Wherever my ouch may take me

I just noticed this, this afternoon, as I drifted through the shops between library and home:

These last many years, when all my physical problems have been focused in my hands and arms, I have written a tedious number of books and stories about people with injured, damaged or absent hands and arms.

Now, this month, when all my hurtie ouch is in my shoulder?

I am suddenly writing about a woman with a ruined shoulder.

Hmm. None of it is deliberate, but none the less. I think I should have a word with my subtext.

In other (foodie) news:

I remembered to shop for pigs' cheeks, and for wasabi peas also.

It seems to me that pigs' cheeks are the perfect shape for confiting - nothing like so awkward as a duck's leg - so they are doing that as we speak.

Tonight, though: tonight I have chicken and sugar-snap risotto, with peashoots. My own peashoots: not the sugar-snaps, which I am growing to maturity for the sake of, y'know, sugar-snaps, but I planted a few rows of regular peas as well, just for the shoots. Plan is that if I snip with care, they should shoot and shoot and keep on shooting: cut'n'come again. (Um. That sentence? Could be read lewdly. Please don't.)

Now I must go and make the stock for the risotto2133333er4444444444444 [that last bit is Barry's comment; he disapproves of stock-making. All those lovely bones, not being given to him...]

Writerly snackage

Sorry, but I've just been struck by giggles. Lined up beneath my monitor here, to help keep me going through the last working hour of the day, are: home made pork scratchings; wasabi peas; saucisson sec; salted grapes (don't ask me, I just bought them from the Chinese supermarket: they look like dusty raisins. I'll let you know); and a tub of mixed olives. Oh, and half a bottle of wine. Oh, reason not the need; our basest beggars are in the poorest things superfluous...