Like the churn of the sea in your wake
The snow that was falling this morning did not stick, but I loved seeing it drift through the streetlight. I would like more. We had a quiet day and took the car out in the evening to collect a conveyor-belt quantity of sashimi and maki from Mr. Sushi in Arlington Center.
We took our traditional facing portraits.
In this case of me with dessert on the couch afterward.
Hestia claimed the table in the name of all cats who have not been allowed to drink miso soup.
I had not eaten so much sushi in literally years. There was much eel and avocado and yellowtail and salmon and tuna which I like only when I can get it raw and because the restaurant had run out of red bean mochi, we got mango mochi for dessert which I had not enjoyed recently, either.![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
spatch observed after dinner that our liquor cabinet was celebrating its own first anniversary, having started with his last year's gift to me of Medford rum, and mixed me a nameless cocktail with some of the last of said rum and cranberry liqueur and traces of apple brandy and orange bitters, which we should name after something rustically Massachusetts. Death on the Diamond (1934) is such an early post-Code that the first thing that comes up onscreen is a certificate advertising its approval by the Production Code Administration of the Motion Picture Producers and Distributors of America, but it is otherwise indistinguishable from any of the charmingly rackety B-pictures of earlier in its year when it crowbars a murder plot into the age-old race to the pennant to save the home team, which in this case is the real-life St. Louis Cardinals with an assortment of Hollywood ringers. I believe it to mark the youngest I have seen Robert Young, here the rookie star pitcher who in one of his cutest scenes is very seriously trying to work out a quirk in his windup caught by a profile photo. I am so accustomed to Paul Kelly as a noir silver fox, I was delighted by him as the classically brash redheaded reporter who always has to get the last word. Hestia napped on me as we watched Torn Curtain (1966), speaking of deliberately unromanticized violence. I am tired of so much exhaustion. The days are real and we are real in them.
We took our traditional facing portraits.
In this case of me with dessert on the couch afterward.
Hestia claimed the table in the name of all cats who have not been allowed to drink miso soup.
I had not eaten so much sushi in literally years. There was much eel and avocado and yellowtail and salmon and tuna which I like only when I can get it raw and because the restaurant had run out of red bean mochi, we got mango mochi for dessert which I had not enjoyed recently, either.
spatch observed after dinner that our liquor cabinet was celebrating its own first anniversary, having started with his last year's gift to me of Medford rum, and mixed me a nameless cocktail with some of the last of said rum and cranberry liqueur and traces of apple brandy and orange bitters, which we should name after something rustically Massachusetts. Death on the Diamond (1934) is such an early post-Code that the first thing that comes up onscreen is a certificate advertising its approval by the Production Code Administration of the Motion Picture Producers and Distributors of America, but it is otherwise indistinguishable from any of the charmingly rackety B-pictures of earlier in its year when it crowbars a murder plot into the age-old race to the pennant to save the home team, which in this case is the real-life St. Louis Cardinals with an assortment of Hollywood ringers. I believe it to mark the youngest I have seen Robert Young, here the rookie star pitcher who in one of his cutest scenes is very seriously trying to work out a quirk in his windup caught by a profile photo. I am so accustomed to Paul Kelly as a noir silver fox, I was delighted by him as the classically brash redheaded reporter who always has to get the last word. Hestia napped on me as we watched Torn Curtain (1966), speaking of deliberately unromanticized violence. I am tired of so much exhaustion. The days are real and we are real in them.
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Hestia looks miffed about the miso soup deprivation.
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It is best! I miss my life being such that I could have it often.
Hestia looks miffed about the miso soup deprivation.
We weren't even sure she could digest it! Neither she nor her brother have ever really responded to this argument.