‘Twas dark and dreary.. . .

I think those are the first words of a song, probably a Scottish ballad. I can hear them and the voice in my mind. Is it Alex Beaton? Perhaps singing about Glencoe when the Campbells wiped out the Clan of MacDonald? At any rate, the words perfectly describe the day in Fort Worth today, one of the darkest (literally) that I remember. Between bouts of welcome rain, the world has cowered under a thick pad of grey clouds.

It’s the kind of day when your bed calls you back, and if you have the luxury of returning there, you lie still, without moving a muscle, and realize how perfectly comfortable you are. You almost wish you had to pee for that would force you up and out of the bed. It’s the kind of day for reading in bed—if only I had once ever learned to get comfortable reading in bed—it seems my neck is always at the wrong angle.

Same song, 35^th boring verse, but after a weekend of not feeling good, I really do think I’m on the mend this time. Can’t tell for sure, because who feels energetic and full of optimism on a dark and dreary day?

My uncertain stomach has kept me from cooking much, but yesterday I made my first-ever galette. I’m calling it a “cottage galette” because the size of my oven and the instruments limited its size, which is fine. I meant to use nectarines and blueberries but realized I had bought nice firm peaches. They made every bit as fine a dish.

Jordan refuses to eat cooked fruit—no fruit compote, no pies nor shortcake with peaches and cream, none of that good stuff. There’s something wrong with the way I raised my daughter. She won’t eat cooked fruit; her sister doesn’t eat “white” things—no mayo, cream cheese, goat cheese, and so on. When I tell her, she’s missing the good stuff, she sighs and says she knows it. She really wants to like goat cheese because people that do are so crazy about it.

Jordan is away on a business trip, so I thought it was time to use those good summer fruits. I asked Christian if he would eat a galette. When I ask him these questions, he always comes at the answer in a sideways manner. First, we talked about what a galette is. Then he carefully described to me the pies he does and doesn’t eat. No cherry, because the fruit gets sort of slimy—though he does eat the sauce. I wanted to demand what he thought made the cherries slimy? That very sauce he says he eats. Finally, he allowed as how blueberry and peach sounded pretty good. And last night he voted in favor of my galette. A small victory!