ade, cropped

Make lemonade.


My man’s been hard at work in the garden all day, destroying nature (i.e., chopping down a pathetically diseased peach tree). So I, being the good woman that I am, decided to practice the housewifely art of making lemonade for one’s hard-working man.


Truth be told, I probably would have felt a lot less housewifely had I not recently purchased this juicer, which makes quick work of juicing a shit-ton of lemons. I’m much less of a good woman when I have to do things by hand.


When the dessication was complete, I mixed in some water and simple sugar syrup. And voila, lemonade.

Did you think there would be more to this? Like, she wouldn’t bother to write a post about a pitcher of lemonade, would she? Oh yes, I would. And you’re reading it! Inanity all around!


I brought an icy cold glass out to my little tree killer, who was grateful for the refreshment and promised to tell his grandma what a good wife I am. Validation! I could use some, because if I’m being candid, I’m a terrible wife.* I dust once every three years, never do the dishes, leave piles of laundry laying around for weeks and am constantly serving dinner cold because I need to photograph it like a damn fool.

Plus, then I got some lemonade which, let’s be frank, was really what it was all about in the first place.


*Let it be known that I’m an exemplary woman, just a terrible wife. Because “married woman” does not equal “traditional understanding of ‘wife'”.