* people's definitions of easy recipes make me despair. Easy if you have access to MAGGI® Mutton Bouillon cubes, which I have never seen, or Arabic seven spices (which differs from the Chinese like this), or a "meat electric mincer". I only wish I had a meat mincer of any description, because Happy Pig has a store on Bloor where they sell Happy Pig ends for much less than the sliced version, and I could make that party dish of my childhood, ham salad sandwiches, if only I had a meat grinder.
Feeling much better, walked and shopped on Bloor yesterday- then napped- but. Brain has not recovered. Spent several hours Tuesday forcing myself through Raising Steam to little avail, which is not how I normally read Pratchett. Cannot help feeling frissons of Everything Going Wrong and am not reassured by knowledge that it will all turn out in the end, because it does in Pratchett but doesn't elsewhere.
Gave up and read a late Noel Streatfeild instead, The Growing Summer. Streatfeild, illustrations by Ardizzone: does anything say 1950s English kidlit- what we had in TO in that decade: am surprised anew every time I remember how British a place it was- more clearly than that? Even though it was written in '66. Then googled. My notion of Streatfeild's age was off by two decades: she wrote that one in her 70s. Hell, she wrote Ballet Shoes for Anna at pushing 80. Formidable, as the French say. I was pleased by this family of serious and responsible children where the olders seriously and responsibly take care of the youngers even before upheavals happen: and kerblonxed by the attitude of the adults around them that they're spoiled irresponsible brats. Thankless task, being an English child fifty years ago, she sighs. Mind, there's a truly spoiled brat included to suggest the adults are quite wrong, but even so.