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Yesterday was a total washout, literally. Monday night was a nuit blanche interrupted by rolling thunderstorms, so I read until 4 and slept in to headachy noon. It continued to storm and deluge all day and especially into the evening, as the temps dropped from Monday's muggy 20C to something more seasonable overnight. Had the heat on when I went to bed because we were hitting 4C by morning. Today, well, got up to Loblaws for milk and such, bundled up garbage for tomorrow's pickup, and made zucchini fritters. I'd grated the zucchini and potatoes yesterday with my *extremely* achy elbows-- apparently pressure changes and damp are registered in the arms now-- and tried to squeeze out the moisture through the cheesecloth I bought on the weekend. Discover that kitchen scissors and nail scissors will not cut cheesecloth. Shoved the mixture into a tupperware and had something else for dinner. Today I used a linen tea towel and that worked fine, but the carrot I was going to add had gone rubbery unpeelable and ungratable. Tossed that, added soupçon of flour and egg to the mix, and fried them up. Passable, but if I ever do this again will definitely add onion. And maybe baking soda like they say, to make the things lighter.
Have had a Dr Priestley on the go since forever and still not finished it. I want country house murders and this is about a syndicate that steals stuff. Finished Cabell's The High Place, wondering why I still read Cabell and his extremely unlikeable protagonists, a murderer in this case, as well as a horndog like *every last one of his male characters.* There's a name for why I'm doing it, which I suspect is masochism. 'My critics think I am an enemy to marriage,' James whines. 'As a married man, I take exception to this.' Yeah well, all the guys you write can't stand their wives and go around having it off with any nubile thing available, so no wonder. I need to stop reading male authors, is what.
Have had a Dr Priestley on the go since forever and still not finished it. I want country house murders and this is about a syndicate that steals stuff. Finished Cabell's The High Place, wondering why I still read Cabell and his extremely unlikeable protagonists, a murderer in this case, as well as a horndog like *every last one of his male characters.* There's a name for why I'm doing it, which I suspect is masochism. 'My critics think I am an enemy to marriage,' James whines. 'As a married man, I take exception to this.' Yeah well, all the guys you write can't stand their wives and go around having it off with any nubile thing available, so no wonder. I need to stop reading male authors, is what.