The temperature has dropped close to twenty degrees in a few days. Right now it's 14C, which is slightly chilly. High of 23. It's glorious. The windows are open and I'm basking. It feels like fall, which is my favourite season- warm days, cool nights.
I feel off heavy reading right now. We've had two weeks of illness and sleep deprivation and I've been reading bits of Lark Rise (and rejoicing that I was not born in a rural community in England pre-WWI), which is interesting but not much like a story- it's so full of detail about life that it's almost like a textbook on Oxfordshire customs. Geoff would like me to read Neverwhere- I notice it's been placed on top of my to-read pile, and I should finish Last Child in the Woods, although I stopped reading it because I felt a bit, "Yes, having kids outside is good. Yes, here's another study. Yes, immersion in nature does good things we don't really understand. Okay, anything else?". Maybe I'll just do re-reading until I feel up to tackling another novel.
I've been thinking about this article about eating what you love, and not pretending. Learning to taste. Learning what you like to taste. I think the things I love most are bread, cheese, onions, garlic, and things that have been roasted or deep fried until they caramelize. I love Maillard reactions. I love the edge of sweet and savoury that leans in the direction of bitter but doesn't get there. I love real fries. These loves are not shared by my household, who love bread and peanut butter, crackers, fruit, and anything that isn't like a proper cooked dinner. Actually, that's just Nat. Thomas is passionately fond of pasta, Geoff of sushi and salad, and the girls will eat anything that's been put on the table where they aren't supposed to be able to reach it.