2001-05-02 - 11:40 p.m.
Make no mistake: I had been looking forward to cherrystone clams at Legal Seafood and fried clams chez Phelps and the music at King's Chapel and drinks with an old college friend. That said, had this all still been in my immediate future, I would have been up until 3 a.m. this morning analyzing data and laundering stockings. Instead, I drove to Davis-Kidd and purchased Lord of the Silent and a Ghiradelli bar and picked up a carton of sesame chicken at Chinatown. The Beautiful Young Man read aloud bits of the Waltz Across Texas rally book and the rules for The Presidential Tour while we munched on the chicken, I carried the chocolate and the book to the couch, and went to bed at the relatively sensible hour of 2 a.m.
"Peabody!" The roar was muffled. Emerson was fumbling under the seat for his pipe. He came up red-faced and sputtering. "That theory is absolutely insane."
It's been interesting switching between a zippy compact car and a clunky old Volvo. I'm not used to the Volvo yet - driving it is like trying to dancing in boots that are slightly too large and slightly too heavy after wearing nothing but slippers for the past three months.
In my back yard: giant yellow irises. Wild golden yellow buttercups. Shreds of scattered honeysuckle blossoms. A few sunny dandelion heads that escaped the BYM's most recent mowing.
Tonight I made a soup out of the remaining navy beans, mixing them with some water, tomatoes, thyme, salt, pepper, garlic and pesto. The BYM was appreciative but very quiet: he hates it when animals die, and we'd found out earlier today that one of the sweetest doggies in Detroit had had to be put down last night due to congestive heart failure. As it happened, I'd also gotten word that a kitty I'd known since 1992 died Sunday (also heart failure). So, after dinner, the BYM rinsed and dried two glasses. He poured several mouthfuls of port into each one and we toasted both Quota and Mishka.
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