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That picture above?

It's photoshopped. Haaahahaha.

Bet you didn't even notice.

Why would I do such a thing?

Because although I have heard tell of folks having multiple hummingbird feeders in their yard, and swarms of hummingbirds feeding together peacefully all day long, I've never witnessed even two of the itty bitty critters eating at once from a feeder of mine.

I keep my feeders full to the brim -- I'm constantly checking nectar levels since the reservoirs are small and my hummies are hungry -- and although several hummingbirds know my feeders and visit them dozens of times each day, never have I seen more than one tiny beak sampling the goodies at a time.

That's because they refuse to share.

As in, sup and sip together, as Brittany and I did on Wednesday at Momma Rabbit's Nibbles & Sips.

Instead, they fight one another to the point that neither get to eat until one of them gives up and flies off to find a feeder that no one else is using at the moment.

It's well known that hummingbirds are fiercely territorial and feisty into the bargain.

I guess they'd have to be, to migrate thousands of miles each autumn.

They weigh, on average, one fourteenth of an ounce.

But they throw that weight around when the feeders are brimming with sparkling red nectar.

(BTW step off about red food coloring in the nectar. Both Perky Pet and Pennington peddle it that way, and it's documented that some hummingbirds won't touch it if it isn't red. So now and then I give them red. So far they're not dead.)

The upshot of all this is that as of now, the only collective banqueting I've seen among hummingbirds is via YouTube.

Be that as it may, I have a couple of intensely terpsichorean Trochilidae who do a spirited choreography around the feeder that hangs outside my kitchen window.

I can see that feeder from my recliner in the sun room, where I'm sitting as I write. 

The nectar is untroubled at the moment, warming in the sun, but sure to be disturbed -- and possibly drained -- by many determined, diminutive beaks by the time the poolside solar lights twinkle on at twilight.

But only by one hummer at a time.

The pair who are given to dive bombing and chasing one another in the airspace above my deck put on a glittering display of bravado earlier this week that went on for at least five minutes.

Hummingbirds can dive and swoop at fifty miles per hour and I'm pretty sure these two were hanging right in with that statistic. They flew sideways. Simultaneously they hovered and tilted and twirled, executing perfect pirouettes. They had heated words in the form of rapid-fire chirps.

Their tiny jeweled bodies flashed and winked in the sun; their wings were barely visible, so fast were each of them working to keep the other from having even a taste.

They danced above, below, beside, and around the feeder, chasing one another doggedly up over the roofline and even out toward the line of Loblolly and Longleaf pines that ring the property, before coming back to within inches of the disputed snack bar.

I was riveted. And I can't show you because although I have a fast camera, no way can I capture that.

I did go to the kitchen window a few hours later though, while the sun was still high, and got these photos of the one that prevailed.

The one that didn't give up. 

Maybe they're only playing when they go into that dazzling, fever-pitched battle for the sugar water. Getting some exercise. Flirting. Venting. Working out frustrations, hummingbird-style.

Who knows?

All I know is, I admire them. I love their courage, their antics, their sweetness, their beauty, and their fire.

And that is all for now.

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Happy Friday :: Happy Weekend

Can't wait to go back

Photo Courtesy Brittany Weber

On Sunday our new daughter-in-law, Brittany, asked if I'd like to go to lunch with her this week.

I accepted her proposal with all the enthusiasm, positivity, and verve I could muster.

It was a considerable amount.

We settled on Wednesday for a date.

And so it was that yesterday, I met Britt at Momma Rabbit's Nibbles & Sips in Lexington, South Carolina, for a midday meal.

In the few years it's been in operation, this small restaurant has garnered just about every accolade any local dining establishment could desire, short of a Michelin star.

It's owned and operated by a gaggle of industrious and charming siblings -- the Allen family, all boys except for one girl -- who gave it their maternal grandmother's nickname.

They work together every day to maintain excellence in their culinary venture.

The people of Columbia have taken notice and many times one has to wait for a table. Especially for the weekend brunch offerings.

Andrew and Brittany love eating out as much as the rest of us (maybe more), and when they got around to trying Momma Rabbit's they reported that it was a truly splendid place to enjoy a casual meal.

They didn't exaggerate. The food is superb, fresh and plentiful, with impeccable friendly service and a witty but soothing ambience to match. I loved it.

Brittany ordered a classic chicken salad sandwich with kettle chips on the side. It looked luscious.

I had a spectacular salad laden with chunks of succulent peaches, a wealth of candied pecans, crispy bacon, bleu cheese crumbles, and strips of tender grilled chicken, dressed with blackberry vinaigrette and accompanied by buttery points of some delectable hybrid of bread and a cracker.

On the menu, this selection is referred to as the Resting Peach Face. (I'll thank you not to snicker).

I call it Rapture on a Plate. No licking of said dish was involved, but that was only because I was being polite.

Brittany and I gabbed and giggled and nibbled and sipped -- there's a self-serve coffee bar! -- for at least ninety minutes before going on our respective ways.

Toward the end of our meal, a neighboring table was served a slice of cake that may have made my eyes widen to approximately the size of half-dollar pieces. I admit that I stared.

No ruler was handy for measuring but I'm pretty sure this portion of cake could double as an entire cake in many situations.

It was the Empire State Building of desserts: a stunning, architecturally significant confection of house-made white cake enrobed in a thick blanket of scrumptious frosting that looked like delicate blush-pink-tipped ivory roses in full bloom.

True to the restaurant's classic movie theme -- the walls are adorned with framed photos of American icons such as Humphrey Bogart, John Wayne (there's even a salad named The Duke), Katharine Hepburn, Ingrid Bergman, and Bing Crosby -- they've named the cake An Affair to Remember.

I think if I tasted it, it would be an experience to never forget. Like Cary Grant in An Affair to Remember.

But yesterday, I didn't. Even I, with my sweet tooth roughly the size of Manhattan, would need lots of help hacking away at a boat-motor sized dessert. So I'd better go with a crowd and ask for four forks.

Help paying for it would be welcome too: a single slice of this mouth-watering indulgence will set you back ten bucks. Methinks it's probably worth it. But still.

Lucky for me, everyone in our family loves to chow down. And doesn't mind sharing the expense.

I'm already anxious to go back. I bet you a nickel that I won't have long to wait.

And that is all for now.

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Happy Thursday

That's baseball

The Chicago Cubs hosted the Washington Nationals at Wrigley Field last Sunday night.

I checked the score from my phone as we were leaving evening church services.

One to nothing, Nats.

Drat.

TG and I went home, detouring for a snack at Wendy's with Audrey, Dagny, Chad, and Erica.

Back in my own friendly confines and outfitted in my friendly comfies, I tuned in to the game on the fifty-five-incher in our TV room.

I don't remember what inning was in progress, but the score was still one to nothing. We settled back to encourage our team.

Our Cubs have have been semi-permanent riders of the struggle bus this year with regard to the bullpen, but they have a new pitcher in handsome thirty-four-year-old (ancient for a major league pitcher) Cole Hamels.

He was on the mound that night and had done a fine job, giving up only one run.

But the Nationals' pitching was brilliant -- or the Cubs' hitting was lacking, whichever way you want to look at it -- and by the top of the ninth Hamels was chilling in the dugout, watching the end of a game that looked to be all over exept for the crying unless the Bunny of Baseball Love hopped onto the scene and made some magic happen.

It was in the top of the ninth that the Nationals scored two more runs off Cubs relief pitcher Brandon Kintzler (who was traded to Chicago only two weeks ago by -- wait for it -- the Washington Nationals).

Three-zip, Nats. Who were gloating.

Double drat it all.

After that I went to brush my teeth and wash my face, getting ready for bed. I hate to see the Cubs lose and I secretly hoped that when I returned to my place on the leather reclining love seat beside TG, it would be over.

I'd fuss and fume for a minute or two, then shake it off. Cub fans are well acquainted with losing.

(TG, die-hard Cub fan for forty years, almost always says to me, philosophically and often with a chuckle, as I sputter or moan when the chips are down for our beloved boys of summer: That's baseball.)

It's come to mean more to me than the sometimes overwhelming vagaries of my favorite sport. That's baseball is an apt euphemism for That's life.

At any rate, the Cubs are famous for coming back from what appears to be a sure loss. They've done it thirty-seven times this season. So there's that.

The hundred-and-four-year-old stadium at the corner of Clark and Addison was packed and most of the fans were on their feet. We'll be there in less than two weeks and I'll do the same thing.

The Nationals' relief pitcher was on the mound to nail the thing down and secure the win for their star starter, Matt Scherzer, who, like the Cubs' Cole Hamels, was by then guzzling Gatorade in the dugout.

I am pretty sure Nats fans worldwide were counting on a win, already rejoicing.

As for me, I didn't even bother to settle back and recline with my light summer quilted throw and pat the space beside me for Rizzo to jump up and nestle at my side.

I didn't figure there'd be time to warm the seat before it was over.

So it was that as I tensely perched, the Cubs came up to bat for the final time, down by three, about to be shut out by the Washington Nationals.

But here's what happened.

One Cub gained a base. The next one was hit by a pitch, prompting a walk. Two bases with men on. A few seconds later, a third Cub was struck by a pitch. He walked.

Bases loaded.

Two outs.

David Bote (say BOH-dee), pinch hitting for injured megastar Kris Bryant (pictured in effigy above), came to the plate.

Bote's not a big name and hasn't been in the lineup for long; I don't even have his face firmly fixed in my mind.

He's certainly no Anthony Rizzo. No Javier Baez, no Kris Bryant, no Jason Heyward. He's a man who can play baseball well enough to be in the majors, and he comes to work every day and does his job.

Bote stood there wielding his bat. The count was two-two.

If he struck out, it'd be over. Head for the showers.

If he got walked, a runner would advance from the loaded bases and the score would be three to one. Not a shutout but still a loss. Probably.

Of course he could get a base hit -- a fine goal, to be sure -- but the outcome wouldn't change unless he -- or the next guy -- hit a homer before that third and final out.

Unlikely. Let's be honest.

So it was that, with two strikes and two outs, David Bote swung for the fences and hit a grand slam walk-off home run.

On September twenty-fifth it will be fifty years since a Cub player hit a walk-off grand slam for the team’s first runs of the game. On that night in nineteen sixty-eight, the Chicago Cubs came from behind to beat the Los Angeles Dodgers four to one.

At Wrigley on August twelfth, two thousand eighteen, the Cubs beat the Nationals four to three.

Pandemonium ensued:

Some have dubbed Bote's feat a Golden Homer because it was a walk-off grand slam with his team trailing by three runs and down to its last strike.

If you're not inspired by that, perhaps you should be.

Because it proves once again something important: It doesn't matter whether you're a big name. It doesn't matter if your face is recognized among a constellation of superstars.

It doesn't matter how late in the game it is, or how lost the cause appears to be.

Do what you were sent to do. Fulfill your purpose in any given moment.

Don't worry about how dismal things look; don't cave to the horrible pressure of impending doom. Blind yourself to that, somehow. Play your game to the best of your ability, to the very end.

Wonderful things can happen.

While there's life, there's hope said the Roman statesman Cicero. He was right. And that was a long time ago too but he's still right.

So don't give up. Whatever you do, never give up. You may hit the game-winning home run.

Go Cubs, go. Go Cubs, go. Hey Chicago, whaddaya say, the Cubs are gonna win today.

Fly the Dubya.

As for the Nationals, they suffered a similarly stunning defeat the very next night against the St. Louis Cardinals, again losing by one run in the ninth inning.

Their beleaguered closer, Ryan Madson, the poor guy who served up the curve ball that Bote hit over the center-field wall and into history on a summer night at Wrigley, is now on the ten-day disabled list with a back injury.

Chelsea Janes, writing for The Washington Post, summed it up it thusly:

If someone were to script devastation, to write out a plot for the near-total destruction of a weary baseball team’s morale, that script would not be nearly as cruel as the one that played out for the Washington Nationals in their 4-3 loss to the Chicago Cubs on Sunday night at Wrigley Field.

I sort of feel their pain. They'll have another chance at glory, though. And another, and another, as long as they don't quit.

But see, I thought it was awesome. I guess it's all in your perspective. I won't be apologizing either.

Because that's baseball.

And if I see Theo Epstein again when I visit Wrigley in a few days? I can say: How about that pinch-hit walk-off grand slam by David Bote? 

High fives will ensue between me and Theo, and a selfie of us together to prove that this time I had the wherewithal to actually speak to him, which photo I will of course share with you.

That would be my walk-off grand slam to win the game.

And that is all for now.

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It ain't over till it's over.

= Yogi Berra =

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Happy Wednesday

The pirate's pickle panic

This be a pickle post. That's because I'm a pickle freak.

There; I said it.

I drool just thinking about pickles. The sweeter, the better.

Oh wait. The sourer, the better.

Sweet and sour together -- with heat? 

BOOM.

Therein lies the problem. Apparently I'm a pushover for pickles.

However.

Attempting to mind my once-girlish waistline seems to be at odds with consuming pickles with as much sugar (read: carbs) per serving as a movie-size box of Junior Mints.

They look so innocent.

Let's take sweet baby gherkins. Vlasic, Mount Olive, whatever. Pick your poison.

I could stand by the sink and consume half a small jar (I have pickle forks) faster than Donald Trump sets the record straight with a tweet, assuring myself all the while, what's the big deal? They're all natural!

The much desired plant-based diet. Pickles fit the profile.

Then you get into all of the myriad flavor combinations there are out there in the pickle world, devised by folks who just can't seem to leave a pickle alone.

As for the pickle experience itself, I confess that I like heat. Not the kind that numbs your tongue and makes wisps of smoke emerge from your ears, but a more sneaky, less snarky kind.

Sort of medium heat. Like you get with Wickles: a wickedly delicious pickle.

Wickles! The very word! A clever portmanteau of wicked and pickles, the treat is nothing more (or less) than sweet pickle chips infused with heat from two big chili peppers dancing around in the jar with them.

I cannot get enough of Wickles. I make sure I have several jars on hand at all times. One would not like to run out. They're splendid with a nice bowl of egg salad. You don't even miss the bread. The bread you can't eat because you spent all your carbs on pickles.

Roaming Costco one day with my new membership card twinkling in my wallet, I went in search of the pickle aisle.

I wasn't exactly disappointed, but it didn't blow me away either. There were no Wickles but they did have a half-gallon (of course; this is Costco) jar of Famous Dave's Signature Spicy Pickle Chips. Billed as a unique blend of heat & sweet.

I went for it, of course, being, as we have already established, a sucker for the concept of sweet and heat combined in a pickle chip.

Like the Costco pickle aisle itself, these pickles don't make me dream of the next time I can justify opening the jar and putting away at least ten chips at one go.

But they're good. And no; I haven't eaten half the jar already. I gave some to Erica to take home for her and Chad to enjoy, and I filled another smaller jar to store in my main refrigerator, while keeping the nuclear reactor-sized jar outside in the garage fridge.

But then there's the pièce de résistance: on most days I will prefer this pickle over all others. I happened to see these one day while piratically plundering the pickle aisle at Walmart. 

In fact I was looking for Wickles, which, it turns out, Walmart doesn't carry except in the okra version. I don't do pickled okra. So I get my Wickles at Publix, where they're stocked in abundance.

But in lieu of scoring a few jars of Wickles that day at Walmart, I discovered Sam's Club Hot Spicy Maple Bourbon Fresh Pack Pickle Chips.

I must try those, I said, mentally piling them onto a grilled hamburger. I put a large jar into my cart. I could hardly wait to get home, hear the snap of the lid popping, and toss a pickle into my mouth for a taste test.

Now, if you're a teetotaler like me, you may be disturbed by the word bourbon. Don't be. There's none in it. I don't even know why the word is on there; it makes no sense.

Fake news.

What does make sense is the flavor of these pickle chips. I would on some days go so far as to say, I dare you to find a better pickle. The maple is mild; the sour is subtle; the sweet is spectacular.

A profoundly, practically perfect pickle. Not paltry, poky or pitiful but plump and palatable, potent and powerful. Not simply passable, but passionate. 

On other days, Wickles come to the fore and seem like the most spectacular pickle in the world to me.

It's a pickle-picking predicament.

Suffice it to say, on days that end in y, you will find me enjoying either Wickles or Spicy Maple Bourbon pickle chips, either in something or beside something or on something, or all by their onesies.

For the record, I also like plain bread-and-butter pickle chips. With no heat but just the right amount of sweet.

And by the way, you can make your own wicked pickles by adding two fresh chili peppers to an existing jar of bread and butter chips, and letting them hang out together for a while.

If you're the do-it-yourself type, that is. A pickle pioneer.

Sam's Club also offers a version called Mango Habanero. I have a jar, and they're okay -- much hotter than the maple bourbon kind -- but it will take me a while to finish them and I'm not likely to buy them again.

There's also a Thai Chili flavor in the same range, and while they may be delicious -- in fact, probably are -- for some reason that does not appeal to me and I'm afraid to commit.

If that flavor combination does sound scrumptious to you and you try them, please do report back. Thumbs up or down? We need to know.

Likewise if you are savvy as to another similar brand of pickles I should try, do tell.

Meanwhile, you'll find me practicing purposeful purchasing in the plucking of pleasant pickle presences from the plethora of products on offer in the marketplace.

Say that three times fast, then go have a pickle. Or ten.

And that is all for now.

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Happy Tuesday

Incoming

This window has not been opened in years.

And yet here you see English ivy growing across the sill, reaching into my room.

Some things just want in.

And sometimes they succeed in getting in, only to be cut back, cut off, and forgotten.

Which is what's about to happen to this opportunistic ivy.

(I love it; it grows all around and on my house. But on the outside only.)

But consider: This is pretty impressive for someone with as black a pirate thumb as mine.

I wonder what this nosy ivy wanted?

I don't suppose we'll ever know.

We can only admire its stubborn persistence while, if so inclined, we ponder its sure fate.

And that is all for now.

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Happy Monday