I have a meager crop of peaches. It won't be Peach Week, maybe just Peach Day or Peach Afternoon. There might be enough for a very small pie if they stay on the tree long enough. They are still hard, but thanks to the ability to search my blog I can tell that Peach Hour should be coming pretty soon. Or Peach Minute.
We can only water 2 days a week now. Tuesday and Saturday. This is my front lawn. We're trying to keep the hedges alive but that's about it. I hear people calling their brown lawns "golden." Nope, it's just brown.
Our Fourth of July celebration consisted of hot dogs, since it was the day of Nathan's Famous Hot Dog eating contest. I could only eat two. We stuck with traditional styles. I found an article in a recent Sunday paper (and here is another one with more tasty variations) which had Tijuana, Greek, French, Vietnamese and Californian dogs. They all sound good to me but the guys prefer the classics: chili or mustard/relish. Frank gave me a hard time because I will eat hot dogs but not chorizo. (I thought I had a post about that but I can't find it.)
Speaking of the newspaper, I wonder why I still bother to get it. It's tiny. And I have to hunt for it every morning. Keeps me sharp, I guess. The previous deliverer used to fling it under the back of Frank's car. The new one rubber-bands it into a tight little baton and flings it into the garage door, where it bounces and comes to land who knows where. This morning it was on the hood of Frank's car. I asked Frank, who lives above the garage door, if he hears a noise in the wee hours when the paper is flung, but it is not loud enough to bother him.