Jeff, the troops didn't track the garden loam into the cottage--that was my doing! The cucumbers in that last harvest from the pastoral pagan heaven that is my garden were so long and thick that even my quaint flat rattan garden basket, woven with ribbons of every color and, yes, streamers (!) drifting sensually against my bare outdoor legs, was so full of bounty that I had to drag it across the white-planked floors, my supple, well-muscled bottom upturned against the weight of it all, my gauze dress, covered as always with a small wildflower print, blowing inappropriately in so many different directions that the scene could appeal only to a real liberal . . .
Oh, but how could you have so misjudged my freshly squeezed lemonade, made lovingly from only the finest organic lemons, their juice captured lovingly not in some tacky electical Italian small kitchen appliance but in the cool green glass hand squeezer my grandmother used a hundred years ago and passed down to me, a woman after her own wild heart . . . lemonade sweetened with the fragrant honey of my loins and garnished with fresh mint leaves that I bruised by rubbing them against my hard vegetarian nipples . . . |
