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So it's twenty past seven, and I could stop now. I could set the oven to bake the pie, and I could watch the documentary about Edward Elgar and generally wind down at the back end of a day where I did at least get some writing done.
Or I could keep writing. I could finish this bottle of wine, and perhaps have a little snack*, and notch up another few hundred words before nine o'clock, after which I could watch a recording of the documentary and eat pie and feel more virtuously virtuous. Hmm...
*Roasted marrow on toast, people. Yesterday it was fresh from the oven, spread on natural toast; today it's cold, and I have a new technique. Toast one side of the bread, slather cold marrow across the untoasted side, stick that under the grill until toasty. It brings out the malty nature of the bread somehow (this is sourdough, into which I worked just a tad of malt syrup), which sings in harmony with the meaty/fatty nature of the marrow, and blesses the scatter of crunchy salt across the top.
Or I could keep writing. I could finish this bottle of wine, and perhaps have a little snack*, and notch up another few hundred words before nine o'clock, after which I could watch a recording of the documentary and eat pie and feel more virtuously virtuous. Hmm...
*Roasted marrow on toast, people. Yesterday it was fresh from the oven, spread on natural toast; today it's cold, and I have a new technique. Toast one side of the bread, slather cold marrow across the untoasted side, stick that under the grill until toasty. It brings out the malty nature of the bread somehow (this is sourdough, into which I worked just a tad of malt syrup), which sings in harmony with the meaty/fatty nature of the marrow, and blesses the scatter of crunchy salt across the top.