Wed Aug 8th, 2018
|06:56 pm - Stormy weather, third day in a row|
Another good thing about air conditioning is that it allows one to cook again. Thus on Monday I made a zucchini soup from an online recipe, using some of that chicken stock I so carefully prepared last winter from many a rotisserie chicken. Recipe is just a minimal amount of onion (quarter of a small), minimal garlic (three cloves), sea salt, pepper, lots and lots of zucchini, and some low-fat sour cream at the end. Well, home-made chicken stock helps it, but otherwise it's very bland. OTOH it gets me my veg for the day, of which I haven't been eating nearly enough.
I was doing so well with my shiatsu and my exercises. Had dropped both knee and back braces last week. And then the mug came, muggier than before, and the last four days have been crippledom. Also it has deluged for three of those days: just rains and never stops. OTOH I came into the study this morning to find two little green pills sitting on the mouse pad where I put my meds at breakfast time so as not to take double doses while distracted by FB et al. It seems I was so distracted yesterday morning that I didn't take my anti-inflammatories at all. Which would explain yesterday's state of extreme ow.
Pratchett, Feet of Clay and Jingo. Feet is one of my favourite Watch books, Jingo one of the least.
Christie, After the Funeral and Cards on the Table. All I'd remembered of the latter was the woman who could tell who'd played what card in a game of bridge two weeks ago. I don't play bridge at all, but it still struck me as unlikely.
Did lead to me dreaming a Poirot mystery last night, and I was approaching the denouement and impatiently about to find out who dunnit when someone texted me and the little ping! woke me up.
Nina George, The Little Paris Bookshop on the tablet. May continue with it; may not. The French in it are being very French, and it too strikes me as very unlikely.
Ondaatje, The English Patient, my travelling book. Not light reading for hot weather but might as well read to have read. Also because I can't believe any Canadian novel is *really* heavy reading, though some (Atwood) is so rebarbative as to be a major slog.
Have The Elegance of the Hedgehog, but a quick glance doesn't impress as compelling stuff.
Probably more Pratchett and more Christie except the former is now all hardbacks and I'm running out of the latter.