Domestica, Harlem

Above, a cider cocktail (Bear Talk, from the book - p.27 - for me) and a funny invention, as we're scraping the bottom of the liquor tray, so to speak: Cointreau, shaken up with ruby grapefruit and lime juice, for the Frenchman, who is drowningnursing a cold. What should we call it? The Triple C? One x Cointreau and two x Vitamin C?

Thanks to a little row of under-cabinet LED lights (recommended by a reader, Kohler - thank you!), the lighting situation in the kitchen is improving. I can now actually see the kitchen counter. Before, I had no idea if it was wet or dry, clean or dirty unless I switched on the cold overhead puck lights. All better, now.

Now I have to sort out the books, still littering the bedroom in boxes. Faulkner and cookbooks and wildflower field guides are mixed together. Vince packed the boxes for weight rather than subject matter. Our large book case does not really work here because a) it was custom-built for the previous, tiny apartment, and b) there are long floor heaters at the bottom of the walls in this high-ceilinged place, and the hot air is not great for books.

I must figure something out.