At the seashore.
It's always a relaxing time at the beach. I mean, look at this. It's so pretty and sunny; it just couldn't get any better.
Well, it's relaxing for everyone but my friend's father, who can't stop tinkering to just sit and enjoy the view. No, every time we're at the beach house, he has a new project. This time, he decided to make a copper compass to cover the firepit he installed (a couple of years ago) on the beach. This involved cutting the compass out of copper himself. I believe he also managed to drill himself at least twice, all the way to the bone in at least one instance. But there was no hospital to be had! No, the compass must be finished! I believe there was a lot of cursing involved during the construction of this project. The last time I was down he was busy building this ... I don't even know how to spell it, but it's like an outdoor thatched-roof platform (which he had shipped to him from Indonesia, as everything in this house seemingly comes from Indonesia) through which visitors have to walk in order to get to the house. That addition required a whole lot of new landscaping too.
Me? I like just sitting on the beach. But admittedly, even that gets a touch boring after awhile if I'm not able to fall asleep, and I try not to fall asleep because then I won't turn over and then I'll turn pink. And it's really hard to read in the sun. So Katie and I, we play a lot of games, from Trivial Pursuit to Gin Rummy to the beach house staple, Scrabble. When we play with her father, it is always disheartening because he is the type who uses ALL his tiles every single time, makes these obscure words, and scores like five gazillion points while we barely break a hundred. When it's just the Katie and me, we're much better matched up and have much more satisfying games.
However, in my zeal to beat Katie (there is this latent competitive side to me, which really only shows up when playing board games), I completely forgot to flip over and my whole dorsal side is now pink. Pink as in a persistent low burning pain. There's not even a reprieve where my bra strap might lie, because of course I don't like tan lines and undid my top. Dammit. Vanity kicks me in the ass every time - and this time it hurts. Literally.
(Oh yes. I won by one point this game. She always wins in cribbage, though.)
Cocktails and chicken. Such a pleasant combination.
The mise-en-place this time was a bit smaller, as there were fewer people down for the weekend. And by smaller, it meant we only had 5 types of cheeses instead of 8, 2 sauces instead of 4, and a whole boatload of toppings (instead of.. a shipful?).
For me, the beach house always means pizza in the pizza oven, even though we had buffalo burgers one night this weekend. But I always prefer pizza. I like decorating the pizza, and definitely eating it. I can never get a good picture though. It's always disappointing.
The beach house also always means chores, which is Katie's dad's rendition of smores - marshmallows, chocolate wafers (hence the ch), and those Ghiradelli chocolate squares with caramel in the middle, all roasted on the fire pit outside. I generally don't like super-sweet desserts, but I make the exception for this instant sugar rush, as it's such a good one.
Isn't the puppy cute? She is the cleanest puppy ever, except when she digs in the vegetable garden (yes, there is also one of those down at the beach house, because having anything less than the freshest and best produce available is just not okay). She's not allowed on the furniture (the cushions of these chairs, incidentally, must be fluffed after sitting - there are many idiosyncratic rules that must be followed, I can't even begin to list them all), but somehow she manages to sneak up on the chairs every time. I don't blame her. They are so comfortable. I'd live at the beach house full time if I could, but getting to go there on the weekends is good enough for me - and hey! I'm moving home! This means many weekends down at the beach, including yay! A party for my birthday! I already cannot wait.