Hillbillies say hello

Deep-fried bagpipes serenade hillbillies who race in their underpants while drinking beer and eating peach cobbler … and a harmonica-tucked-in-the-pocket-of-his-overalls sheriff sits in a rocking chair as John Deere takes over the world. This is what I’ve decided would happen if you were to put all of the things found at the annual Candor Peach Festival into one of those giant claw machines at an arcade. 

I had a free day on Saturday --- So I donned my overalls (I somehow feel more secure in myself while wearing them here than I do in Seattle. Ahem.) and made my way to Candor, North Carolina for midday merriment. 

After a cup of homemade peach ice cream, an entry into the Plumbing Company’s television drawing, a healthy dose of slightly-saturated-in-fat deep fried ribbon fries, and a smile from the Peach Queen, I called it a day and drove back to the barn. 

Life is fun times. : )

Gyros and Yoga

.

This morning I went to a yoga class with my housemate.  

My favorite part was probably when a neighborhood children’s parade, complete with a drum corps and twirling and Scooby Doo and girls in tutus, stationed itself outside the building just as the instructor talked about getting rid of distractions.

I have been trying to say “yes” more often – to things that are new, and that I haven’t tried before.

Like shrimp.

Like going to a 6am water aerobics class. Like eating lettuce in a gyro. Like wearing a strapless dress.

I have learned all kinds of exciting things over the past few weeks. I’ve learned that, unfourtunately, I am not allergic to shrimp (it has been my silent supplication for years to fall deathly ill from trying it so that I have a legit excuse for turning it down in the future). I’ve learned that grand battements are more satisfying when done in the water surrounded by 70-year-olds. I’ve learned that things are made with the flavors they contain for a reason, and should be eaten as a whole (a gyro with just meat on pita bread is more of just …. a ….. “not-gyro.”) Strapless dresses are only as terrifying as what you’re trying to prove by wearing one. A “Plank” in Yoga is the same as a “Plank” in Jazz … but neither is an excuse for Planking on a moving car or a train or a boat so that your friends in Sydney will think you’re cool.

Also, sometimes you have to kill your boyfriend’s cows. Also, sometimes he will make Mickey-Mouse-shaped pancakes so that you will like breakfast more.

I guess what I’m trying to say is that “yes” is a fun word to say. Sometimes. Most times. If you’re using your noggin’ in saying it. Say “yes” to doing hugs, not drugs. That kind of thing.

Warm woolen mittens

Some favorite things lately:

Apricot Yoghurt Topps

Pink tights

Walking downhill

Epic failures with Allana

Aussie ketchup packets

Ice and Ibuprofen

President of the Universe

This morning I walked downstairs to the question of “Are YOU a Cylon?”

My host brother, along with a few other people, were deeply involved in a Battlestar Gallactica board game of epic proportions, commanding the entire dining room table with an expansive assertion of conquest through cards and little plastic figurines of spaceships. I popped a piece of bread in the toaster and countered with the possibility that everyone is probably, at the end of the day, a Cylon. As that slice of bread absorbed the amount of Nutella I insisted it bear, I sat down and observed their game with amusement. I learned that there can only be one president of the universe, that Michael talks less when he is the Cylon, and that playing with three expansion packs means someday the fourth expansion pack will simply be a bigger box to keep all the pieces in.

It was a good morning.

Then, after a lunch of wheat buns filled with chicken, “chips” (French fries), and gravy (I told you Aussies have many meals – see? Food is now all I can write about!), my roommate and I ventured out to try to meet up with some people who would be attending an evening service at Hillsong Church.

Our quest epically failed as we took a car, and then were told the wrong bus time, and so had to find another bus, and then took a train, and then tried to find a Hillsong bus in a huge city square, only to be told that the people we were to meet would not be coming, to then decide it was too late to try making it to the service, to then take the train back, then find out that we were going in very-much-the-opposite-direction-of-home as we realized we were going across the harbor bridge into the north, to then eventually get off, turn around, take the right train, get off the train, buy 50 cent Macca’s ice cream (mmm food), and walk to find the bus to then walk home ….

Where we then made scrambled eggs with cheese and sandwiches and juice and later ate granola bars and peaches ….

Mmm food.

Above: On the topic of food, this is a picture of a dinner outing last night with my host family and some of their friends. It was in celebration of their daughter’s, and their daughter-in-law’s, birthday. Excellent company and wonderful food! : ) 

All the jellyfishes

When convinced of a path in life that most certainly insists on cookie dough at the grocery store, one can't help but resist the smile of pudding. "Pudding" is an even more magnificent word to have tickle the tongue, probably, than "cookie dough" (which is, in fact, two words. I guess they shouldn't even be in the same food category.)

Mom, just wanted to show you proof that I am nailing the dairy block in my food pyramid. Also, maybe I will visit the pyramids someday, and figure out what all the fuss is about. Having bread make up the base of it all seems foolish to me. Unless it's sourdough. Sourdough is a bit more dense and supportive than the other stuff. 

Talk about building your house on the sand.