You'll always find me in the kitchen on Mondays

[desperance]

It's a holiday here: Labor Day, I believe. Some pinko commie celebration: just what you'd expect, really. Our yard guy is hard at work outside the house (making me feel guilty in all possible directions all at once, because really I should be doing that stuff, mowing the grass and so forth, I could do that; but then I'd be taking work from someone who needs it, and it is the business of the wealthy man to give employment to the artisan, and so forth; but I feel trapped for an hour inside my own house, and I hate that; and, and, and) and Karen and I are both doing our own work at opposite ends of the house, in our own separate studies.

Actually an hour ago I was thinking, "Maybe I could declare this a day off?" I've been up since six, and I am making sourdough bread and fed m'beloved and myself on French toast with bacon and put together a slow-cooker stew of lamb shanks and many veggies in a sauce of red wine and mustard lifted with a little balsamic, and basically I spent all morning in the kitchen when I wasn't out shopping; but then I had to open TextMaker to give me access to a pound sign (this here US keyboard doesn't seem to have one, can you believe it?) and while I was there I thought I might as well take a look at something I'm writing, and... Yeah. Not a day off, then.

Though there is something terribly tempting about it, when you open a bottle of wine before midday. I put a judicious cupful into the slow cooker, and a judicious stopper into the bottle. Not before five on a workday. Harrumph.

Also, boys are cute in boxes. I'm just sayin'.



(Barry observes that he is not at all cute, no sir, he is a furocious predator, possibly lying in ambush; and I totally did not see him earlier skittering about with a rolled-up ball of paper. That must have been some other idiot cat. Barry was undoubtedly sleeping at the time, as any sensible predator would be. Conserving his power. Yes.)

Comments

[movingfinger]

I did a bit of gardening after breakfast and now, conscience at ease, am sipping a G&T under the garden umbrella, because it is still summer, and the birds are tweeting, and the sun is out, and the neighbors' cat is sprawled like a sultan inspecting the garden (several of his cat caves have been tidied, but he'll get over it).

The street reeks of lighter fluid, but we will be putting something on the gas grill later to observe the holiday in the prescribed manner.

There was a great study awhile back in which (this was just before micro-tracking devices) scientists observed animals to figure out how they spent their time, and "resting," "napping," "sleeping," and misc. hanging around occupied most of the big cats' days.

[desperance]

I could totally be a cat, if only I was better at sleeping. Barry regards me with a withering eye, as I slip out of bed in the early-early, and then curls up a little tighter, a little closer to Karen...

[movingfinger]

Getting up early isn't unheard of around here; someone has to check on the food situation and make a timely complaint if said situation is unacceptable. Or a protest, in which a great deal too much water is drunk and then regurgitated explosively.