Last Saturday the kids rode horses to a swimming hole. The dads took the non-riders to join them. Roland introduced them to the joys of taking a horse into deep enough water that it’s actually swimming rather than wading. I introduced them to the joys of a rope swing. There were moments when we were pretty sure we were egging them on to levels of adventure that would have concerned their mothers, but they had a great time.
Roland and Emmy and Karen and I sit out on the patio or at a Starbucks with a cup of hot tea and enjoy the cool evenings and congratulate ourselves on actually getting to enjoy this time together to which we all so looked forward for so long. It’s good.
On the other hand, after extensive searching, I must sadly announce that there is not a pinto bean to be found anywhere in this modern, thriving metropolis. I’ve found something that looks close, called a Bortillo bean, but according to Wikipedia, it’s not a pinto. They have almost no dry beans at all, and the canned beans are either navy beans or kidney beans, and not much even of that. Where I come from, that’s like a city where no one sells bread or milk. And outside an oriental market, nothing here is spicy. Salsas and other foods that here declare themselves to be fiery hot will contain half of one percent jalepeno. Nothing reaches beyond what a Texan would call medium.
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