Dog days

We've entered the awkward season sandwiched between summer and fall, the time of year when I'm ready for fall weather but the thermometer still pushes 95 midday. Invariably, my closet undergoes an identity crisis as I feel uncomfortable wearing post-Labor Day white and my favorite white, open-toed wedges. To avoid a worthless battle in my mind, I gently remind myself to let it go. I live in Florida. Year-round flip flops are the norm.

Karis surprised me with her powers of keen observation yesterday. I was driving and asked her to please be quiet so I could listen to the news on the radio. She replied back, "What's wrong with the world, Mommy?" Well, how much time to you got, kid?

I looked out my window yesterday to see a woman walking down our street with four dogs on leashes and a humongous red, blue, and yellow parrot sitting on her shoulders. Then, as if the scene weren't unusual enough, she passed a neighbor's recycling bin, spotted something she wanted, pulled out an empty milk jug, and went merrily on her way. I can't imagine what she'll use it for.

I've been eyeing a collection of jars in the back of my mother-in-laws outdoor fridge for a couple of months now. I recently asked her about them, and she told me they were homemade fig preserves, a gift from her next door neighbor Pat. My curiosity got the best of me this week, and I simply asked to have a jar. Oh. My. Goodness. Pat, you have done a noble service to mankind. With the subtle, deep fig flavor and tender bite, it makes for a dynamite breakfast when combined with a bowl of Greek yogurt and granola. I know I should share this with Matt, a self-proclaimed fig lover, but I'm fighting the urge to tuck it away in an undisclosed location.