I have been spending long hours writing, but working on a more ambitious project outside of the blog. It is high time to check in, not quite high summer but sure feels that way. Against all odds, when the atmosphere outside is this oppressive (but not this oppressive), somehow our screen porch has remained a tolerable place to linger over coffee in the morning, iced tea midday, and a cool martini in the evening, serenaded by occasionally deafening Carolina Wren visitors (so small to be so loud!) and a chorus of cicadas in the nearby wood. Imagine if you will a bed-sized swing suspended from ropes in front of those drapes (there is more, much more to do in the courtyard beyond, starting with replacing the rotted fence). All of that comes after our wallets recover a bit from what we’ve done thus far: purchased and installed (thank you, Chef David) gorgeous river rock mosaic tile; purchased and assembled (thank you, Chef) new Adirondack chairs, ottomans, and one table; purchased and installed exterior hardware and hung weather-proof drapes; and purchased (all the way from Ukraine!) handmade nautical rope tie-backs (thank you, thank you, and thank you). I am lucky my partner in life has skills and is willing to humor my penchant for doing things just so. I realize I can be a pain in the behind.

I am also stubborn in my resistance to the notion of a standard bench swing. “Wouldn’t you be okay with something like that?” he asks me hopefully, gesturing at a front porch swing as we cycle down a neighborhood street. The answer is a hard, nope. I plan to read and write and nap on the swing that is in my future. I can hear him sigh on his bicycle behind me, even though I really can’t. So in the next building phase, he will remove a portion of the ceiling to see just what we’re dealing with up there, before I click add-to-cart and buy, and then start searching for all the extras, because there are always extras. Waterproof mattress covers and bolster pillows, for example. I have every confidence there will be others. He is a good man.

He is also an excellent chef. And because it has been so dang hot, I’ve had a hankerin’ for cold soup. I suggested gazpacho last weekend, and The Chef agreed. He explained the process to me while he worked, and I did precious little except watch. The fragrance of fresh summer vegetables, chopped, and a heaping pile of minced garlic, well all that is one of the singular joys of summer. Add a bit of olive oil, some vegetable juice, and then pulse in the processor, et voilà! Plunk on some sour cream and pour a glass of Chardonnay, and you’ll have achieved perfection. Tonight I’ll make a classic vichyssoise after David shows me how to get the most out of a leek, while we argue about how the word is pronounced. Vichyssoise, not leek.

Where there is food, there is sure to be dog. Scout-the-Goldapeake-Retriever has developed an endearing habit when there is activity in our kitchen. His toenails have a tough time getting purchase on our slippery floors. So he’s learned how to dig into the living room rug with his rear legs and then to lower his rump and let his front legs s l o w l y slide to the floor, the better to catch a glimpse of the manna from heaven. The unmistakable “ahem-I-am-here-pipple” whisper of this sliding-down makes us giggle every time he does it.

Scoutie’s irritable in this kind of heat, and I get it, so I’ll limit his time outdoors, and toss some ice cubes into his water bowl.

Before I raise my iced tea to you, gentle reader, and leave you on this sweltering day, I offer this unexpected little nugget: When the cracked and brittle belt in your ancient washing machine finally snaps, leaving you with a drum full of soggy, soapy clothing on a Saturday morning, and there is nowhere to find a replacement part, try your local auto supply store. As The Chef quipped yesterday, “A belt is a belt.”

To the two nice young men who waited on us yesterday: Yes, it worked. We have the clean, dry clothing to prove it.