Any port so long as it's a container port

Little by little, I am containerising this kitchen. It'll be tolerably annoying once it's done, because there will be a lot of taking-this-stack-of-containers-out-to-get-at-the-one-behind; but "tolerably" is the mot juste there. I can tolerate that: and stuff won't get spilled from open bags and packets, and I should be able to find everything. More or less.

In the meantime, we have the fun of buying containers and filling them and labelling them, with a side-order of "will this fit into that, or do I need the larger size?" (I am an appalling judge of relative volume, but I might be getting better.)

The containers-of-choice aren't ideal - two little ones don't fit quite snugly onto one larger one, the way you would expect - but they are cheap and conveniently available at Lucky's around the corner, so.

And the process throws up unexpectednesses. Labelling choices, eg: apparently coriander seed is coriander seed and fennel seed is fennel seed, but mustard seeds (be they black or yellow) are mustard seeds. Despite Shakespeare and everything. Who knew? Also, cumin is just cumin. Unless it's jeera, but that's mostly in my head. I have most of the Indian spices in Hindi in my head, and that's where I try to keep them.

Beginnings

So I wrote all these books, long since vanished: and one by one, I am hopeful that they will all reappear. Two, as we know, have been reissued under the Book View Cafe imprint (and if you were hoping to take advantage of our Dog Days of Summer sale, hold your horses: there's been a technical glitch, and the coupon codes aren't working at the moment).

Now I want to add another. Heroic archaeological work by durham_rambler back in England, scraping data off half a dozen dodgy floppies, has secured an e-text of Dispossession, the third of my urban fantasies from the mid-nineties. Once I've cleaned it up and checked it over, we'll buckle down to all the formatting and so forth. And try to think about a cover, yay. Why do e-books need covers, again? *is baffled*

In the meantime, just as a teaser, for those of you who haven't read the book in other form: this is how it opens. I still like this.

PHILOXENIA


Everyone does this once, at least, or should do:
where you wake up in the wrong bed with the wrong body nestled close, unfamiliar smells on the sheets and in their hair and a beat of blank in your memory before their name comes to mind, a touch of strange where you touch them because their touch is so different to what your skin is used to, what your bones expect. You listen to their breathing as they sleep, and even that's out of kilter with rhythms long established in your head; and you're so, so glad they're still sleeping, because you realise suddenly that you have no idea what colour their open eyes will be, or how your face will look reflected in them.
They say we fall in love to reinforce our own self-image; perhaps we sleep around to do the opposite, to remind ourselves that others see us differently, or can do. That we all have other faces, the possibility of alternate lives.

Whatever, it's a thing that happens, we're not a naturally monogamous species; and once, yes, once is terrific. Once in a while is okay, though you don't want to make a habit of it. But every day, every day I wake up with a stranger.
I'm getting to know her well.

The precise state of play, here'n'now

The banana bread (double chocolate, double dark) is in the oven. The mixing bowl is on the counter, for anyone who wants to lick it (no, Mac, this does not include you; did I mention double chocolate, double dark?). I have a glass of gin beside me; I have a wife in the clubhouse; the yard between is baked with sunshine.

There are many, many things I could be doing, here and elsewhere. I don't care. I have a book; I'm going out.

The precise state of play, redux

There is a well-established way to test whether a cake is cooked. Insert a metal skewer, and if it comes out clean, touch it to your lip to make assurance double sure. If it's hot enough to burn, the cake is cooked.

There's only one problem with this method.

*whimpers*