warm fruit


“Follow the rainbow to my door….”  The male Satin Bowerbird, an Australian species endemic to the rainforests of the East Coast regions of the mainland and Tasmania, constructs an intricate ‘bower’ on which to display, dance and attract a mate. All bowerbird species do this, however the Satin variety has a penchant for indigo blue and collects all kinds of objects in various shades of this colour to decorate the bower with. The male Satin bowerbird’s plumage has an iridescent sheen in this colour, and the female, whilst having spotted beige plumage, has a striking eye colour in this same indigo shade as well. Male bowerbirds spend an extraordinary amount of effort and time adorning their bowers, arranging and re-arranging objects around it’s entrance as seen in the above photo examples.

Little Foods🍴✨💙

- Macaroni and cheese
- Dino/Chicken Nuggets with ketchup
- Fish Sticks
- Sunny side up eggs with toast dipping soldiers
- Pancakes or waffles with LOTS of syrup and whipped cream
- PB&J sandwich
- Alphabet soup or spaghettios
- Pigs in a blanket (baby hotdogs wrapped in buttery dough)
- Lucky Charms cereal with banana

- Baby Carrots and Ranch dip
- Ants on a log (celery spread with peanut butter and raisins for ants)
- Trail mix
- Goldfish Crackers
- Applesauce
- Yoghurt (regular or frozen)
- Apple slices with peanut butter
- Pretzels
- Strawberries

- Rice Crispie Treats
- Oreo cookies and milk
- Jellybeans
- Superman Ice cream
- Mini cupcakes
- Fairy bread (white bread spread with butter and covered in candy balls)
- Gummy bears
- Donut holes

- Apple or orange juice
- Hot chocolate with mini marshmallows
- Milk (warm or cold)
- Fruit smoothies
- Slushies


Today’s breakfast, lunch and dinner :)
Whole grain/peanut flour pancakes with fresh fruit, warm raspberries and white almond butter. Red lentil stew with veggies (and a ton of nutritional yeast). Buddha bowls with baby spinach, cucumber, cherry tomatoes, kidney bean balls, quinoa and avocado-bean dip. Everything was super delicious!


Keeping it Warm by Jason Ogden
Via Flickr:
Living in the Pacific Northwest requires us to bring in our lemon tree every winter to protect it from the cold…but this might be going a little too far.

In a routine as calm and natural as waking up, putting on some socks and pouring cereal, Bucky opened the fridge and grabbed the last half of a mango they had left. He peeled off the peel before realising he hadn’t washed his hands yet and quickly did so, as if that could erase the fact that he definitely touched the fruit with unwashed hands. 

He grabbed a knife from the drawer and closed it with his hip. Out of the living room floated music he almost didn’t notice anymore because he’d heard it so often by now. Some sad piece with a woman singing, Sams favourite. He cut the mango in uneven cubes and used the knife to slide them from the board into a bowl. He hesitated a second but then he smiled, and walked through an open door into their garden. The sun was shining on his face and the arm he didn’t cover. He picked a few ripe strawberries and went inside again. 

He plucked the tops off the strawberries. “Did you know you can eat the tops?” “Do you want to eat those green things?” “No, I’m just saying, they’re edible… Maybe they’re much healthier with tops than without and we’re just playing ourselves, and” “Shush” A pleasant memory. He cut them in half and put them into the bowl, on top of the mango. He then proceeded to pick them out of the bowl again, one by one, to cut a small triangle into the tops to make the heart shape more pronounced.

When he was done throwing them back in again, he scooped up all the triangles and threw them into his mouth while walking into the living room with the bowl.

“Hey baby” He plopped onto the couch and handed Sam the bowl. He was sitting with his eyes closed listening to the music, and looked startled for a moment until he saw Bucky, who was looking at him with an easy smile. Them he laughed. 

“Honey, you forgot the fork” “Shit” “It’s fine, I’ll eat it woth my hands like a caveman, because my terrible husband can’t even give me a fork when he makes me a fruit salad apparently” He pretended like he was really about to start eating with his hands when Bucky caught one, laughing, and kissed him instead. 

Realities of writing

Assuming a typing speed of 100 words per minute, it takes 16.67 hours to write 100,000 words.

That’s without stopping to eat, sleep, use the facilities, flex fingers, or fidget in the writer’s hot seat.  It doesn’t include the time needed to come up with a character’s history, their personalities, or their quirks; the antagonist’s driving goal; the overachieving plot of a story; or, most importantly, to do the research that fills in the tiny gaps and makes the narrative more tangible and believable.

Let’s not forget the required rewriting, copy-editing, beta-reading, and polishing to whip a piece into shape.

A novel-length story written in 16.67 hours is most likely going to be a piece of absolute rubbish in the shape of a train-of-consciousness narrative, run-on and endless sentences, self-contradicting two-dimensional characters, unbelievable deus ex machina solutions, and, plot holes that a long-haul truck driver can drive a 24-wheeler through, with plenty of room for the oversize clearance load rumbling along behind them.

I know this because I have evidence in my file folders.  Let me tell you, the smell coming from those file folders is well past downwind sun-warmed rotting fruit and well into bloated-body decomposition while floating merrily along the river.  Nobody wants to read that shit.

Writing isn’t a race. It’s not a matter of how many words are written per minute, how many chapters are finished per day, how many books are completed per week.  It’s getting the story written, which is work, pure and simple.  Like any other job, for it to be done well, the writer has to put in the time.

And it takes time.  Time to come up with believable main characters, relatable evil protagonists, plots that appeal to the heart and outcomes that warm the soul.  Time to sit at a blank screen with a blinking cursor, in search of the battery charger when the laptop power dips below 10%, and to make the life-sustaining tea that’s going to go cold when a moment of inspiration hits.  Time to live life while thinking on how to finish a chapter, to overcome insecurities about a scene, and to find the confidence to release the story into the wild for others to capture and read.

It could take years before a story is finished and shared with others.  It could take a month.  It might never be completed, because the writer broke themselves trying to get to the end.

This is the reality of being a writer, whether it’s published fiction or fan fiction.  Yeah, someone could, in theory, write a whole book in less than 24 hours.  Does that mean it should be?  Is it a book that people would want to read?

(No.  Trust me.  Save yourselves.)

Support your favourite writer with encouragement and patience.  Pushing for more, faster, right away?  It only guarantees your favourite writer will burn out, and you’ll never find out how the story ends.