My day was a three-act play, with only the briefest of intermissions.
Act 1: The server is not responding
I may be a Luddite, but I at least live in a world of connectivity. My octogenarian parents, who do have cell phones, mind you (unlike me), are also at the mercy of some rinky dink Northern Neck internet provider that could only be classified as intermittent at best.
They're used to this, probably because they were still on a dial-up connection into the Obama administration, but I'm not. So when I got down there for my annual visit to complete and e-file their taxes, you can imagine my frustration to find that the internet is missing in action,
Apparently what they do when this happens is call the provider, whose pre-recorded message informs them that service will be spotty for the next few hours. Mom and Dad take this in stride. "It always goes out when there's bad weather," Mom says, as if this is a legit explanation.
And by bad weather, we're talking breezy and occasional rain showers, so nothing catastrophic.
Since I can't do what I came to do, I spend the morning on other requests like baking oatmeal raisin cookies, mending a hole in Mom's favorite cardigan and organizing kitchen cabinets. Finally, after lunch the Internet returns and taxes can not only be filed, but accepted by the IRS before the possibility of another government shutdown descends.
But because I had to wait until afternoon to begin doing taxes, it's late afternoon before I hit the road back to Richmond for my final foray to the Environmental Film Fest.
Act 2: Al Gore was right
Arriving back in J-Ward at 5:20 for a documentary that began at 6 meant a sprint to get cleaned up before grabbing an umbrella and walking over to Cabell Library for Leonardo diCaprio's passion project, "Before the Flood."
I arrived with five minutes to spare. As you might expect, the room was full of people already alarmed about global warming rather than people who needed a cinematic slap in the face to realize how quickly things are going to get dire.
Like how by 2040, it'll be possible to sail over the North Pole. How the ice there used to be hard and dark blue and is now pale blue with the consistency of ice cream.
For closer-to-home concerns, there was Miami, where the city is currently involved in massive project to raise streets and install pumps to rid roadways of the seawater which currently rises through the city's drains to regularly flood the streets.
And while a shift to solar power seems like a no-brainer, both China and India are making more progress on that front than the U.S. Island nations contribute the least to global warming's causes yet feel its effects most. Oh, and once again, a reminder that raising cows is the most inefficient use of land so we all need to cut back on meat.
Probably most shocking was the make-up of Congress in 2016: 38 climate deniers in the Senate and 131 in the House. We pay these people to be ignorant?
Let's just say that by the time I left Cabell, I had accepted that Greenland is going to go away, along with most of Florida and Norfolk, which represents an enormous security risk for the country given the naval base there.
Walking home after a day of waiting for Internet and being reminded that life as we know is on the way out had me ready to climb into bed and call it a night.
Except that ten minutes after I got home, the phone rang. Holmes and Beloved were en route to Acacia and didn't I want to join them for dinner in 20 minutes?
Act 3: RSVP for one
Another quick change of clothes and I too was headed to Acacia, where I found them at the bar already sipping pink bubbles. When I asked the bartender what we were drinking, his response was, "Chateau Langlois Cremant de Loire Brut Rose, the same thing you guys drank the last couple of times you were here."
So we're creatures of habit, apparently.
Since we'd gotten a late start, we jumped right into appetizers: white anchovies with grilled Romaine, radicchio and Forme d'Ambert (because Beloved can't go to Acacia and not have them), crab fritters studded with lump crabmeat and deep fried deviled eggs. A nice light start, in other words.
The occasion for the Tuesday celebration was that it was Beloved's first day back at work, albeit abridged to a four hour workday, since she broke her elbow back in late December. While she'd been in a cast and then bandage, they'd not done their usual dining out. Holmes said his credit card bill had dropped precipitously while she just wanted to be among the living and eating well again.
The bartender regaled us with his theories on dogs (puppyhood is key) while giving an enthusiastic thumbs-up to our dinner selections: a Wagyu cheesebuger that made Beloved moan with pleasure, pork schnitzel that Holmes declared the best he'd ever had in Richmond, bar none and my market fish special of grilled flounder with a beet and arugula side salad.
Usually we linger, but Acacia was clearing out, so we did, too, landing back at Holmes' man cave for molten chocolate cake, some unexpected and perfectly lovely Francoise Chidaine le Chenin d'Ailleurs Brut and a listening party that began with Elvis Costello solely because that was where his last solo listening party had ended.
Usually he does the record selection with input and requests from the womenfolk, but I waited until he was in the loo to peruse his collection on my own. Almost immediately, I made a stealth find, namely "The Way We Were" soundtrack and pulled it out. He's no Streisand fan but she and I are and he'd never mentioned having this album, much less played it for us.
The album/movie resonated for both of us because we'd been young when we'd seen it but recalled how it had destroyed us with its story of two people who fell in love but ultimately couldn't be together. Back when we first saw it, neither of us had had enough life experience to realize that sometimes that's how life pans out so it had upset us. Scarred us, even.
Tonight it was just a treat to hear, as much for classic songs Beloved immediately recognized by name - "Red Sails in the Sunset" and "Wrap Your Troubles in Dreams" - as for the three interpretations of the heart-tugging theme song. Oh, Hubbel.
Holmes tried to top that by pulling out the "Local Hero" soundtrack done by Mark Knopfler, but it was a whole different animal, albeit a satisfyingly 1983 one.
The big score was a compilation album called "The Best of '66," full of originals and covers, some of which defied belief. Why would anyone allow the Brothers Four to cover "Help?" Most egregious of all was the New Christy Minstrels' soul-less take on Nancy Sinatra's "These Boots are Made for Walking," which had not an iota of sexiness left in it despite the lyrics.
When I made a request for the soundtrack to "Hair," Holmes pivoted in his bar stool extracting the album from behind two others on a shelf directly behind his head. The man has hundreds of albums and he somehow knew exactly where this one was.
I'd wanted to hear "Good Morning, Starshine" but our group was unimpressed by Lynn Kellogg's version, leading Holmes to dub this "The Night of the Covers." On the other hand, "Aquarius" by Ronnie Dyson played just fine.
My favorite part of the 1968 album? That the song "Black Boys," sung in the original cast by Diane Keaton (news to me), bears a dedication to Governor George Wallace. Well done, kids.
At midnight, we realized we needed to bring this party to a close, but since Beloved doesn't go to work now until 2:00, we relented and put on more music. Finally at 1:15, we put on our grown-up pants and shut off the turntable for the night.
Total non-sleeping time spent at home today: an hour and 15 minutes, a new record.
But that's okay, intermissions are for amateurs. When old records call, I'm ready for my close-up.
Showing posts with label environmental film fest. Show all posts
Showing posts with label environmental film fest. Show all posts
Wednesday, February 13, 2019
Monday, February 11, 2019
Every Day is Like Sunday
At least I was reassured that I'm a minimalist.
A few years back when I'd first met Beau, Pru had told him I was a minimalist, referring to my small apartment and limited possessions. But on his first visit here, he'd been unconvinced, mainly because I have an entire wall of book shelves.
"How can you be a minimalist with all these books?" he'd challenged me, eyeing my book collection like they were traitors to the cause.
So imagine my satisfaction in going to the Byrd Theater for the Environmental Film Fest screening of "Minimalism: A Documentary About the Important Things" and hearing Ryan Nicodemus, part of the duo that calls themselves The Minimalists (with attendant website and non-stop speaking engagements) explain that some minimalists do have book collections because those books provide them joy.
Vindicated.
The documentary itself did not particularly speak to me (or Mr. Wright), though, because so much of what its talking heads espoused was common sense stuff. Don't buy into the American agenda that more stuff means more happiness. Duh. Consider the ecological affects of buying and discarding short-time purchases. Well, yea. If a high-paying job means all you do is work and not enjoy yourself, you're not fully living. Not news.
Each of the smiling, beatific minimalists interviewed looked to be white and well-off (and, if they were men, bearded) with great teeth. I don't know what the connection is, but maybe minimalism means more time for oral hygiene.
We stayed for the short film "Reefs at Risk" for the simple reason that since being in Islamorada surrounded by reefs, I'm more interested in them than before. What we wound up learning was that Oxybenzone, a common ingredient in sunscreen, is lethal to coral, which is a living animal that gets stressed, just like humans.
And, man, is it stressed right now.
Turns out coral reefs have declined 99% in the Keys, along with 40% in Hawaii and 85% in the Caribbean. How's that for depressing news?
Needless to say, I came home and checked my sunscreen ingredients, ready to toss anything offensive. I mean, what's the point in going to the Environmental Film Fest if not to feel bad about yourself and hopefully bring about small, personal changes?
Don't answer that.
After doing our part to be informed and more mindful of environmental issues, we moved on to conversation and an extended meal at Max's on Broad, where a new menu had been rolled out a few days ago. Never especially attached to the old menu, I figured it was worth a short walk to see what my neighborhood Franco-Belgian restaurant was offering up.
Besides, that is, our favorite seats all the way at the end of the bar, past where it turns, and behind the gigantic espresso machine. You gotta want it to end up there.
The bartender gave her seal of approval to our choice of a Catalonian Cava and let us take all the time we wanted between courses. It probably helped that there were only a couple people at the bar at any given moment, and they were employees.
We both gave high marks to the onion and carrot-laden beef and farro soup we started with, which was hearty, beefy and perfect for dropping hunks of French bread into to absorb that broth. Surely it was our Irish and Polish peasant stock that made us wish for a vat of that soup and a full loaf of crusty bread.
Next came charred broccoli over French onion dip with salted Ricotta and pickled onions, a dish that tickled every taste bud I had and left me wishing for more. Tuna tartare with grapefruit, lime zest and shavings of cured egg yolk rested on a bed of squid ink, making for a very dramatic presentation. A curly kale caesar salad with shrimp was virtuous enough to justify salted caramel apple pie with vanilla ice cream for dessert.
Sitting by the big front windows gave us a panoramic view of the rain falling on Broad Street and the limited foot traffic out in it. My best guess was that everyone was at home watching Kacey Musgraves take claim to two Grammys.
By the time we finished sipping, supping and talking about past, present and future, four hours had elapsed - nine if you count from when we began with Nate's bagels pre-Environmental Film Fest - and my neo-minimalist apartment called.
You know, the one where I'm currently reading the late Jane Juska's eminently readable "A Round-Heeled Woman: My Late Life Adventures in Sex and Romance." Talk about sparking joy, Mac's already asked to read it when I'm finished.
Because, as one of the beards with good teeth told us today, not every good minimalist has to give up her books.
A few years back when I'd first met Beau, Pru had told him I was a minimalist, referring to my small apartment and limited possessions. But on his first visit here, he'd been unconvinced, mainly because I have an entire wall of book shelves.
"How can you be a minimalist with all these books?" he'd challenged me, eyeing my book collection like they were traitors to the cause.
So imagine my satisfaction in going to the Byrd Theater for the Environmental Film Fest screening of "Minimalism: A Documentary About the Important Things" and hearing Ryan Nicodemus, part of the duo that calls themselves The Minimalists (with attendant website and non-stop speaking engagements) explain that some minimalists do have book collections because those books provide them joy.
Vindicated.
The documentary itself did not particularly speak to me (or Mr. Wright), though, because so much of what its talking heads espoused was common sense stuff. Don't buy into the American agenda that more stuff means more happiness. Duh. Consider the ecological affects of buying and discarding short-time purchases. Well, yea. If a high-paying job means all you do is work and not enjoy yourself, you're not fully living. Not news.
Each of the smiling, beatific minimalists interviewed looked to be white and well-off (and, if they were men, bearded) with great teeth. I don't know what the connection is, but maybe minimalism means more time for oral hygiene.
We stayed for the short film "Reefs at Risk" for the simple reason that since being in Islamorada surrounded by reefs, I'm more interested in them than before. What we wound up learning was that Oxybenzone, a common ingredient in sunscreen, is lethal to coral, which is a living animal that gets stressed, just like humans.
And, man, is it stressed right now.
Turns out coral reefs have declined 99% in the Keys, along with 40% in Hawaii and 85% in the Caribbean. How's that for depressing news?
Needless to say, I came home and checked my sunscreen ingredients, ready to toss anything offensive. I mean, what's the point in going to the Environmental Film Fest if not to feel bad about yourself and hopefully bring about small, personal changes?
Don't answer that.
After doing our part to be informed and more mindful of environmental issues, we moved on to conversation and an extended meal at Max's on Broad, where a new menu had been rolled out a few days ago. Never especially attached to the old menu, I figured it was worth a short walk to see what my neighborhood Franco-Belgian restaurant was offering up.
Besides, that is, our favorite seats all the way at the end of the bar, past where it turns, and behind the gigantic espresso machine. You gotta want it to end up there.
The bartender gave her seal of approval to our choice of a Catalonian Cava and let us take all the time we wanted between courses. It probably helped that there were only a couple people at the bar at any given moment, and they were employees.
We both gave high marks to the onion and carrot-laden beef and farro soup we started with, which was hearty, beefy and perfect for dropping hunks of French bread into to absorb that broth. Surely it was our Irish and Polish peasant stock that made us wish for a vat of that soup and a full loaf of crusty bread.
Next came charred broccoli over French onion dip with salted Ricotta and pickled onions, a dish that tickled every taste bud I had and left me wishing for more. Tuna tartare with grapefruit, lime zest and shavings of cured egg yolk rested on a bed of squid ink, making for a very dramatic presentation. A curly kale caesar salad with shrimp was virtuous enough to justify salted caramel apple pie with vanilla ice cream for dessert.
Sitting by the big front windows gave us a panoramic view of the rain falling on Broad Street and the limited foot traffic out in it. My best guess was that everyone was at home watching Kacey Musgraves take claim to two Grammys.
By the time we finished sipping, supping and talking about past, present and future, four hours had elapsed - nine if you count from when we began with Nate's bagels pre-Environmental Film Fest - and my neo-minimalist apartment called.
You know, the one where I'm currently reading the late Jane Juska's eminently readable "A Round-Heeled Woman: My Late Life Adventures in Sex and Romance." Talk about sparking joy, Mac's already asked to read it when I'm finished.
Because, as one of the beards with good teeth told us today, not every good minimalist has to give up her books.
Monday, February 1, 2016
Lucky Seven
And I would walk 500 7 miles...
Give me a 70-degree day on the first of February and I'll walk all day long, just to be outside. Unfortunately for me, I was on multiple deadlines with a whole lot of writing on my plate, but at least there was my walk.
Given how long it had been since I'd been to Great Shiplock Park, I made a decidedly un-bee line there, only to be gobsmacked when I saw that the canal is still sporting an ice crust over two thirds of it. How is this even possible after the past two days of Spring-like weather? Birds were standing on it, I kid you not.
Heading back up the hill toward home, I passed a man who observed, "Someone is making the most of this day!" Was it the shorts and t-shirt that gave it away?
Total: 4.9 miles
My invitation to join me at the Environmental Film Fest got a yawn from my friend - "Ugh. I know urban farming is something I should be interested in, but just not doing it for me. Blah." - but he didn't hesitate to say yes when I suggested meeting for dinner at 821 Cafe.
Turning down his offer to pick me up, I walked there, umbrella in hand, although somehow, the streets of Jackson Ward were wet while the streets on the other side of Monroe Park were not. More science I don't understand.
Total: .8 miles
He'd already scored a booth for us when I arrived, but the real news of the day was that 821 was playing electronica and not its usual punk or thrash, making for a far mellower atmosphere than I expect there.
That didn't stop me from ordering my usual half order of black bean nachos, but it was a massive full order that showed up instead. When I pointed out the error, our server reached for the platter to whisk it off to the kitchen, but I insisted that that wasn't necessary.
"I want you to be happy," he said, reaching for them again. Making a fortress with my arms, I assured him I was happy and could easily make do by eating half and not bothering the kitchen in the least.
My friend was having a terrible, awful, no-good day, partly because his bum knee was hurting and partly because he'd slept poorly due to his cat waking him up repeatedly last night. Even if I weren't highly allergic to them, that kind of annoying behavior (see also: sleeping on your face, or so I'm told) would keep me firmly in the anti-cat camp.
I told him about my road trip to Norfolk Saturday and that got him reminiscing about Hampton Roads in general because it's his hometown. "You're never far from the water," he said. "I miss that. Even the smell of marshes I miss."
One fascinating thing I'd learned while there had been of a terrific local alternative station and that DJ Paul Shugrue had landed there, something my friend already knew since he's down there far more often than I am.
After Paul left Richmond, I'd unexpectedly heard him on the Coast in Norfolk years ago, but nothing since, so this was great news and I'm already tuning in to listen to his knowledgeable music talk and record selections. My friend was hardly surprised.
But he was in a far better mood by then, buoyed by getting out of the county, addressing his hanger and being in proximity to Suzy Sunshine, so when we said good-night, he was a far happier person than when I'd sat down.
Another job well done.
He took off, sore knee and all, for Carytown while I got out my umbrella and hoofed it over to the main library for the first screening of the Environmental Film Fest, arriving with a decidedly damp left foot thanks to a puddle that I mistook for a reflection.
Total: .7 miles
Tonight's film was a documentary, "Plant This Movie," about the rise of urban agriculture and narrated by Darryl Hannah (now there's a name I hadn't heard in forever), beginning with the horrifying fact that lawns are the #1 irrigated crop in this country.
And this from a country who had rallied to grow 40% of the vegetables eaten in the U.S. in Victory Gardens back during the war years. There were even self-help canneries to help all those urban gardeners can their excesses.
Then came the post-war years with highways, better refrigeration methods and the growth of suburbia (a la Levittown) and the newly-minted state-given right to have a lawn. Easy to see where we got off track isn't it?
Yet - and I found this surprising - in those early years, lawns were made up of dandelions, clover and the like, things we'd now call weeds. It wasn't until the mid to late '50s that grass became the gold standard for lawns, a symbol of upward mobility.
Depressing history aside, the film mostly focused on urban farming advocates all over the world, starting with Cuba, who after breaking ties with USSR, their primary food source, had to suddenly start growing their own.
From there we saw innovative projects (student-run gardens, CSAs, public farming on public lands) all over the world - China, India, Peru - including the U.S., namely Oakland, Portland, Philly, New Orleans and even New York City. Brooklyn Grange is a rooftop garden project, Manhattan has Battery Park Urban Farm and Brooklyn also has Window Farms, a vertical indoor hydroponic vegetable-growing operation.
The smallest carbon footprint award had to go to Food From the Sky, a London rooftop garden over a market that sells the produce below. That's an impressive ten-yard journey from source to shelf.
A middle-aged woman made the point that many of this generation's urban farmers have roots in the '70s' Back to the Earth Movement, while a guy with a green bandanna espoused the benefits of collecting your urine for watering plants. Apparently they'll be significantly greener and lusher inside a week.
There's a practice that may take longer to catch on.
Post-film, there were local speakers on the subject, including a city employee who helps start new community gardens.
Currently they're looking at allowing rooftop gardens in Scott's Addition given the tiny amount of green space in the once-industrial area. She also shared that lead was a serious problem in the yards of Fulton Hill, making it a dangerous place to grow vegetables unless you create very high raised beds with a defined barrier underneath.
We also heard from a chef who passed out fresh carrots (irregularly shaped and better tasting than any carrots I've had in years) from Tricycle Gardens and upon reaching me with the bowl, reacted with a huge smile and announced to the room that we'd met at a movie a few months ago.
You never know if someone's going to remember you so it's always flattering when they do.
Not that I went to the Environmental Film Fest for flattery. I went because I was interested in the topic (unlike my dinner date) and curious to know more. I'm not sure my prodigious oregano growing is enough of a contribution to the cause.
Total: .6 miles
And because, even with a light rain falling, I'd walk almost anywhere on a February day like this.
Seven miles' worth even and worth every step.
Give me a 70-degree day on the first of February and I'll walk all day long, just to be outside. Unfortunately for me, I was on multiple deadlines with a whole lot of writing on my plate, but at least there was my walk.
Given how long it had been since I'd been to Great Shiplock Park, I made a decidedly un-bee line there, only to be gobsmacked when I saw that the canal is still sporting an ice crust over two thirds of it. How is this even possible after the past two days of Spring-like weather? Birds were standing on it, I kid you not.
Heading back up the hill toward home, I passed a man who observed, "Someone is making the most of this day!" Was it the shorts and t-shirt that gave it away?
Total: 4.9 miles
My invitation to join me at the Environmental Film Fest got a yawn from my friend - "Ugh. I know urban farming is something I should be interested in, but just not doing it for me. Blah." - but he didn't hesitate to say yes when I suggested meeting for dinner at 821 Cafe.
Turning down his offer to pick me up, I walked there, umbrella in hand, although somehow, the streets of Jackson Ward were wet while the streets on the other side of Monroe Park were not. More science I don't understand.
Total: .8 miles
He'd already scored a booth for us when I arrived, but the real news of the day was that 821 was playing electronica and not its usual punk or thrash, making for a far mellower atmosphere than I expect there.
That didn't stop me from ordering my usual half order of black bean nachos, but it was a massive full order that showed up instead. When I pointed out the error, our server reached for the platter to whisk it off to the kitchen, but I insisted that that wasn't necessary.
"I want you to be happy," he said, reaching for them again. Making a fortress with my arms, I assured him I was happy and could easily make do by eating half and not bothering the kitchen in the least.
My friend was having a terrible, awful, no-good day, partly because his bum knee was hurting and partly because he'd slept poorly due to his cat waking him up repeatedly last night. Even if I weren't highly allergic to them, that kind of annoying behavior (see also: sleeping on your face, or so I'm told) would keep me firmly in the anti-cat camp.
I told him about my road trip to Norfolk Saturday and that got him reminiscing about Hampton Roads in general because it's his hometown. "You're never far from the water," he said. "I miss that. Even the smell of marshes I miss."
One fascinating thing I'd learned while there had been of a terrific local alternative station and that DJ Paul Shugrue had landed there, something my friend already knew since he's down there far more often than I am.
After Paul left Richmond, I'd unexpectedly heard him on the Coast in Norfolk years ago, but nothing since, so this was great news and I'm already tuning in to listen to his knowledgeable music talk and record selections. My friend was hardly surprised.
But he was in a far better mood by then, buoyed by getting out of the county, addressing his hanger and being in proximity to Suzy Sunshine, so when we said good-night, he was a far happier person than when I'd sat down.
Another job well done.
He took off, sore knee and all, for Carytown while I got out my umbrella and hoofed it over to the main library for the first screening of the Environmental Film Fest, arriving with a decidedly damp left foot thanks to a puddle that I mistook for a reflection.
Total: .7 miles
Tonight's film was a documentary, "Plant This Movie," about the rise of urban agriculture and narrated by Darryl Hannah (now there's a name I hadn't heard in forever), beginning with the horrifying fact that lawns are the #1 irrigated crop in this country.
And this from a country who had rallied to grow 40% of the vegetables eaten in the U.S. in Victory Gardens back during the war years. There were even self-help canneries to help all those urban gardeners can their excesses.
Then came the post-war years with highways, better refrigeration methods and the growth of suburbia (a la Levittown) and the newly-minted state-given right to have a lawn. Easy to see where we got off track isn't it?
Yet - and I found this surprising - in those early years, lawns were made up of dandelions, clover and the like, things we'd now call weeds. It wasn't until the mid to late '50s that grass became the gold standard for lawns, a symbol of upward mobility.
Depressing history aside, the film mostly focused on urban farming advocates all over the world, starting with Cuba, who after breaking ties with USSR, their primary food source, had to suddenly start growing their own.
From there we saw innovative projects (student-run gardens, CSAs, public farming on public lands) all over the world - China, India, Peru - including the U.S., namely Oakland, Portland, Philly, New Orleans and even New York City. Brooklyn Grange is a rooftop garden project, Manhattan has Battery Park Urban Farm and Brooklyn also has Window Farms, a vertical indoor hydroponic vegetable-growing operation.
The smallest carbon footprint award had to go to Food From the Sky, a London rooftop garden over a market that sells the produce below. That's an impressive ten-yard journey from source to shelf.
A middle-aged woman made the point that many of this generation's urban farmers have roots in the '70s' Back to the Earth Movement, while a guy with a green bandanna espoused the benefits of collecting your urine for watering plants. Apparently they'll be significantly greener and lusher inside a week.
There's a practice that may take longer to catch on.
Post-film, there were local speakers on the subject, including a city employee who helps start new community gardens.
Currently they're looking at allowing rooftop gardens in Scott's Addition given the tiny amount of green space in the once-industrial area. She also shared that lead was a serious problem in the yards of Fulton Hill, making it a dangerous place to grow vegetables unless you create very high raised beds with a defined barrier underneath.
We also heard from a chef who passed out fresh carrots (irregularly shaped and better tasting than any carrots I've had in years) from Tricycle Gardens and upon reaching me with the bowl, reacted with a huge smile and announced to the room that we'd met at a movie a few months ago.
You never know if someone's going to remember you so it's always flattering when they do.
Not that I went to the Environmental Film Fest for flattery. I went because I was interested in the topic (unlike my dinner date) and curious to know more. I'm not sure my prodigious oregano growing is enough of a contribution to the cause.
Total: .6 miles
And because, even with a light rain falling, I'd walk almost anywhere on a February day like this.
Seven miles' worth even and worth every step.
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