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desperanceThe lamb shanks are mulching down pleasingly with the onions and carrots and celery and mushrooms and garlic and mustard and wine - but shall I be American and serve potatoes alongside, or shall we be French and stick with fresh bread? (There will also be Beans of All Hues, green and pink and speckly: the green will be the hearts of broad or fava beans, bejewelled en cabochon; the pink and speckly are shelling beans, which is basically pulses still in the pod, to be boiled fresh, except for those few that are my own green beans that I left on the plant too long and then dried in a spirit of curiosity, and have now shelled out and soaked overnight to de-dry them. And there might be a little salted buttered kale on the other side.)
And I went out to post some letters and it was just such a gorgeous day* that I kept on going, all the way downtown. Where most places were closed, but not all: so I had a little retail accident and came home with a cookbook. Whoops. I already had one of those, y'know? Possibly more than one.
And my conscience says I should be writing a book, but, y'know. I've already done that too. Possibly more than once.
Apparently California - to its undoubted shame - fails to observe that fine tradition of raining on public holidays. So I am running the garden sprinkler, in a gesture towards what is proper.
And I went out to post some letters and it was just such a gorgeous day* that I kept on going, all the way downtown. Where most places were closed, but not all: so I had a little retail accident and came home with a cookbook. Whoops. I already had one of those, y'know? Possibly more than one.
And my conscience says I should be writing a book, but, y'know. I've already done that too. Possibly more than once.
Apparently California - to its undoubted shame - fails to observe that fine tradition of raining on public holidays. So I am running the garden sprinkler, in a gesture towards what is proper.