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The late Dorothy Dunnett used to say that she'd get to the end of a Lymond and feel that she was honestly not quite done yet: so she'd write a Johnson Johnson mystery in the next six or seven weeks, just to wrap up.

I first heard this Before Internets, and the notion of someone writing a whole book so quickly, just to give herself a break from the other books she wrote... I was hornswoggled, I was. Now of course my inbox is full of people who write that quickly and relentlessly, and I'm almost blase about other people's process, and like that.

This morning, after yesterday? I thought I'd be quite done with cooking for a bit. I thought I'd let m'lady wife take me out to dinner.

This afternoon, as we know, I started rendering beef suet. Not with any aim in mind, just because.

This evening? I am cooking the Côôôôq au Vin that I neglected to cook yesterday, and the second Spotted Dog, and potatoes in the oven, and... Yeah. Because it's m'wife and me and we have a thing to celebrate, and just because it's m'wife and me. Oh, and anyone else who turns up, but that's not obligatory tonight. This is a quick contemporary meal to follow the great historical feast, and if I choose to follow a historical recipe, so what?

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