Diary of My Country Life-May 30th, 2026

The original source of this blog: https://www.lotusandmichael.com/blogs/diary-of-my-country-life

05/30/2026 Saturday 53-67F Windy

It’s the end of May.

Most of the Spring flowers fade; it’s the season for honeysuckle, abelia, and lavender.

Lavenders are really cute plants. Each year in Fall, around the mature lavenders, I always can find some baby ones—they sprouted from the seeds dropped from the mother plants. Then I wait till Spring to transplant these seedlings at the border of my flower beds and along the fence. I also tried to expand my lavender troop from the cuttings, but they never grew well and easily died in Summer. So, this self-seeded way works best for me; the only thing I need to do is just be patient, letting Nature manage the formula. Eventually one day lavenders will form all the borders of my house; their fluffy blueish purple flower spikes set against the old red bricks, and the air is filled with their strong aroma, what a lovely scene!

Similar to lavender, salvia, Russian sage, and catmint are also great border plants with purplish flowers. But unfortunately, salvia has no scent and sometimes deer browse the shoots; Russian sage tends to grow too tall like two or three feet so they can easily block the view of the small plants behind them. But Russian sage is very robust, drought-tolerant and is a happy, elegant plant. I like to plant lavender and Russian sage together, let the lavender stand in the front and Russian sage behind, slightly angle them a bit. So, when they both are in bloom, lavender’s darker purple blossoms pop up from the backdrop of Russian sage’s light purple flower cloud, and their scents mingle; it’s something beautiful to see. If there is a cluster of catmint huddling at the foot of the lavender, and also showing purple flowers, with this added third shade of purple, it can be quite a view, the name of which can be: Three Purple Sisters 😂. 

Next week we will be on a road trip—to Outer Banks. We went there twice two years ago, loved the hotel where we stayed at the seaside, and loved the summer vibe—it is a typical beach town for summer vacation or a short stay. Girls wearing bikini walking dogs on the street; the restaurants and bars are piled with customers; grey- or dark-haired people sitting in their convertible cars with tops down; their faces, tanned or pale, shine with a happy glow…

The towns are small; the beach and streets are clean; the food is delicious. With seven hours’ drive, reasonably far enough, we can be in a completely different world for a few days’ dappling in the sea breezes. It’s a place good for emptying your mind as everything seems to be easy-going and everyone likable. 

Just like two years ago there we drove by a restaurant with a big sign saying, “Stack Them High”! For some reason, this sign gave me a very strong impression. I mentioned several times to my husband that one day I must go there and try the food.

“It’s a pancake house,” He simply answered, “you won’t like the food, too sweet to you.”

“I just want to try it.”

“There are several places selling pancakes in our town. If you want, we can go try them anytime.”

“The point is, I only want to try that specific restaurant’s—"stack them high”. So I can pile up my pancakes and let the syrup run over them from head to toe.”

Nothing else my husband could say or do but shrug.

I guess the sign that restaurant did was a big success at least to me, a person who basically doesn’t like sugar and has no sweet tooth at all. Perhaps partially for fun, stack a big pile of pancakes and pour tons of syrup over them, just to please the eyes and make a little fun with my tongue— “What the hell are you doing here?” My tongue would yell, “Get this sweet stuff out of my place!” While I would smirk, “Calm down! No big deal. It’s just a fine crime.”

A fine crime—this makes me think of a similar situation that happened years ago. At that time, my husband and me worked in the same company in Shanghai, and we traveled occasionally to Zhengzhou city, where we usually stayed in the same hotel, and every time for dinner, I ordered the same dish—braised pig blood and offal in oily chili sauce (Mao Xue Wang). The first time I ordered it, my husband was chin-dropped. He couldn’t believe that I would even ever think about eating something so oily, spicy, offally earthy even if just in that particular restaurant. In his opinion, my diet had always been simple and clean and healthy for as long as he knew me; I brain-washed him with all the standards which I set about food. He gaped at me when I gulped the soup while he only took no more than one spoon, asked curiously: “Isn’t this food against all your principles?”

“Sometimes,” I gave him a wink, “it’s OK to do a little fine crime.”

Perhaps this sort of crime is the rebellion to my normal routine, to my forever orderly and disciplined lifestyle. Only after taking occasional breaks, with the delights from self-vengeance, I can renew my system and proceed. 

But I never tried that dish in any other restaurants; just like if I will only eat pancakes once, it has to be in “Stack Them High”—the place where I got that idea first.