It’s repetitious, but the day’s beautiful. The view is blues–deep sea, bold sky, the softer hues of the mountains across the water, etched clear. I love the long white wakes cutting through the blue behind the white boats. From this height, those wakes look impossibly straight, as if drawn with a ruler.
BW and Kat make their Sunday breakfast, Kat chopping, BW stirring. I hear Jason talking to them in the kitchen as I walk around outside because it’s so damn pretty.
The calico comes to visit while Kat and I set up our workout. We stick with Shaun T, a fun 30-odd minute routine to get the blood pumping. Then, hey, we Cize It Up again, doing that last 2-plus minutes over. I think we qualified as backup dancers by the end.
Out come the mats and the dreaded but necessary 8-minute abs. Oh Shaun, you seem like such a nice guy. How could you devise such hell in such a short time-frame? Then it’s over, and since Shaun’s our guy today, Kat pulls out another of his disks from–I’m not sure–T-25 or something. It’s called Stretch. We want a stretch.
We get one, but it’s a sweaty business as well. Squatting and lunging? Oh, but . . . okay, I felt that!
I’m going to add Kat does all this wearing wrist weights. I would die a little. Probably a lot.
But it’s done, and though the cat has stretched out watching us with a cool stare that might read: You’re both crazy, right? We’re once again righteous. And I hit the showers, gratefully.
We Facetime home to talk to Kayla. She and Colt are up, Logan is not–so I have her take her phone into his bedroom, and we all laugh as he pulls the covers over his head.
A little work on the patio, a little wine to follow. It’s a very happy routine for me.
BW has made jokes about Fig Newtons as we have several fig trees and permission to eat them. As I walk post-work, I head out to the big tree. We had a fig tree in the back yard when I was growing up. My pop loved that tree. It had to be sacrificed when we put in the pool, but I still have memories of that tree. I don’t like figs, but remember picking them, and my mother stewing them up for my father. So picking those fat purple figs reminds me of my parents. Nice memories
I come back for a bowl as there are so many. I call on BW to help pick some that are far too high for me to reach. It’s a lovely little chore on a bold summer day. And productive as Kat–being Kat–has Googled recipes for Fig Newtons. We’ll need a trip to the market at some point for a few ingredients, but it should be fun to try making them.
I try my new raspberry sherbet linen. It fits, but needs a belt. I use one of my scarves, and it all feels very easy and summery.
We’ve got some time before the chefs arrive, so I try Olympics. There’s some air rifle competition. Kat and I ponder it. Not to diss the dedication and skill of air rifle competitors, but it just makes little sense to those of us who know nothing about it. Why are they wearing futuristic space soldier outfits? Why do they all look so bored? Still, the guy who wins the gold looks really happy after, so sincere congratulations.
Our chefs arrive, and get right to work in the kitchen. Our first course is a beautiful presentation of figs and melons wrapped in ham on a little bed of field greens. This draws the bees that haven’t troubled us before. All that sweet juice! Haul out the citronella candles! Jason–being Jason–finds a wasp deterrent on his phone. A wasp deterrent app??? Yet the bees seem to like it.
Luckily, after the figs and melons are eaten, those plates cleared, the bees lose interest in us.
We have ravioli stuffed with ricotta and mozzarella, served with a light red sauce. It’s beyond fresh. I can’t eat even half of my serving–I know there’s more to come–but have never had better. It’s confirmed that our chef made the pasta himself that morning. I’ve never tried making pasta fresh. Maybe one day, especially if the results are anything close to this.
When I tell the sous chef it’s a small stomach, not the food, he shows me the pork medallions to be sauted, asks how many for me. One. Kat decides on two, the men three. These are served with chunks of potatoes roasted a perfect gold. These are delicious. I think: Marinated in olive oil, some rosemary and pepper, sauteed with same. And when I ask–that’s just right.
Now there’s some sort of lemon cake dessert AND tiramisu. I groan. I’m told I MUST eat the lemon cake. The tiramisu isn’t important. LOL. It comes in a little bowl, topped with cream and a little berry. Tears form in the eyes at the first bite. Tart, sweet, creamy, heavenly. I love me some tiramisu, but yeah, not so important now. There’s always tomorrow.
A little walk around in the night air, a little more wine. Bedtime.
I woke to pink and blue skies. We plan to sneak in an early workout, then gear up for our day trip to Pompeii. BW and I had an abbreviated visit there–called by rain–years ago, and Jason and Kat a longer one on their honeymoon. It’ll be nice to all go back together, see what we see.