So, the cinghiale got my orto.  Actually it happened several days ago but I couldn't write...I've been in mourning.

BEFORE                                                                                                                                    AFTER

Fuckers.  Actually, it was just one fucker.  A baby fucker.

Excuse my language.  I'm still going through the mourning process.  I've reached the anger stage.

Upon noticing the damage, which is not hard to miss even for a novice gardener like me, I called Augusto.  
"Ciao, Augusto.  Bad news."
"Lina, cosa c'e'?!" 
"Cinghiale.  They took everything."
"I'll be right there."
We walked the whole area looking for how they got in.  Finally we saw this.




We surmised that it was one little guy who squeezed his chubby little wild boar butt in under my fence.  And proceeded to feast on my fave...and peas....and onions.  He was very thorough, gotta give him that.

He did leave me the broccoli, proving that children of all nationalities and species don't like broccoli.

For dinner tonight I will eat broccoli.  Only broccoli. Given the time and effort I've put into the orto and the money I've paid Augusto to prepare and plant this garden, I'm pretty sure that this will be the most expensive meal I've ever eaten.

what's in a verb?

Quite a lot, so it seems.

Take these two phrases, for example:

Save for a rainy day

Plan for a rainy day

I always kind of thought they meant the same thing but ohhhh noooooo. Save Plan -- two different actions completely.  Let me show you...

Saving for a rainy day

 That's my stash for a rainy day.  I'm a saver.

PLANNING for a rainy day

 That's my neighbor's stash for a rainy day.  He's a planner.

As you can guess, when it actually rains, you'll wish you had planned not just saved.  Saving without planning leaves you with a bunch of wet wood that means shit when you want to start a fire.

I am happy to report that my husband is the planner to my saver.  He stashed some wood inside for me...planning for the first rainy day.

So it's a beautiful autumn Sunday in Maberga.  The sky is brilliant blue,  the olives on the trees are plump and black, and the sun is providing the perfect warmth to balance the chill in the morning air.  The dogs and I are having our morning walk.The morning walk rule is that everyone gets their needs met.  This means I go up to the terraces to watch my fava beans grow, Q does a circuit of leaps and runs to explore, and Ruffino stands three terraces below me, waiting for me to do something exciting. 

After about 15 minutes this morning, having been distracted by the beauty of the day, I notice that the dogs are no where in sight.  I call them.  Q immediately comes bounding back to me from God knows where, completely wet.  It seems she felt she needed a bath this morning. I'm not exactly sure where she found a body of water but... whatever, individual needs and all that.  More calling because Ruff's still not around.  Hmm.  Q and I go searching, walking through the tall grass (of someone else's terrace, not mine of course because mine are now all clean!!!) and I hear some chewing.

There's Ruffino, basking in the golden morning sun...with a big freaking bloody bone in his mouth.  Lying just beyond him is the severed head of a baby goat.

I'm not so sorry to tell you that I did not make a photo of it.  If you can't form your own mental picture, be thankful...or think of the horse head scene from the Godfather, but with a smaller head and no silk sheets.


Ya know, a gorgeous fall day can just as easily be enjoyed from inside the confines of one's own fenced in garden. 

Happy Sunday.

So, maybe you've noticed that I've been a little spotty in the blog posting.  Yeah, well.  I've been busy.  It's looked something like this



Remember my Maaema Scarf from the creative Denise at Lost City Knits? Yeah, well, I still haven't finished it.  I got about 3 feet into it and then something distracted me.  Kind of like this...



And then....the other day a very special package arrived in the mail. A wonderful, amazing gift just for me!  I know it's just for me because it was my birthday gift to myself.

Check this out!

Yep, that's some really awesome sock yarn all the way from Oklahoma.  Let's just admire it again... 

I ordered it from Lost City Knits.  So when it arrived I remembered my poor Maaema scarf and, with the willpower of steel that we all know I possess, I'm determined to finish the scarf before I let myself fondle knit with my new treats.

Look at what the colors are called...












If you are a knitter or know a knitter who you would like to make really really happy,  check out Denise's yarn.  Her colors are amazing.

So, Ambra called me on Sunday and said, "can I come over and play?"

"Heck yeah.  Let's make some aprons and sip pina coladas."

Sew, that's what we did.

 

I'd really like to write more now but I have my viola lesson tomorrow morning and I need to practice a bit.  Just in case any of you are wondering how these voila lessons are going, well, it looks a lot like this...

Hi all. Some technical difficulties in Maberga.  So it seems that my two years have expired, meaning I needed to buy a new computer.  I'm not sure why my computers only last two years but they do.  My guess is that they breathe too much dog hair.  Yeah, I'm blaming the dogs.  The dogs ate my homework.


I have so much to write now that I don't know where to begin.  So instead of boring with "catch up" stuff that I would just write in some list form that would be so totally uninteresting that I'd be embarrassed to hit 'publish', I'll just focus on the one thing. 


Happy Birthday, Dad. 

A few years ago, when I used to do regular birthday posts, I shared a haiku that I had written for my dad's birthday.  At that time I promised more info about my dad to come each year with new haikus.  Well, I stopped writing haikus.  I don't know why.  They are seriously fun to write...'specially when you only do one of the three required verses.

I'm back...


Happy Birthday, Dad.  Here's your 2011 haiku.


Anthony, my dad.
In the winter of his life.
Or so he thinks...so.


Happy Birthday, Dad.  You're still my first pick for teams for football in the backyard.

Of course, I must also say that grandma, at almost 101, is my second pick.