Of course as soon as my fuzzy sleep-muddled mind cleared I remembered: "Oh that's right, it's normal now for the wind to blow at 40-50 miles an hour at all times." And that wasn't rain (OH, I KID!) that I heard. It was the rest of the limbs from the 200 year old oaks that surround the farmhouse being blown off the trees and hitting the roof.
Silly me. It wasn't a hurricane at all. It was just Monday morning in Central Texas.
The sarcasm. It's oozing.
I could never live in Chicago. Or The Midwestern states. Or West Texas. Or the tundra.
Or heaven help me, Lubbock.
This wind is getting on my very last nerve. Not that I have a hairstyle or anything, but if I did ...GEEZ.
The wind makes me feel dirty. And disheveled. And disoriented.
And this, combined with my general everyday high level of disorientation has proven a challenge.
I blame the wind for the fact that yesterday, in an effort to serve my family some semblance of an Easter meal, I completely forgot how to cook and concocted some type of potato dish that resembled small, crispy hockey pucks floating in a puddle of curdled sauce.
Thank goodness for pre-cooked, spiral-sliced ham, Sweet Hawaiian Rolls, and (I can't believe I am admitting this) Broccoli-Rice Casserole in a a Microwaveable bag.
My embarrassment is palpable.
But for dessert. Yes, for dessert we had The Very First Dewberry Pie of the season. The goodness of which completely cancelled out the living shame of the rest of the meal.
The dewberry crop has been nothing short of a PLEASANT SURPRISE. To be honest, I wasn't holding out much hope that I would find enough berries to make even one tiny pie, much less two after our first picking expedition. You know, since it hasn't, you know, actually rained since sometime back in the late '90's.
But after just one wasp sting (me), one almost broken leg (The Chief), and one near drowning in a sea of quicksand (Weegie), we came away from our first "pick" with almost half a gallon. The next day my son Nick and his girlfriend, Morgan, added about a gallon to the count and I tell you we were GOLDEN.
Nick and I even
But forget the jam/jelly/preserves/burnt motor oil debacle.
The pies were a delight.
And I refuse to give the wind a lick of credit.
I staunchly maintain my resentment of it.