I should be writing. My Christmas bread dough is rising. Don't ask. There's a white salad to make. It's a beautiful day. And I have the unmistakable signs of a bloody cold. Heavy head. Sneeze. Throat. Flush. Perhaps flu. *&$$!*&! I don't know when last I had one. I think I always say that. Talking about one's own cold. Never a good sign. And before our beautiful blue day tomorrow.
Vince is out running his 30-something kilometers. You might see him, up the East River and the down then Hudson. He can't get my cold. I hope he hasn't, already.
I forgot to wash my hands when I came in from shopping yesterday. It was either from the produce I picked up or the lady who bagged my groceries or on the lovely roses from the Flower District, brought back to her Red Hook studio for me by the lovely Denise who blogs at the Little Pheasant and whose cool space was absolutely stuffed with floral arrangements for two weddings this weekend.
I always wash my hands. I must have been distracted by their scent. Gr.
So I went out to the terrace to pick thyme for thyme tea packed full of thymol and then became distracted by the president and his entourage flying back and forth.
The marines coming to fetch him.
There goes the president in Marine One, mit decoy.
Back go the marines.
I'll be good now. Third draft of July and August. And punch the dough down and add fruit. And the white salad. And pictures of both.