When we had a house in Santa Barbara years ago, we weren't here often enough to get to know the microseasons. For instance, July is apparently when the spiders come out. Most don't bother me, because (a) they're either small or of the daddy long legs type; (b) they do a lot of good; and (c) I assume I'm the last thing they want to deal with. That said, the big one that lurks near the garage door opener, where you fumble in the dark for the switch, does cause some consternation. And I'm tired of walking through webs.
"I cleaned up all the webs around the outside of the house," said Adam, while sitting down on the terrace, with numerous webs visible behind him. That's not a dig at his cleaning—getting rid of all the webs would be impossible.
Two nights ago, the spider sitch went up a couple of notches when I found this bad boy on the master bathroom floor, like it owned the place.
It was about an inch and a half long, but it presented larger. It didn't move as I lowered a glass over it, but once the rim touched down, it sped around 360 degrees—maybe once, maybe twice, maybe three times. I've never seen anything move that fast.
Researching online, Adam deduced that it must've been a wind scorpion, a.k.a. a camel spider, sun spider, or solpugid. Don't panic, future houseguests! While the non-spider arachnid can bite, it's not known to be venomous. Still, I wish I had thrown it farther away from the house, rather than right outside the back door. From Desert USA:
Two things are immediately apparent about a solifuge. The first is their sheer speed. They don’t get the name “wind-scorpion” for nothing. They do run like the wind, and on only six of their eight legs at that. [...] Should a solifuge ever stop moving, the second thing you notice is the size of its jaws. These “chelicerae,” as scientists call them, can take up nearly one-third the body length of some species. They have the largest jaws for their size of any terrestrial invertebrate. Each chelicera consists of a fixed upper portion and an articulated bottom joint forming the equivalent of a nutcracker or pair of pliers. Armed with teeth and filled with muscle, they are formidable weapons. Each one moves independently, allowing the solifuge to rip and tear its prey. These are non-venomous animals, but they do so much mechanical damage to their victims, and so quickly, that they don’t need venom.
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In his marvelous cookbook, Six Seasons, chef Joshua McFadden heaps praise on papalo, an herb sometimes called summer cilantro—in part because it won't bolt in summer, the way cilantro will, and also undoubtedly because it shares some of the same soapy flavor. I was tickled to find papalo at the farmer's market, so I made McFadden's salad of cucumbers and herbs in a yogurt dressing. I liked it more than Adam, who thought the papalo overwhelmed everything else. Did I add too much? The recipe calls for "a small handful," and perhaps McFadden has Trumpian hands.
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This O Magazine cover line cracks me up for several reasons. First, the phrase is not "lady part," singular. Lady parts, people! Second, when I saw the line at the physical therapist's office, I thought, It is?! Third, it reminds me of a song title, although in that case it really should be broken up with parentheses: "Your Heart (Is a Lady Part)." Maybe it's a response to Shriekback's "My Spine Is the Bassline"....