I’ve heard of stopping and smelling the roses, but I hadn’t heard this twist on it.
I don’t believe I’ve ever stopped to smell the rosé. Perhaps a cab sav, but not a rosé.
Evidently Hillary Duff enjoys a good rosé.
Perhaps you should pop a cork this evening! After all, it IS Wine Wednesday.
Y’all, the horehound has not lessened up around here. In fact, the highways are flanked by even thicker and pinkier/purplier horehound than ever. It’s the horehoundiest season that Texas has ever seen, no doubt. The more I see them, the more they remind me of my Swiffer hand dusters, narrow enough to get to even the most trapped dust.
Horehound. It’s everywhere in central Texas. Field after field of purple horehounds (technically “black” horehound), presumably from our unusually ample downpours.
What I find curious is that Google has no matches for “fields of horehound,” and that vexes me. So while I understand that this post is of little interest to any readers, it behooves me to have to document that there are, in fact, fields of horehound.
I’m not exaggerating when I say the bees have been swarming our holly bushes by the hundreds, maybe thousands. As soon as we open the front door, we can hear their deafening buzz, trying to avoid their erratic trails as they flit from blossom to blossom.
And while I do suffer from melissophobia, I know that this is good for the bees, and good for the earth. But I do count down the days till they shoo away because I HATE BEE STINGS. So I stand back and let them go at the holly bushes, ten feet wide and taller than I am.