Hot Cakes

We have officially abandoned the forlorn head of lettuce, four beets, and solitary bean sprout that survived the first heatwave a few weeks ago.  Yesterday, and today, and for at least three more days, it's 100F.  The plants on the back deck are within hose range and thus succorable.  As I finished my workday yesterday, the fridges were failing one after another; the building is quite old, with no industrial ventilation, and we run the ovens from 3am to noon most days.

At least at home I can swell and perspire in peace.  Jean-François has taken on a castaway/drunken tourist vibe, his customary short-sleeve shirt now completely unbuttoned, heat-induced torpor slowing his rhythm and drowsing his eyes.  We closed the shutters to shield the house from the relentless burning sun.  Padding around our murky cave, subsisting on chilled gazpacho and self-melting cheese, we await the relief of the setting sun on these longest days of the year.

we planted a lemon tree(!)

"Sing, oh Muse!" begins The Odyssey, the masterful ur-classic of literature, a beguiling swirl of entertainment, fact, fantasy, tradition, religious ritual, and the brutality and cunning of man.  Like the ancient bard-singers of epic poetry who re-told time-honored oral histories throughout generations, we too transmit our cultural heritage, recalling through vivid imagery the essential elements and treasured details from one person to the next.  -Since there was no one working who had actually decorated one of these cakes that I could ask for directions, I had to refer to a photo one of the cashiers had taken, and now I have a photo of the photo to guide me.