Score Zero for the Pomelo

It looks like we're in for a cold, rainy weekend. We had a brief period of spring-like weather, and the sun is definitely brighter, but anything can happen in early March. I don't think we'll get frost and the plants are staying outside.

Olga and I were walking near the cemetery a couple of weeks ago when we noticed the adjacent athletic complex was doing some housecleaning. I showed Dave this picture, and he said, "That scoreboard would be cool to have!" But we weren't industrious enough to go claim it from the dustbin. By now I suppose it has been consigned to the Great Athletic Complex in the Sky.

I think it's a cricket scoreboard. Wickets and overs are crickety things.

I spent all day yesterday shelf-reading, as planned. There is an aspect to my personality that loves organizing and tidying, so I can get into this task. It doesn't bore me at all. I did find several wildly out-of-place books, too, so I felt like I accomplished something -- although a colleague pointed out to me that the eight-graders are due to ravage these same shelves next week when they come in for their non-fiction reading assignment. Everything is impermanent, right?

The other day I had a lot of change in my pocket, so while walking home I stopped at the produce shop in search of something unusual and bought a pomelo. It's a sort of gigantic grapefruit. ("As big as a baby's head," as one of my Peace Corps friends was fond of exclaiming about any large, spherical piece of produce.) It's not something I ate often, even growing up in Florida, where "pomelo" occasionally surfaces as a street name but is rarely seen in the flesh. And now I know why. They're just not very good -- big and pithy and much more bland than a grapefruit. On the rare occasions I've had them in the past I haven't been impressed, and I'm still not. I have to remember that the next time I have an impulse to buy one.