That actually turned out well...

I don't do much of the cooking around here, which is OK, because Steve is a wonderful cook, and I really don't like to, yanno, cook. Mostly, I like to chop things up -- *quiet over there; yeah, that corner's not as dim as you think* -- and stir stuff. I used to like to make bread, but not so much since my wrists went south and punching the dough down hurts.

Being on my own this weekend meant I had to feed myself. I could, of course, have eaten frozen dinners, but...meh. Yesterday, I sorta compromised and had frozen fish and leftover veggies and rice for dinner. Today, I had to not only come up with something for today's dinner, but also for dinners-to-take-to-work next week.

So I made soup. Soup is actually my Best Trick, because, if done correctly, it involves both chopping and stirring. I happily chopped me a couple of potatoes, threw them into the bottom of the soup pot (already liberally coated with warming olive oil, Italian seasoning, parsley, garlic, black pepper, and allspice), added some onions and sweet peppers from the freezer, and stirred it all around until it looked right.

Then I added chicken broth, a can of mixed carrots and peas (because, really, canned carrots and peas are inedible except in soup), dried mushrooms, a can of cannollini, a couple pieces of frozen chicken. It boiled together for a while, then simmered; getting stirred whenever the mood struck me. I just finished a bowful of the stuff and my was that tasty. And, there's plenty (I always make too much soup, sigh) so lunch next week is pretty much solved.

And, now, back to Chapter Seven.

In which tomorrow is Monday

Is it just me, or does this happen far too frequently?

So, today. I wrote a lot, though not as much as I had hoped -- about 3600 words on the weekend. I'd really wanted to crack 20,000 words, but! Didn't happen. I could press on, I guess, but I really don't think I have another four thousand-odd words in me tonight.

Despite the blow to my vanity, I think the story is moving along well, and I'm still enjoying myself, which is a Good Thing. I'm afraid the folks at the day-job are reaping some of the, um, Writer High, which may not be a Good Thing, but counts as Balance. All fall (Insert Rant: Excuse me -- five searches/one secretary? Hundreds and hundreds of applications to be input/one secretary? Whole weeks where I couldn't work when I got home because my brain was fried and my fingers wouldn't move? And when I ask for help from my supposed boss in admin the answer that comes down is "suck it up"? Sorry, guys, you already used up all of this year's rope, and maybe some of next year's, too -- and it's not even March.) the day-job Ate My Brain. Me, I'd much rather have a story eating my brain, and I'm not going to try to divert it while it's chugging along so nicely, just so I can impersonate a Good Girl.

Well, that was a nice rant, wasn't it? Ahem.

In other news, Steve is for catching the 6:45 Downeaster out of Boston North Station, getting into Portland at approximately 9:10, arriving at the Cat Farm somewhere in the vicinity of 11 p.m. The cats will be happy to see him; I'll be happy to see him, oh, yes. And tomorrow, I'll be short on sleep. At least my lunch is already packed.

Hope everybody had a satisfying and productive weekend.

Progress on Mouse and Dragon:

15,676 / 100,000 (15.7%)

And now -- to the dishes!

Books Read in 2009

Fine Prey, Scott Westerfield
Web Mage, Kelly McCullough
Uhura's Song, Janet Kagan

The cats are tired of waiting

So, says Scrabble, you said Steve would be home today.

I said, says I, that he would be home this evening. It is still, by the clock, this evening.

I, says Scrabble, am being abused, neglected, ignored.

Fine, take it up with Steve when he gets home this evening. I'm the one who was here all weekend.

And a lot of good, says Scrabble, turning around three times in the co-pilot's chair and settling in for a well-deserved nap, you were.
* * * * * *
In other news, I've finished reading Fine Prey (thanks, sleary, and have now printed out a reading copy of Carousel Tides. Since there has been An Indication from the Nice Editor Lady that she'll be wanting some changes, I'd better refresh myself on the story, which I last read in November or December 2006. Between then and now, we've written *mumbles and counts on fingers* four? novels and a buncha short stories, so I'm understandably a little hazy on the details.