and so I sent them to wash their hands with soap and water. They came back with shiny palms and dirt-encrusted hand-tops. Really? Isn't it more work to wash just the bottoms of your hands than washing each in its entirety? Good god, people, I sent them back, and Oliver returned naked. At this point, I simply sighed. Until I found him mashing cheese pops into his private areas. Seriously.
Fast forward an hour or two and it appears dinnertime is nigh. I'd bought some lovely chicken today so decided to throw those in a cast-iron pan with white wine, prunes, cinnamon, marjoram and nicoise olives. Couscous and sauteed spinach rounded things out swimmingly. And for a final touch, strawberry cheesecake. Aah!