Tried new fish recipe last night involving what seemed like 30 pounds of butter and now feel as if I'd done nothing last night but drink butter. The fish was supposed to be blackened but using the skillet on the outdoor grill does not lend itself to consistent temperature control. I'm going to have to go back to just grilling the fish directly on the...uh...grill. But I want to eat more fish, and cooking them outside helps with odor control.
Ominous Bink noises from den. Must go check....
Funny how when my wife is one room over I can't hear anything she says and need it repeated but when I'm three rooms away barely paying attention I can hear the slight rustles and scrapes that indicate Bink is doing something he's not supposed to. Most of the day, his activities produce all sorts of approved and regular sounds. Once in a while, though, I hear something like what I just heard. A kind of muffled pulling noise that indicates that somewhere in the house mayhem is afoot. Sure enough, I just found him up on two legs, trying to pull my wife's jacket off of a cabint in her study. He's learned that sometimes she keeps her purse up there, and sometimes her purse contains candy. So anytime he finds anything up there, he tries to pull it off. We're getting better at thwarting him, but when it started he had some pretty nice scores. Once we walked in to find him surrounded by remnants of a plastic bag, the contents of her purse all over the floor, and biscotti crumbs all up in his hair. He'd found it in a bag in her purse and undeterred by the fact that he couldn't open the bag, eaten it along with the biscotti. He looked immensely pleased with himself.
Both the JG Ballard and Gene Wolfe short story collections I've bought frighten me a little. The Wolfe story I read yesterday ("The Island of Dr Death and Other Stories", the collection's title) was pretty upsetting. Now I want to go read Jane Austen, something about propriety where the biggest worries are being cut at the town ball.
When did being 'cut' stop being a thing?