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Playing pool and wild darts
Coming home in the evening, I found a mess of random mail waiting for me, but also a print contributor's copy of The Cascadia Subduction Zone 2.4, containing my poem "Ortygia to Trimountaine," and an ARC of A Fantasy Medley 2, containing no work of mine, but a character with my name dies a hideous fictional death in Amanda Downum's "Bone Garden." I won it from her years ago (with a lyrics meme, I believe). It's a doozy. I am quite pleased.
This was a weird timeslip of a weekend—I can remember that on Friday I went on a dinner adventure with![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
derspatchel, audioboy, and Beckie to Asian Gourmet in Concord, which I found via a Cheap Eats review in the Globe and which turns out to serve the best soup dumplings I've had since Grand Sichuan on St. Mark's Place; and that Rob and I spent Saturday evening in and around Harvard Square, which got us a brilliant book haul at the Harvard Book Store, a jar of Louisiana marsh honey from Follow the Honey, and bowls of avgolemono soup from Zoe's so dense, they were basically risotto with a spoon; and last night was Uncle Vanya and this afternoon was a voice lesson and tonight I finally introduced my father to M3 and he pronounced approval on the fried chicken and jalapeño cheese grits; but I have a lot of trouble figuring out when I slept, despite the fact that I know that some of it was quite decent sleep with a cat not being too inconvenient at the door. I finished my Arisia signup. I wrote half a poem. I'm drinking tea. I have a lot of trouble believing it's Monday.
[edit] I forgot the unexpected gift from Sunday. Before the play, we had dinner at Durgin-Park, where I had the richest oyster stew I've ever encountered in my life (okay, my grandmother made one that was basically simmering oysters in milk with butter and pepper, but this was comparable) and the exemplary Indian corn pudding, by the grace of God and our waitress, I don't know what we did to deserve it, came free. While eating the stew, I found a tiny lady's slipper: it must have come in with the oysters. There was still a shred of meat in it. I sucked it out, washed the shell, and wrapped it in Kleenex so I wouldn't lose it. It is now on the shelf in front of my computer. I've found pearls in bouillabaisse mussels before. I like when the sea gives me presents, however it can.
This was a weird timeslip of a weekend—I can remember that on Friday I went on a dinner adventure with
derspatchel, audioboy, and Beckie to Asian Gourmet in Concord, which I found via a Cheap Eats review in the Globe and which turns out to serve the best soup dumplings I've had since Grand Sichuan on St. Mark's Place; and that Rob and I spent Saturday evening in and around Harvard Square, which got us a brilliant book haul at the Harvard Book Store, a jar of Louisiana marsh honey from Follow the Honey, and bowls of avgolemono soup from Zoe's so dense, they were basically risotto with a spoon; and last night was Uncle Vanya and this afternoon was a voice lesson and tonight I finally introduced my father to M3 and he pronounced approval on the fried chicken and jalapeño cheese grits; but I have a lot of trouble figuring out when I slept, despite the fact that I know that some of it was quite decent sleep with a cat not being too inconvenient at the door. I finished my Arisia signup. I wrote half a poem. I'm drinking tea. I have a lot of trouble believing it's Monday.[edit] I forgot the unexpected gift from Sunday. Before the play, we had dinner at Durgin-Park, where I had the richest oyster stew I've ever encountered in my life (okay, my grandmother made one that was basically simmering oysters in milk with butter and pepper, but this was comparable) and the exemplary Indian corn pudding, by the grace of God and our waitress, I don't know what we did to deserve it, came free. While eating the stew, I found a tiny lady's slipper: it must have come in with the oysters. There was still a shred of meat in it. I sucked it out, washed the shell, and wrapped it in Kleenex so I wouldn't lose it. It is now on the shelf in front of my computer. I've found pearls in bouillabaisse mussels before. I like when the sea gives me presents, however it can.
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I'm glad you found decent sleep despite not knowing quite when it happened.
a cat not being too inconvenient at the door
Good on the cat for not being too inconvenient. Cats seem to have some function or symbolism in sleep, I think sometimes. I dreamt last night that someone I love unrequitedly became a cat and sat in my lap, purring and demanding to be petted. It's the second time I've dreamt of her as a cat shape-shifter. I don't know what it means.
a jar of Louisiana marsh honey
Lucky you! All I found in Louisiana last week was sugar. Tasty sugar made from real cane (it's cane harvest season now; there are massive trucks all over the roads in the towns along Bayou Lafourche, and every piece of land big enough to run a combine harvester on seemed to be either planted in cane or full of stubble with egrets hunting through it), but still, only sugar.
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I like contributor's copies and I believe this is the first fictional death I've incurred.
It's the second time I've dreamt of her as a cat shape-shifter. I don't know what it means.
No idea, but it seems you should be able to get a story or a poem out of it.
Tasty sugar made from real cane (it's cane harvest season now; there are massive trucks all over the roads in the towns along Bayou Lafourche, and every piece of land big enough to run a combine harvester on seemed to be either planted in cane or full of stubble with egrets hunting through it), but still, only sugar.
Atchafalaya, which tends to cause Rob to start singing "Pachalafaka." I haven't yet tried it on hot buttered toast, but it goes beautifully with a spoon and some tastebuds.
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I thought that was the definition of an oyster stew?
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Maybe. I suppose I wouldn't mind.
Atchafalaya
Lovely. That's east and south of where I was.
I haven't yet tried it on hot buttered toast, but it goes beautifully with a spoon and some tastebuds.
And well it should. I hope the toast experiment is also successful. I should be very surprised if it's not.
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Regarding characters with your name, between this and the last entry, I feel like I should come up with a Sonya who fares well...
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I have no idea! It could have been made traditionally with onions or potatoes. This one wasn't, which I approved of—sherry in the cream, I think, but that I don't complain about.
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They are all a little smaller than BB shot, so I don't think without embedding them in some kind of framework, but I like them anyway: there are four of them, three from a dinner in 2007 and one from my brother's birthday in August, and they are arranged in front of the green glass fishing float. I've never had one from an actual oyster. I'm sort of waiting.
Regarding characters with your name, between this and the last entry, I feel like I should come up with a Sonya who fares well...
I'm working on it!
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Lovely! We make a roast (or, in rare years when I can talk the rest of my family into it, a goose) and set plum pudding on fire. My father is not a seafood person.
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I have no argument with that.
(I have made oyster stew on my grandmother's model, but not since last winter. Now I'm wondering where I can get oysters on short notice.)
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I expect it is.
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We took eight ounces home.
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Hah. Sure. I'd be honored to be a namesake.
(RED SONJA DOES NOT COUNT.)
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We have enough that we could share spoonfuls tonight, straight. It was a good thing to do.