A few snaps from last weekend out at my parents’ place, a final hurrah before the pool gets too cold for those of us who did not grow up swimming in the Puget Sound (that would be everyone but Mark). There were the usual sights:
The usual ridiculously good food — observe Mark, eating my sister’s homemade steak sauce:
And these buttery s’mores bars that my mom baked with dark chocolate and powdered chipotle (they didn’t last long):
And then there was the dove. Apparently it’s dove season, and those poor dumb birds keep flying into my parents’ windows and dying. One struck right after Saturday’s dinner, and my sister objected to our father’s intent to throw the carcass in the trash. I agreed to help her bury it out in the bone-dry dirt, but I told her that she would have to pick the bird up and I would do the digging. This was the gear she assembled for dove disposal duty:
Note the work gloves, paper plate, saran wrap and tissues. My mom asked, “What’s the beer for?” Heather’s reply: “For me.”
And of course, in a thread from a tale as old as time, Dad was the one who buried that dove.