aamcnamara

acorn bread

The leftover acorn meal I had in my fridge had gone moldy! Ah well. Fortunately I had acorns left over from last time, so I ground those up, leached them, dried them, and yesterday made a loaf of ... well it's mainly white bread--three cups white flour--but also a cup of acorn meal. So I am going to call it acorn bread, the same way you call a thing banana bread even though it's not mainly bananas.

Behold its majesty!

I still have leftover meal from this batch of acorns, but I will not make the same mistake twice by letting it linger. I intend to make acorn pancakes, or perhaps I'll use it to make some kind of meatballs or fish cakes.

Açaí

Or asaí, as they spell in in Colombia. We in America use the Brazilian (i.e., Portuguese) spelling. In Tikuna it's waira.

Açaí juice (wairachiim) is so beloved in the Amazon. And with reason--it's GREAT. Drink it sweetened, and with fariña, and it's a real pick-me-up:

The Açaí palms are very tall and very skinny. Traditionally, harvesting the berries involves a not-very-heavy person shimmying up the palm with a knife and cutting off the bunches of berries, as in the YouTube short below. (I say traditionally because in some parts of Brazil I think there are now large plantations, and they may have a mechanized way of doing this. But still--I gather--many many people do it the unmechanized way.)

The video specifies Brazil, but it'll be true anywhere that açai grows

My tutor's dad does this. Here's a picture not of her dad but of her boyfriend with a bunch of berries--gives a sense of how big they are:

And the process of making the juice is really labor intensive too. Here's my tutor's mom pounding it. You add water as you go along:

This year the river has really risen high, and in talking about it, my tutor said her dad had been able to go out in canoe and collect the asaí really easily. And I was thinking... wait... you mean the river's risen so high that he's up near the top of the trees? Is that what she's telling me?

I wasn't sure, so I did this picture in MS word (b/c I have no digital drawing tools) and sent it to her and asked, You mean like this?

And she said, "Yes, exactly."

Mind = blown.

Current Music: Max Pizzolante: La gente quiere calle

sartorias

It'a tough to engage with the world and its events when the media largely pursues a bread-and-circuses approach in order to catch attention. I realize that that attitude doesn't come out of nowhere, that human beings do turn to look and linger at a crash site.

But it does no good whatsoever for anyone to feel my heart tearing in pieces over any news coming out of Washington DC, either engendered by the assclowns currently infesting governmental centers, or in the environs (the recent shooting) so my intention to ostrich becomes more vigorous. What's more, the spouse, who usually watches the news every waking moment, even turned off the yatter yesterday.

I try to fill my time with purpose and pleasure that harms no one. Plan things I hope will bring pleasure to others, like: my sister's seventieth is coming up. I took a slew of our old super eight films to a place to get them converted and color corrected, to surprise her with--I hope. One of those super-eights is from 1948, when the parents' generation were all young, all those voices gone now. Most of the films are from the sixties and early seventies, before my parents split; then they start up again in the eighties with my spouse having bought us a camera.

It's going to take time to convert that stuff--the small box I chose will be just under a grand. Phew. But I've been waiting years for the price to come down, and I figure I daren't wait any longer.

In just for me, I'm busy reworking some very early stories. And realizing that ostriching was a defense mechanism that started in when I was very young, coming out in my passion for escape-reading and for storytelling.

The storytelling urge was very nearly a physical reaction,a kind of invisible claw right behind my ribs, partly that urge, and partly a shiver of anticipation. I can remember it very clearly when I was six years old, in first grade. I already knew how to read, but that was the grade in which public schools in LA taught reading, so I got to sit by myself and draw while the others were taught the alphabet and phonics. Writing stories was laborious, and I got frustrated easily if I didn't know how to spell a word, but I learned fast that adults only had about three words' of patience in them before they chased me off with a "Go play!" or, if I was especially mosquito-ish, "Go clean your room!" or "Wash the dishes!" (That started when I turned 7)

But drawing was easy, and I could narrate to myself as I illustrated the main events. So I did that over and over as the other kids struggled thru Dick and Jane. This became habit, and gave me a focus away from the social evolution of cliques--I do recall trying to make myself follow the alpha girl of that year (also teacher's pet, especially the following year) but I found her interests so boring I went back to my own pursuits.

I do remember not liking the times between stories; I was happiest when the images began flowing, but I never really pondered what that urge was. It was just there. I knew that most didn't have it, and for the most part I was content to entertain myself, except when we had to read our efforts aloud in class, there was an intense gratification if, IF, one could truly catch the attention of the others and please them as well as self. I remember fourth grade, the two class storytellers were self and a boy named Craig. His were much funnier than any of my efforts. Mine got wild with fantasy, which teachers frowned on. I tried to write funny and discovered that it was HARD. It seemed to come without effort to Craig.

In junior high, I finally found a tiny coterie of fellow nerds who like writing, and we shared stories back and forth. Waiting for a friend to come back after reading one and give her reactions made the perils of junior high worth enduring. One of those friends died a couple summers ago, and left her notebooks to me. In eighth/ninth grade, she wrote a Mary Sue self-insert about the Beatles. I have it now--it breathes innocence, and the air of the mid sixties. Maybe I ought to type it up and put it up at A03. I think she'd like it to find an audience, even if it's as small an audience as our tiny group back then.

Anyway, a day is a great day if I have a satisfying project to work on...and I don't have to hear a certain name, which is ALWAYS reprehensible. Always. And yet has a following. But...humans do linger to look at the tcrash site.

jazzfish

I'm in Minneapolis with Steph and two round cats, and the sun is shining.

I flew through Saskatoon this time, for reasons that escape me but probably had to do with it being half the price of a direct flight. The flight to Saskatoon was pretty full; Sask-Mpls had somewhere under forty people (I counted), on a 32x6-seat plane.

Having no one else in your row in economy feels positively luxurious.

I've some homework to do today, and some to do in the next few days. I promised to make banana bread today as well. Mostly I'm enjoying the sunshine and the company.

LUCAS: You know, I think things are gonna be alright now, Joe.
JOE: Oh? And what makes you think that?
LUCAS: Who knows where thoughts come from? They just appear.
--Empire Records

sartorias

I've been snowed by various loads of stuff, including reading subs for Viable Paradise's workshop in October. My reading has been sporadic, and usually language-related. Like, I'm making my glacial way through a really good biography of Liselotte von her Pfalz, which is in German. I'm reading French comics, and so on and so on.

But! When I lumber this old bod out for daily steps, I listen to audiobooks. I've been making my way through T. Kingfisher's stories, and enjoyed them, but took a break for a real delight called RAVENMASTER, by Christopher Skaife. He wrote about his job as Ravenmaster at the Tower of London.

I'm sure the printed book is just fine--it's vigorously written, full of all kinds of facts as well as legends, etc, and sprinkled with humor. But I highly recommend the audio book, which he narrated. He has a great voice, which adds to the sheer delight. I wish it was longer.

OK, back to work trying to crawl back into my twelve-year-old headspace so I can finish a project that has been hanging fire for too many years.

boxofdelights posting in

wiscon

These #WisCon panels still need panelists:

We've lost some people and are looking for panelists on the below:

May 23 Fri7:00-7:45pm | Breathe the Pressure: Burnout and Recovery for Creatives

May 24 Sat10:00-10:45am | Pathways to Publishing

May 24 Sat4:00-4:45pm | Small Press Publishing

Please email Panels@WisCon.sf3.org if you are able to participate!

jazzfish

Okay well that was extremely not fun and I am gonna vote for not doing it again, as soon as I figure out what it was and how to not do it.

Three weeks? Two and a half. Whatever. I spent another week or so recovering from covid. I honestly don't know if I'm fully recovered even yet: Shortness Of Breath is still a thing. As is Tires Easily, but, well. I spent the entirety of last week and probably a little more in a depressive episode. Bit of chicken and egg there, or vicious cycle maybe. Lots of sitting on the couch not doing anything, including classwork (finished the assignment by yelling at myself a lot, and I'm not particularly happy with it but at least it's done).

Putting Myself Out There is, it turns out, a reliable depression trigger. Dating, brand-new social situations, writing submissions... and jobhunting is perhaps the worst case for this. Against my best efforts I absorbed a lot of "if you don't support yourself then no one will ever love you" messages growning up. So jobhunting is just a desperate quest for external validation with extra steps. Jobhunting while not having a job, and in a brand-new-to-me field while the economy circles the drain, is just depression-fuel icing on the depression-fuel cake.

I try the normal things and mostly they're just more difficult and less fulfilling. Got a little sun, until it started clouding and raining in the middle of the week. Staying on top of ishes / apartment-tidying was more or less a lost cause. I went out to role-playing on Saturday but that didn't shake it either. It lifted, more or less, Saturday night or Sunday, and on Sunday I went over to Noel's for a full day of boardgaming and that was actually quite good.

My depression is very clearly situational and triggered, so I keep thinking I can manage it by managing my situations. That's of course not possible, not fully. And when it hits me it knocks me out -so- hard. Once job etc is sorted I am gonna have to look into pharmaceutical intervention.

Need to take my last midterm tomorrow; been reviewing notes etc today EDIT or I could just knock it out right now, that was not too terrible /EDIT. Need to wrap up the practicum stuff as well but there's no huge rush on that. Maybe this coming week.

Bah.

shadaras

I think like half the reason I'm posting because I'm like "oh good I don't need to write a real post about first two episodes of the Murderbot show, I can just point at

hafnia's post and go: yes! that!"

(The show's good, I'm delighted by the vibe of it, the overall aesthetic is excellent and I love all the characters. Looking forward to seeing more <3)

Other things:

auctionsasthreatened is a fandom event (technically a multifandom fanwork exchange) that is taking all the mental/social energy I have to spare and I'm not even doing much for it. xD But it's fun! Love to see everyone get enthusiastic about making things for people! Love the lack of anonymity that means potential creators can squee about a creator's requests with the creator! Love the general atmosphere of "here is an excuse to make friends"!

It's starting to get warm enough that I'm like "curses I must debate the merits of blankets (weight/pressure) versus the drawbacks of blankets (overheating)". This is simply the way spring-into-summer works, I have solutions, I will also whine dramatically about it for like a month until my body adjusts.

Yesterday at aikido, during test prep class, I was challenged to actually remember all five of the koshinage we learn. (which, like: often people only learn one or two! but I was taught five, so!) Two of them are easy (in that we practice them ever), but three of them like... never come up without someone specifically asking about them. (I remembered one and half-remembered the other two, which is about what I expected.)

The thing about one of them (ko-goshi) is that it's exactly like o-goshi except that instead of doing it around the waist you do it around the neck. (This means that it's really easy to do if you know o-goshi? Because there's a basic throw, iriminage, that gets you basically into position; you just gotta move where your body is so that uke goes over your hips instead of taking a straight fall back.) I remember learning this and whining about it because I do not like throws that care about the neck like that! I also did it in my shodan test because I ended up in the right position and was like "well, I do know this, and I know my uke will gleefully take the ukemi". And then I haven't really done it since? But it's right there in my body still, so easy to do, and the thing I'm like "huh" about is that apparently doing it no longer makes my brain make sad stressed whiny noises? Which is nice! But idk when or why that changed/happened.

asakiyume

The first woman

At an intersection in my father's town, there was a woman with multiple signs. She cycled through them, holding them up. One said something along the lines of don't-throw-away-the-constitition, another said something like no-grift-jets. There was another relating somehow to 9-11. Her clothing made me think of a bee or a hornet: she had on a black T-shirt, a yellow jacket tied around her waist, a yellow baseball cap, tawny shouder-length hair, pale-ish freckled skin.

"You have a lot of signs there," I said.

"Oh, these are nothing. I have like twenty at home."

"Do you come here every weekend?"

"Every Tuesday. And sometimes on the weekends. And yes, I have a job! Sometimes people shout that at me, 'Get a job.' I'm a physical therapist. And a swimmer. After I finish here, I'm going to swim a mile."

"Wow," I said. "I couldn't swim a mile" (vast understatement).

"Yep. I'm going to be in a competition in a few weeks. A two-mile swim. I've got stamina and endurance. I'm perfect for this." She indicated herself, the signs.

The second woman

The second one was more like a flower. She had a magenta T-shirt and bright violet-purple hair cropped close to her head, and dark brown skin. She was with a boy with undyed hair. I saw them walking up one side of a street when I was walking down the other side, and then I saw them again when we were both going the opposite way, and a third time when I was in my car and they were waiting for a bus.

If we'd been walking on the same side of the street, and if it seemed like she wouldn't mind a random remark from a stranger, and if I had a surfeit of temerity, I would have told her how much I loved her hair. But we weren't. So I just enjoyed her hair and T-shirt silently.

mrissa

Sonja Arntzen and Ito Moriyuki, trans., The Sarashina Diary: A Woman's Life in Eleventh-Century Japan (by Sugawara no Takasue no Musume). This is brief but delightful. Its author is one of the most relatable historical figures I have ever encountered, book-obsessed and delighted by the written word.

Franny Choi, The World Keeps Ending, and the World Goes On. The modern world, the Korean-American experience, a dozen other things in a score of emotional ranges. Sometimes I find it interesting to contemplate which volumes of poetry resonate me and which with similar descriptions leave me cold. This one resonated.

Christopher Hale, A Brief History of Singapore and Malaysia: Multiculturalism and Prosperity: The Shared History of Two Southeast Asian Tigers. A bit too much Singapore in the balance for my taste--I have no objection to Singapore, but if you're putting both Singapore and Malaysia on the cover, I want both. This is more a starting point than an ending point in the history of this region, but that's valuable too.

Reginald Hill, An Advancement of Learning, An April Shroud, Bones and Silence, Child's Play, A Clubbable Woman, Deadheads, Exit Lines, A Killing Kindness, A Pinch of Snuff, Recalled to Life, Ruling Passion, Underworld, and The Wood Beyond. Rereads. And here we come to the reason this is one of the easiest book posts I've written in ages: I'm 2/3ish of the way through rereading the Dalziel and Pascoe series, and I find them more or less where I left them--the early ones are fine, and now I'm into the part of the series that's quite good, with the best yet to come. Gosh I'm glad I read them out of order originally. The exception to finding them where I left them is that three times through is enough for me on A Pinch of Snuff, I do not expect to find it worth my time for a fourth go-round.

Natalie Shapero, Popular Longing. This is also poetry engaging with the current moment. Like the Franny Choi collection, it is frequently angry. For some reason it doesn't resonate for me nearly so well--I find it more grating in places but most often it's just that Shapero's gears and mine don't mesh. Ah well.

Tom Stoppard, Plays: 5 (Arcadia, The Real Thing, Night and Day, Indian Ink, Hapgood). Rereads. I'm passing this on to a young theater-lover in my life and read it on the way out. One masterwork, one mid-century adultery play (YAWN), two attempts at reckoning with colonialism very much from a colonizer viewpoint, and a spy thing that is less clever than he thinks about quantum mechanics. I have another copy of Arcadia, I'm not sorry I read the others, but I'm also not sorry to hand them on.

Merc Fenn Wolfmoor writing as A. Merc Rustad, So You Want to Be a Robot. Reread. Remains varied, wrenching, and brilliant, one of the best debut collections of our generation, yay.

yourlibrarian posting in

three_weeks_for_dw

( You're about to view content that a community administrator has advised should be viewed with discretion. )

skygiants

While on the topic of Genre Mystery I also want to write up Nev Marsh's Murder in Old Bombay, a book marketed and titled as mystery-qua-mystery that I do not think really succeeds as either a mystery or a romance. However! It absolutely nails it as a kind of genre that we don't have as much anymore as a genre but that I really unironically love: picaresque adventure through a richly-realized historical milieu in which our protagonist happens by chance to stumble into, across, around, and through various significant events.

(I said this to

genarti, and she said, 'that kind of book absolutely does still exist,' and okay, true, yes, it does, but it doesn't exist as Genre! it gets published as Literary Fiction and does not proliferate in mass-market paperback and mass-market paperback is where I want to be looking for it.)

Murder in Old Bombay is set in 1892 and focuses on Number One Sherlock Holmes Fan Captain Jim Agnihotri, an Anglo-Indian Orphan of Mysterious Parentage who while convalescing in hospital becomes obsessed with the unsolved murders of two local Parsi women -- a new bride and her teenaged sister-in-law -- who fell dramatically out of a clock tower to their deaths.

Having left the British Army, and finding himself somewhat at loose ends, Captain Jim goes to write an article about the murder and soon finds himself engaged as private detective to the grieving family. In the course of trying to solve the mystery, he falls in love with the whole family -- including and especially but not exclusively the Spirited Young Socialite Daughter -- and also wanders all around India bumping into various Battles, Political Intrigues and High-Tension Situations.

Why do I say the mystery does not work? Well, this is the author's first book, and you can sort of tell in the way the actual clues to the mystery become assembled: a lot of, 'oh, I picked up this piece of paper! conveniently it tells me exactly what I need to know!' and 'I went to the this location and the first person I saw happened to be the person I was looking for, and we fell immediately into conversation and he told me everything!' You know, you can see the strings.

Why do I say the romance does not work? Well, it's the most by-the-numbers relationship in the book ... Diana has exactly all the virtues that you'd expect of a Spirited Young Parsi Socialite from 1892 written in 2020, and lacks all of the vices that you'd expect likewise. Jim thinks she's the bees' knees, but alas! he is a poor army captain of mysterious parentage and class and community divide them. Every time they even come close to actually talking about their different beliefs and prejudices the book immediately pulls back and goes Look! she's so Spirited! It's fine.

However, the portrait of place and time is so rich and fun -- Nev Marsh talks a bit in the afterword about how much the central family and community in question draws on her own family history, and she is clearly having a wonderful time doing it. The setting feels confident in a way that plot doesn't quite, and the setting is unusual and interesting enough to find in an English-language mystery that this goes a long way for me. And, structurally, although the twists involving the Mystery were rarely satisfying to me, I loved it every time historical events came crashing into the plot and forced Captain Jim to stop worrying about the mystery for a few chapters and have some Historical Adventure instead. My favorite portion of the book is the middle part, which he spends collecting a small orphanage's worth of lost children and then is so sad when it turns out most of them do have living parents and he has to give them back. I'm also sad that you had to give the orphans back, Captain Jim.

mrissa

New story out today in ebook format! Print copy to follow for those who want that. "The Things You Know, The Things You Trust" appears in If There's Anyone Left, vol. 5. It's a look at life's constants in the face of great change, which are sometimes where we hope they are and sometimes...other places.

bloodygranuaile

While I am certainly enjoying all my early American history nonfiction reading, I am finding that the highlight of my reading month is increasingly whichever installment of Lois McMaster Bujold’s Vorkosigan Saga I have on deck. I decided to schedule these out so I didn’t burn out on the series but I’m increasingly finding that as soon as I finish one I really want to run right back to the library and pick up the next.

This month’s book was Komarr, in which our hero Lord Miles Vorkosigan, now an Imperial Auditor, accompanies another Imperial Auditor (formerly an engineering professor) to the titular planet to investigate a mysterious accident that had destroyed part of the planet’s terraforming infrastructure. Much of the book is from the POV of the other auditor’s niece, a Vor lady of about thirty, whose husband is the administrator of the department that includes the terraforming project. Ekaterin is a great character and I immediately found myself hoping that she got out of her shitty marriage with her shitty husband, which was in fact taken care of in a plot-appropriately terrible way that made it all nice and complicated but also very satisfying. Excellent look into the dynamics of an emotionally abusive marriage and what it can do specifically to very intelligent people that are, in fact, more intelligent than their partners, which the shitty partners are insecure about. (Obviously, this book might be upsetting reading for anyone who’s been in a controlling relationship with someone who used the same sorts of tactics, but a lot of the interesting psychological stuff that goes on in the Vorkosigan Saga comes with the same caveat, and I like that the book deals with stuff that regular people go through as well as dealing with insane space empire political and technological intrigues.)

This is one of the few books I’ve read in quite a while where the romance brewing at the end actually does have me all wound up and invested in it. I am chewing the drywall to see where this goes. So far the secondhand embarrassment is exquisite and the various mental tangles that Miles and Ekaterin are getting up to in rationalizing their feelings to themselves are excellently illustrative of both of their characters and situations. It also illustrates the difference between “being vulnerable and letting somebody take care of you” versus “being sloppy and making somebody else clean up your mess” in a way that has no business being woven into a story about mysteriously exploding terraforming equipment on Space Holland (trade oligarchy built on artificially reclaimed land. You tell me Komarr isn’t Space Holland).

Anyway this series really has it all and does it all; it is going off in directions I would not have foreseen from the first couple books but which nonetheless all make perfect sense for the series that it is. When is my June 1 hold coming in?

asakiyume

A tale of two rivers. Here's high waters on the Amazon....

And here's high waters on the Connecticut. This road (Aqua Vitae Road! Great name!) floods easily:

The speed limit sign enjoins you to drive your water-worthy car no faster than 25 mph:

The high waters create our very own "selva inundada"

Current Music: Dirk Powell and the Transatlantic Musicians: Waterbound

skygiants

I read K.J. Charles' Death in the Spires more or less in the course of a day, which happened to be the same day that I was reading comments on/responding to

blotthis' post about aesthetic satisfaction in Genre: Mystery and Genre: Horror.

Death in the Spires is a really useful case study for genre: Mystery because Charles' usual Genre is Gay Romance. As this book was coming out she made a number of posts and announcements along the lines of: hello Readership, please be aware, this one's not Romance, it's Mystery, which does not mean there won't be romance in it, but please go into it with Mystery expectations rather than Romance expectations.

So already I was going into it expecting to pay attention to the rules of genre and how they worked or did not work in this book. And, having finished it feels really clear that the exact same fabric of characters and plot, tailored into a different shape, would form a standard Charles Romance, but because of the pattern being used the finished product is undeniably a Mystery, no question about it. And quite a fun one! I read it in a day!

The premise takes inspiration from Gaudy Night and The Secret History, among others: at the turn of the 20th century, a clique of golden youths forms at Oxford that's shattered by interpersonal romantic drama culminating in a mysterious murder; ten years later, having just received a particularly vicious poison-pen letter, one of the golden-youths-that-was decides it's finally time to figure out which one of his best-friends-that-was is a killer. The youths all seem likeable and the loss of the trust and friendship among them as important to the plot as the murder itself, which is one of the things that makes the book work, IMO.

Because of blot's post, I've been thinking a fair bit about what I want mystery-as-genre to do. P.D. James said very famously that the mystery novel is the restoration of order from disorder: a murder happens, but by the end we understand why and how, and something is done about it to bring justice. Or not done about it; occasionally the detective decides that the just response is to not do anything about it. I do like it when that happens, even if I disagree with the detective on what the just response is. I like it when justice is legitimately a problem, in mystery novels; I like it when the solution is not just the solution to a puzzle (though of course it is pleasant when a puzzle is good) but an attempt at answering the question of 'how do you repair the world, when something terrible has happened that broke it? Because every death is something that breaks it.' I say an attempt because of course this is not really a question that can be answered satisfactorily, but it is nonetheless important to keep trying. So, really, I suppose, I think a mystery novel has succeeded when it has, a little bit, failed: the puzzle is solvable, and solved, but the problem is unsolvable, and the tension between those two things is one of the things that most interests me in a mystery book.

'I want to be a little uncomfortable at the end because of how we as human beings have to keep trying to answer a question that has no good answer by answering questions that do have answers' is probably not a fair thing to ask of mystery novels, which are also, famously, comfort reading. Nonetheless it is what I think the great books in this genre achieve and I think I am right to ask it. I am not saying that Death in the Spires is a great book of the genre, but it is asking the kinds of questions that I want a mystery to ask, and it satisfied me in that, in a way that many modern mystery novels don't.

( a brief detour into spoiler territory )

shadaras

Overtime is, apparently, over for now. (The company paying for it doesn't want to run out their overtime budget just yet. Also, since we're subcontractors, the suspicion is that they don't want us to catch up with them, either.)

We were told this on Thursday morning, and the amount that it improved my mood is... impressive, honestly? Overtime being not great for me was definitely as much a psychological as physical thing.

But it is over, we're back to normal work hours, I can have a brain again, it's nice.

Going to the doctor's office to let them draw blood/do labs on my T levels while wearing a pink t-shirt and blue hoodie feels extremely on-the-nose (but also I knew that and thought it was funny; it's why I dressed like that yesterday).

One of my friends has a NEW CAT and she is adorable and perfect and EXTREMELY FRIENDLY to the point of flopping over next to me so that I could PET HER TUMMY after like 10min of knowing me. Remarkable. I adore her. (I adore basically every cat I meet, yes, but I also mean this every time.)

Spent like an hour yesterday talking to a friend about tattoos (neither of us have any yet) and what we might want, and mostly being utterly fascinated by how different those opinions are. (Like: I don't think I could put text on my body; that's the only thing they'd want.) At some point I'll progress enough through "look I know roughly what I've wanted on my body for ages now, I should figure out where to get (the first bit of) that done" that it'll happen, but who knows how long that next step will take. xD

Sometime over the last few weeks it turned to spring proper. Everything's green and starting to bloom, the temperatures are higher, and also it's been raining a lot. It's nice. Love this for the world. Prefer the sunny days! But hey, the rain's important, this is an area where the plants expect that rain and will be very sad if they don't get it. And we get thunderstorms, too, and those are lovely to listen to and watch.

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