The exercise:
Write a four line poem about: as good as it gets. References to the movie not required, but appreciated!
As mentioned yesterday, we didn't have a huge amount of stuff to bring to today's market so it was never going to be a great one. But when the bell rang to signal the end of the market, all we had left on our table was a zucchini, a cucumber, and two onions. Oh, and some garlic - but I don't worry about that since we can keep bringing it back, week after week, until it all sells. Also: my cards, though I did sell a few.
So, really, the market was about as good as it could get.
On the way home we stopped to pick up our blueberry supply for the year. A friend of Kat's made a trip to the coast and had room in her vehicle for extra blueberries so we jumped on the opportunity. Like, all over it. Like 100 pounds of berries all over it.
They come in 10 pound boxes, ready to freeze. We've already promised a box to Kat's brother's family and to her parents, but that still leaves us with 80 pounds, 70 of which are already in the freezer. The rest is for fresh eating... but at this rate they won't last long.
Blueberry pancakes for breakfast tomorrow morning isn't even the start of blueberry everything for the next little while. That began with bowls of blueberries with coconut whipped cream this evening.
Mine:
He is at his happiest
At the track, placing bets.
He still has cash when he comes home?
Well brother, that's just as good as it gets.
2 comments:
That does sound like a very good market, and you even had exactly the right produce left over to make amusingly crude shapes :-P That also sounds like a lot of blueberries! When I read that it was your supply for the year I assumed you'd mistyped... but no! I shall expect a post in about three weeks telling me that you're turning blue.
I like the humour and success that run through your poem today, though working in the gambling industry I can be certain that coming home from the track with money is definitely not the norm.
As good as it gets
She's lying, frightened, in the boot of a car,
Bound and gagged, drowning in her own cold sweat,
The last thing she remembers is the driver's voice,
Telling her this is as good as it gets.
Greg - hah, yes, well, I managed to resist the temptation :P
Well, that's a rather terrifying little poem you've come up with! I do not envy her position in the least, though I am curious about the hows and whys and what happens next.
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