Thursday's eve

It is not yet 7pm and it is dark.

That happened fast.

I still feel as though we skipped a month. September. It feels like September. Did anyone else catch it as it flew by? So much is expected, many lines in the water, much waiting - I'm not good at that. Unless it's real water and real fish. But I have never been fishing. I always think I would like it, especially fly fishing. How would I be at thumping the fish on the head? Vincent has a Nick Adamsish story about the trout he caught when he was thirteen and in the French Alps, on a summer mountaineering camp. It was a solitary thing.  He caught it, he cooked it, he ate it, alone. He remembers that trout.

The roof was cold half an hour ago, when I went up to pick greens and tomatoes. A recipe at The Meal Husband caught my fancy and it seems a good way to use my semi ripe and quite green tomatoes, as well as the peppery leaves I collected.

The apartment is warm and for the first time in as long as I can remember this year that is a welcome thing. It smells of vanilla and cream and pastry - I am baking another flan, my version, this time (based on a Roux Brothers lemon tart sans the lemon), with lot of eggs,  lots of cream, some sugar and vanilla. We'll see how the Frenchie likes it. I think I may like it.

And while I blog and wait for the custard to set, I am sipping a pale green Chicago glassful of my new favourite wine, a Spanish Verdejo made by Paso a Paso, $12, and utterly wonderful. It is lightly wooded, which blew me away. I have said forever that I dislike wooded white wine (chardonnay PTSD). I could taste it at once. Actually, not true. I tasted it at sip three, because the first two sips were pure unanalytical enjoyment. The recognition of the wood threw me for a loop.

Tomorrow is Thursday and it feels 100 years away, and I think we have traveled as far since yesterday. I am Thursday's Child.