Black Dogs, Writing Weather

It’s closer to noon than to dawn, and the kids are still in bed, the dogs refuse to walk after their “harrowing” two mile hike yesterday, and a light rain is falling.  I’m sitting in view of Lake Superior.  The room is dark, warm, and wood paneled.

Last night it was lake trout, pan seared, and Icelandic salmon, oven roasted, with the usual: Ramps, asparagus, and–bonus–Armenian cukes diced.

With the dogs refusing to budge, it seems likely that we’ll be holed up here most of the day.  I’m editing the book on chefs, down to the last chapter of this 5th edit, and while I like the “Goodfellas” pace of the final pages, there is a V.I.P. who wants less.  I’ll try to do this.

Meanwhile, the belly lox satisfied, the pastrami and corned beef await, and tonight: Skirt on the grill.

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