So after several glasses of red wine your bloggerfogger forgets all the good lines.
But I remember C’s parting “Aren’t you glad it’s not snowing?” Definetily; let’s hope that North Atlantic current thingie stays churning. C & T were over for dinner. I made fava beans (spring!), boar vindaloo with risotto, & chocolate baby cakes. The boar was a little dry: it’s not as fatty as domesticated pig (hallowed be its name), so watch out. Shame what the industry has done to pig, extracting all its flavor to make the "other tasteless white meat." Buy only locally produced and slaughtered. Then brine. The risotto I've got so down I can do it while holding a three-pronged conversation and drinking Spanish red. And I think I’ll stick to Nigella’s molten chocolate cake recipe from now on; the one I used was from the Times -- not that I followed it strictly -- was only so-so. Sure, I didn’t have any white sugar around and so used brown, but after reading that the bones of horses sent to Barren Island used to be turned into charcoal to filter raw cane juice -- bet you didn't know that sugar refiners were one of NYC's biggest industries pre WWI (remember industry?) -- can you blame me? I haven't figured out what the refiners used the blood for, but really, I don't want to know.
T & C report that I sigh a lot. I don't even notice. Pay it no heed; it's not editorial. It's one of those habits you develop without even realizing it. A sign of living alone, and having no one to watch your back, speakng metaphorically; although, watching your back literally is good too, since it covers the tuck in. Does my ass look fat in this oxford? I think not. But at least I bathe regularly, usually twice a day. Not so eviro there, admittedly. God, I love a shower. That water comes all the way down from the hills through good ol' Water Tunnel No. 3. The sandhogs burrowed it out without us even knowing it. Let us pause to remember them.