beetiger

sythyry cooked me one of my favorite dishes last night, a concoction which goes by the local name "Dread Potatoes". It's potatoes and zucchini, spiced with whole mustard and cumin and turmeric till it's a nice festive yellow-brown. It's good to eat hot or cold, and it reminds me of the early days of our relationship, packed in lunchboxes on trains on the way to and from Boston, eaten in the station in Washington, DC on the way to what may or may not have been some political action, I don't remember. I only remember the potatoes.

I rewarded him by promptly falling asleep. I think I feel somewhat better now.

This morning, I had trouble pulling out of my garage, scraping the side of my car against the side of the door a bit. I really am not sure how I manage to drive at all with such a hideously defective spatial sense as I have. A truck in front of me on Route 84 kept spitting plastic bags at me for a mile or two, turning someone's noble attempts at recycling into highway garbage yet again. And although the giant CD of music

lediva gave me for a Valentine has 144 selections on it, my random shuffler seems to have decided that I really, really need to listen to Psychoactive Summer a lot, and keeps choosing it.