Taking stock

[desperance]

Making stock, actually: from yesterday's chicken carcase stripped of flesh, plus carrots and leek greens and onion and herbs from the garden and a load of parsley stalks. I foresee soup. Also risotto. (Which these curious people try to pronounce rizoe-toe: it's very odd.)

Eating leftovers tonight, of which we have a variety - not to say a plethora - even leaving the chicken aside. Which I am doing, bar the parson's nose which I am crisping up for a chef's treat. Karen's out to dinner this evening on a work do, so I'm indulging myself.

Writing novel, more or less - but mostly less. This is what I need to fix, because it is most unfux at the moment. At home I have a work habit that's been settled for years now, that gets stuff done: basically a thousand words in the morning, in the Lit & Phil, and then whatever more I can manage after lunch at home. Here I have nothing like that: no Lit & Phil, for a start, and then somehow no time. I need to adjust my routine to American hours, and to someone else. Both these things are hard. At home lunch generally doesn't happen till two o'clock or later; here, Karen comes in about 11.30. Once she's back at work, I have to think about dinner, and generally shop for it: which generally means a long slow walk in the sun, down to El Camino Real. And by the time I get home I'm sun-sodden and craving gin and a book in the back yard; and then Karen's home again at six, where at home I'd be working through till seven or eight. So, yeah. Some adjustments needed. Start earlier, waste less time. Remember I'm a Womble writer.

[Whoops - the breeze from the window just blew the gas out beneath the stockpot. Luckily I'd gone back for another gin, so I noticed it wasn't shimmering any more. Neglected Writer Gassed, Found Dead By Girlfriend - not my favourite headline. Probably I should close the window, but it's so nice to keep the air moving in here. (Why yes, I do write in the kitchen, actually: why do you ask?)]

Snacking on wasabi edamame, among other things. la_marquise_de_ introduced me to wasabi peas, and set up an addiction; owlfish almost cured me of that by introducing me to the chocolate-coated variety. Just in time - or just too late, depending - I have discovered dry-roasted wasabi edamame. I may never leave.

Yearning for the outside: I wanna ride to the ridge where the West commences take my shirt off and sit in the sun and read books by other people. But I kind of have an obligation to write my own. At least I need to get to a thousand words today, before I cry off. Also, I probably need to stay in and keep an eye on the gas.

Watering the lawn, distantly: every now and then I go out and move the sprinkler. I don't always turn it off first. Swift cold showers are invigorating. (Why yes, I did go to boarding school. Why do you ask?)

Listening to turtles. The voice of the turtle shall be heard in the land, but actually mostly what we hear is the sound of movement. Dymphna is about.

Missing the boys. Quite badly, actually.

Medicating this burn on my hand, which is getting worse instead of better. Hey-ho. It's lucky neosporin is my friend.

Comments

[movingfinger]

I think a bike would make your life better there.