I caved in today, and turned on the heat. Wretched woman. I was trying to make it to Halloween. This morning D. put a space heater in my office and I closed the doors. Seneca and I were warm and toasty all morning, but when I went upstairs to change clothes it was only 52 degrees. That’s fine for sleeping under blankets and comforters and fine for working outside, but not fine for ordinary living. Anyway, since company was coming for supper, I had an extra, hospitable reason to fire up the furnace, though I set the thermostat to a cool 63 degrees.
I have been so tired these past few weeks that it has been hard to squeeze out any extra time for blogging. The urge for sleep has replaced the urge to blog, and sleep, in the cool air has become so delicious. I wake up, eat breakfast, and want to go right back to bed. If only I could hibernate for a solid month.
But I can’t, or won’t, so I slog through the days as best I can. I’ve been pleased with my cooking lately, relying handily on things that I’ve learned to make that are easy and that everyone likes. It’s nice to have reached this point, but I would like to consolidate my experience somehow. Maybe this winter I’ll work on organizing my recipes.
Now I can go to bed tonight with Deidre Bair’s biography of either Carl Jung or of Simone De Beauvoir. I’ve actually got the two going simultaneously. Reading about daily life in France during WWII is actually quite comforting. One can survive without hot running water, fuel, new clothes, or meat. De Beauvoir was never so happy as when she was given a giant sack of potatoes to get her through one particularly frigid winter. She felt positively rich. This afternoon I scrubbed, oiled and salted my potatoes and popped them into oven with imagination-infused fresh respect.
9:33:05 PM 
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