Boots were caked with wet clay and pants, muddy around the ankles, had streaks of the stuff wiped from dirty fingers running up the legs. The cool, rainy afternoon was a delight! Matter of fact, it was so delightful sitting by the fire of flaming construction scraps that I polished off the whole weekend's allocation of wine before 3 o'clock Friday, before the weekend had even begun.
Mesmerized, I imagined the reaction of the Queen of England if she were visiting. "Where is this palace you told me about?"
"You're standing in it," I would smile at her, clucking at the slime on her high heels and the little fire spark smoldering on the brim of her royal Tilley.
I know I'd be thrilled with a visit to Buckingham Palace, but I'd never be more happy than hanging out at my White Pine Palace and Grill. The name would send Mack and the boys at Cannery Row into high celebration. It's so pretentious, you just have to break into a grin when you see it.
I'm thinking a little party might be in order. I could use the help of four or five friends to get my barbeques, smoker, and tables out from town. In return, helpers and partners could hang out for an all-day (or all-weekend?) barbeque soiree next Saturday. Send me a private message if you'd like to be a part of this madness.
Meantime, I must get busy scraping up the clay castings of paw prints that dried out overnight on the kitchen floor.