Cottage Status Report 20250510

The hummingbirds are back, complete with their asshole behaviour, dive-bombing each other to get to the feeder even though there is more than enough to go around. The day after I filled the feeder with pseudo-nectar, I noticed it was down just over half. I blamed bird gluttony until I discovered a pool of sugar water on the steps of the porch. A subsequent examination of the installation revealed it was dripping from the bottom. Sigh.

Despite the various woes of this year’s winter, nothing catastrophic came to pass courtesy of fallen branches and trees. They mostly contained themselves to the back forty, and once the leaves and underbrush fill in, they can molder to their heart’s content without offending any human eyes.

The elements have, however, continued their roof-flashing fatwa. Having successfully stripped it from the front edge of the roof line, they have moved triumphantly on to the sides, leaving swathes of tin dangling like silent windchimes.

I am pleased to announce that all the appliances are working. Even the dishwasher seems to have rid itself of its evil spirit over the off-season. Perhaps all it needed was some quality time sitting in the cold and dark to think about the consequences of its actions (or actually, lack of action).

I must admit I was initially against the notion of a dishwasher at the cottage, because isn’t dishwashing what guests are for? But I caved, while still retaining a healthy amount of guilt. Anyhow, I was pleased to run across an article in The Guardian recently that takes me totally off the hook: “Handwashing generally uses more water than dishwashers, resulting in more greenhouse gas emissions from distribution, but more importantly, more energy use from heating up the water.” So there.

There was a time, long ago and far away, when I kept my idle hands out of trouble by making quilts and crocheting afghans. I was a veritable Etsy-ite. I lost my zeal for quilting when most of them perished in the cottage fire, along with the literal blood and sweat it took to create them. I do still have some handmade afghans floating around, but rather than sparking joy, they mock me with evidence of my crafting incompetence. The one that lives on the back of the couch is particularly rude, flaunting loose ends and unravelled corners. I punish it by making it warm my feet.

The trilliums are out, the lake is calm and spring-lull quiet. All’s right with this tiny perfect corner of the world.