I left the salt out of the bread I baked yesterday - gack argful. Flat. Tongue-weep. Two weeks' bread (busy bee me makes his own bread, lazy me now makes it in 2 week batched and freezes half) that will want sardines every day to sassy up to snuff.
Am re-reading John Crowley's Little Big and am re-enjoying my favorite book. (This retreat into fantasy I offered as a treat to myself after braving Slavoj Žižek's communist critique of the current financial crisis, First as Tragedy, Then as Farce.)
The 3 tunes I am currently most likely to play when I pick up my ukulele are:
I never have asthma or breathing difficulty in my dreams. Don't always remember to wear my pants, but I can breath fine and run fast.
The 2009 wine is coming along very nicely. Bikey's happy. Yard's looking nice. We're peeking over the horizon, out East and into the home of our old age. Sun's at least an hour off, most days. Listen to the mockingbird (Kobblers style, and very definitely not Mr. Lincoln's downer.)
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