Dover sole, otherwise known in my cottage as fish hash.
But it was so good!
Sorry
there was no blog last night. I had one half written about why some authors
make a lot of money, and I don’t. It had to do with big publishing and
deadlines and pressure vs. the comfort of setting your own deadlines as an
indie publisher, and it referenced a contemporary mystery that has gotten a lot
of buzz, more than I thought it deserved. I decided it sounded like sour
grapes, deleted it, and didn’t have the heart to start over again.
So
here I am on a Friday night. Yes, I’m wearing what I slept in, and yes, I only
faked making the bed, kind of pulling the covers up. Jordan announced everyone
was on their own for dinner, so I took advantage of it. Lazy and laid back. I
sauteed some filet of sole from the freezer—I dislike freezing fish and I can’t
remember what extreme circumstances led me to do it with this, but it was good.
As usual, I cannot get that delicate fish to hold together, and I end up with
fish has that has a delicious flavor but little eye appeal.
Honest,
I was dressed and out this morning, for a podiatrist appointment. When I asked
about my one very puffy foot, he said, “If you were sixteen, I’d be worried. As
it is, you’re good to go.” Cold comfort. Gone are the days of trim ankles and shapely
legs.
This
has been the week that was—a threatened school shooting at the high school (it
came to nothing), a contested election in our neighborhood association (we
never have contested elections), doctors’ appointments, and a lot of Christmas planning and doing. Writing took a back
seat, though I did find some renewed interest in my Helen Corbitt project, and
I saw the covers for three reprints of historical novels that will come out in
2022. I’m trying to ease off deadlines, self-appointed or not, and enjoy the
holidays, so I’m doing some work ahead—my neighborhood newsletter. What that really
means is that I’ve worked hard all day, but I can’t tell you doing what or what
I’ve accomplished.
The evening
is still pleasant though the temperature is supposed to drop dramatically
before morning. Still, tonight I have the patio door open, and a few minutes
ago I heard a small dog barking frantically, without stopping, long enough that
I became concerned. I called a neighbor who I thought lived next door to the
barking dog. Turned out she was at a party with Jordan across the street. Jordan
sent Jacob to look, but the owner was not home, and there was nothing they could
do for the dog. To my relief, it is no longer barking—at least, I hope that’s a
good sign.
Just about
that time, June Bug, the Cavalier spaniel who forgets her house manners, snuck
into the cottage which is forbidden territory for her. Since I was on the phone
with Jordan, I told her—she called Jacob, and he came out to get her. After he
got her back outside, he said, “I’m just going to look around a bit. It smells
really weird in here.” I told him I’d just cooked fish.
All in
all, not a scintillating day, and at not quite nine o’clock, I’m ready to
sleep. Can I blame it on the changing weather?
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