It is hard to believe, on this cold and foggy morning, that tomorrow I will be on my way to Boston, and on the day after, Insha’Allah,  I will be in Provincetown.

So much to do between now and then. I have a pile to get through at work, and my personal to-do list is growing exponentially.

Now I must boogie, find my wallet and keys, and move the car to avoid a $50 street-sweeping ticket.

The other oddity is that my pleasant date of Monday night text-messaged me Tuesday morning to say that he had a great time.  I e-mailed him back later that day (my phone is so old that texting is impracticable), and he hasn't responded.  Perhaps it's just that the young are easily distracted...

Farmers’ market report: green beans, corn, a hen, a tiny cabbage, yellow peaches, and dahlias.

After the market, I had a quick workout and then went with a pal to Black Sands Beach. It was very hot in the City, but not too bad at the beach. We saw a lot of pelicans and a number of wandering male naturists.

We both were in the mood for caipirinhas, so we went back to my place, had refreshing showers (and gingerly removed our clothes to avoid the possibility of spreading poison oak everywhere). Caipirinhnas are my favorite drink for hot weather. I made a quick dinner of a spatch-cocked chicken, green beans (dressed in olive oil and sea salt), and coleslaw. We had pralines for dessert. It was one of those rare, warm nights where we could sit with the doors and windows wide open. This lead to an unexpected (but chaste) sleepover.

I was a whirlwind of energy this morning: vacuuming, cleaning, laundering, shopping, working out, and finishing off a long-delayed school project. Another monkey off my back.

It's a new moon, so get started.

Well, it has been a long but pleasant weekend. I’m finally relaxed. We decided to stay up in Sonoma one more night. This means we’ll have to get up very early to drive down to the City to make it to work on time. I’m not cooking tonight. I’ve been working this afternoon on stuff I brought with me. I can’t afford to take two days off without pay.  Criminey. I don’t even want to think about it.

Farmers’ market report: a fine fat hen from Hoffman, skirt steak, a rack of lamb, English (shelling) peas, green beans, a half-flat of peaches, a yellow watermelon, basil, parsley, other herbs, squash of various sorts, eggplant, cherry and other small tomatoes, eggs, red onions, fresh garlic, and so forth.

We sat in a ton of traffic coming up here.  I was still buzzing from my manic phase, so I got quite antsy.  A nice outdoor shower chilled me out.  I’ve been cooking up a storm.  Saturday night I made corn on the cob, a chicken and green bean paella over an open fire (the only way), and a blueberry cobbler. As soon as I arrived, I cut up the chicken and used the carcass to make a little broth. We went next door to inspect the construction site (a new house) and I made everyone gather up scraps of wood (untreated) so that I could build my fire. I will have pictures of the paella later.  It was good. It had the lovely little smoky flavor I was hoping for.

On Sunday I made a potato salad with a shalloty dressing, grilled skirt steak with a lemony compound butter,  tat soi, and a meringue confection—something like a layered Pavlova or a stacked trifle (layers of Pavlova meringue, custard, strawberries and blueberries and whipped cream). 

On Monday I made a pesto lasagna (I even rolled out the pasta dough by hand), and then grilled the rack of lamb and made a little ratatouille with tomato confit and more green beans. I made a peach tart.

In between, I tanned, went for a swim in the neighbor’s pool (which is bordered by a ten-foot-high wall of star jasmine. It smelled like heaven), had a beer or two, read self-help books (Apartment Therapy and The Velvet Rage) and had an episode of micturation syncope (I fainted in the bathroom after peeing). I suppose this last means that I’ll have visit my cute gay doctor.

It’s a manic morning. I woke up early, itching to leave for Sonoma. I packed, paid the bills, cleaned the kitchen, had breakfast, picked a bunch of sweet peas from my window box, and decided to deal with the sour cherries.  I trimmed each stem to an elegant length and pricked each one once with a pin.  A little sugar, a big glug of vodka and it was done.  I’ll shake it occasionally over the next week until the sugar has dissolved.  The vodka will gradually turn a beautiful carnelian red. And I’ll have a little summery treat all winter long.