that kind of girl.

I am a pink flower kind of girl.
I am, for that matter, a pink kind of girl.
To be perfectly honest, I am not the type to ply the phrase "that kind of girl".  It has always made me cringe.  Itch, even, allergic-like.  It's the implied confines, I think, the connotation of limitations.  I've always felt a little claustrophobic around conformity, always avoided typecasting.

So, time passes and peonies happen.
The peonies started budding last week.Blooming yesterday!
Peonies are extremely pink, urgently flower.

Peonies are not geraniums, or pinks, or even roses.  Those are also pink flowers, and I nod at them and carry on.  Peonies are all those combined and then some!  inflated, exaggerated, taken to extremes.  They're flamboyant and brash and over-the-top, Greenspan's prototype for 'irrational exuberance'.  They are bossy and bold and shameless show-offs, holding center stage in any landscape. They're a commotion of ruffles, a tempest of frill, a Civil War petticoat posing as flora.
And that's only their form.  Let's talk about their color.

Peonies come in white, as well, which I love. and pale pink, {swoon} as pale as a clam's private parts, or the sheer whisper of a bunny's inner ear. But the ones that make my heart beat faster are the pink ones, the PINK ones.   
Irrepressibly pink.
Emphatically pink.
Barbie's Dream House pink.
magenta-fuschia-flushed cheek pink. 

I adore peonies.  I'm completely enthralled.
I can't explain it.

How do all those petals fit into that one little bud?  There is mystery, there, and magic, of the highest order.  also, their scent!  bury your face in a bloom, you will stay so long you'll wonder aloud whether anything has ever smelled this good and never want to leave.

And through it all, serendipity.  Catching the rise and fall of the first peonies.  I always plan my springs around this event.  And between all that gallivanting, a whole lot of nothing.  I'm spending a dreamy dull morning wiping jam and sweeping crumbs, reading!, and face timing grand babies in another time zone. Not to mention  an extraordinary afternoon of Brunch, and working in my garden.  Not headliner material, exactly.  But it sure smacks of privilege, under the circumstances.

 Because in the end, dude, that's the main thing, soaking up love, this way and that.  There is something tremendous about whole days together, opportunities and moments that just wouldn't come otherwise.  Pointing out the how of planting roses.  the fine points of old pillowcases.  Getting one's very own cat nap in the sun. If I had to choose, this would be my perfect day. my favorite, so far.   

So, next year, family, sunshine, peonies, same date, same time?  I'm penciling it in now... "sunshine + peonies with family last two days of May".

just sayin'.

  Bacon, Lettuce and Tomato Sandwiches

No one needs a recipe for BLT's so much as a reminder to make them. There's a world of difference between the year-round deli-counter BLT (bad, loathsome, tired) and the Spring sandwich made with good guts.  These are the ones that make me swoon:

1.  Toast two slices of Great Harvest White Bread.  I love Whole Wheat, but for these sandwiches, it's Classic White season at my house.  A BLT on wheat is sort of a waste.  On a fine white, it's one of the world's seven wonders.  Spread mayo on both toasted slices, then season well with pepper and salt.

2.  Layer lettuce, bacon (crisp), and as many slices of tomato as you think you can manage without losing all dignity.  Season tomatoes with a touch more salt and pepper, grab a few napkins, and salute a life well-lived.  


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