In Which Our Heroine Waits To See What Can Be Done

1 November 2004

An even dozen of trick-or-treaters, mostly wide-eyed tiny ones but also one thirteen-year-old dressed as a Playboy bunny. I had some choice words on that subject when I returned to the dinner table.

I managed to make the rhubarb crisp and do the actual cooking of the Spanish rice and the black bean soup (Mark cut up everything but the avocadoes for me so I wouldn't have to stand and do it), and Mark grilled andouille, which is a nice addition to the black bean soup and works as an optional dish to pass around and add, maintaining the soup's vegan integrity. I suspected it might be a right thing in that soup. There are many right choices with that soup. (Take that, total orderings!)

I read Terry Pratchett's Going Postal and Ellis Peters's A Morbid Taste for Bones and Sharon Lee and Steve Miller's Conflict of Honors and the latest issue of Midwest Living. If you get the impression that I spent most of the day under an afghan with a book, you win the prize. I was not being good. I was hurting too much to misbehave.

In forty-five minutes, the chiropractor's office will open, and I will call and see what can be done.

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