1885 House

Last night it rained so hard our roof leaked right next to our bed. I'm going to pretend it was a dream, because it will likely never rain that hard again. I sometimes feel like I'm living in a PBS reality series, though. The other day I received huge boxes from my folks containing all the old enamelware I said I'd take off their hands, along with a glass butter churn, a butter-washing bowl and paddle, and a large (maybe one-pound-size) butter mold. We already live like dairy farmers (or bakers); we might as well be milking a cow and making butter . . .

Yesterday we had the usual roast chicken on lemon slices. I was eager to use the new poultry shears I got for eight dollars at Publix.

Laid out flat, seasoned with salt and dried thyme, on top of lemon.

After it had roasted awhile at 425 degrees I added some cubed, parboiled boniato in what I guess was a sort of mojo—fresh tangelo juice and zest, cumin, cayenne, garlic, and salt.

The bug suggested I add some shallots to the mojo, so I did.

The bug rejected, in no uncertain terms, the plain mashed boniato I tried to feed her. But then she couldn't get enough of it after it had roasted in chicken juices and spicy, tangy sauce and been scooped onto my plate. She very much liked the gravlax yesterday, and the grapes I put in her clever feed bag. Her dad gave her a taste of the frosting on the cupcake he had for breakfast this morning and it didn't even spoil her appetite for oatmeal and bananas.