Mary, Mary, Quite Contrary, How's That Garden Growing?

All right. Who knows what that is? Did your mama do this with her leftover pie crust? You take all the scraps and roll them out together and put butter, cinnamon, and sugar on it and bake it, and as dear Rebecca and I determined today, that is the best part of a pie. Glen loves it so much and that bit of pastry goodness is waiting for him to eat it. He's just gotten back from sighting his rifle. 
Debby will know what I mean by that. 

So yes, I got the pies baked today. At least the two I'm doing. The thawed pastry rolled out beautifully and I made these two lovelies, guaranteed to trigger a sugar rush that'll last for hours at which time you'll crash like the dreams of a million kids who are certain they'll grow up to be rock stars. Or pro football players. Or the next Steven King. 
Or something. 

There we have our chocolate pecan pie on the left and our regular, traditional pecan pie on the right. They are now snuggly wrapped in aluminum foil and in the freezer in the garage. 
I'm at the point in my life where even looking at those pies makes me feel a little gastrically unsettled. I doubt I've had an entire piece of pecan pie in a decade but they are a cherished and expected part of the Thanksgiving dinner. Either that, or everyone is lying to me. 

I did some garden weeding this afternoon. Not much, but a little. The garden really is looking pretty but I can tell that it is suffering from lack of enough sunlight. The rain we just had did it good though.

Arugula.

Mustard greens.

Collards which were started from seedlings, not seeds.

Mixed kale on the left, mesclun on the right. 

And carrots. 

We have plenty for salads now and we will be having one tonight. I just feel like this is the greatest luxury in the world. These fall and winter salads from the garden taste like no other salads in the world unless they too are made from greens just picked hours or even minutes before. I almost hate to add anything else to the salads. Tomatoes are, of course, not in season and the ones in the store are far from perfect. Hot house cucumbers are okay but still not quite deserving of being sliced for nestling amongst those greens whose life force is at its peak. 

Okay. Okay. Enough of that. 

Anyway, all is well for now and yes, there are clean sheets on the bed and our glasses are in the freezer for martinis. 
"Olives or green beans?" I ask my husband before he begins the process of making them. I prefer pickled green beans in my martinis and he generally does too but sometimes he likes a couple of good olives. He shakes the martinis up and pours them out and we toast and always say, "Happy Birthday!" which is what our friend Red-Headed Rick always said at Hippie Hour back in the eighties when all the old hippies got together at a beer garden on Friday nights, and we also say, "I love you," and we kiss and sip and it's a pretty fine thing. 

Happy Friday, y'all. 

Love...Ms. Moon