Friday night, I sautéd some tempeh, the fermented soy bean product. Eh. Reminded me of brown rice: tastes like it's good for you, but is a chore. That is not tempeh above; it's a beach rock. On Saturday, I reverted to old standbys and roasted a chicken from a butcher on Court St. Salt, pepper, olive oil, garlic, and rosemary. Sweet potatoes, a black radish, and some sunchokes went with it. That so very good Trappist ale, Chimay Cinq Cents, accompanied nicely. It was a rather small bird, but it served two, and I had a sandwich out of it Sunday, and then again Sunday night, again for two, with radishes and the second bottle of the Chimay. The bones are now simmering for stock, perfuming the home office. The place also smells of cloves, since some very fresh ground cloves went into Saturday’s apple crisp. That is not a chicken bone below, but the heart of a whelk that's been feed on by various things.