Also 2018. Casey is practically in college now.
I have developed a perhaps unhealthy passion for slaw-in-pita sandwiches, especially with a couple of slices of homemade pickle. Mmm.
A Twitter friend asked for recommendations, recipes that are cheap and nourishing, as the old brochures would have it. I thought of the curried sweet potato-chickpea stew I’ve been making. I got it from Melissa Clark at the New York Times, and you’d think it’d be easy enough to link to it, but instead I rewrote it with a big headnote and some changes. I’m trying out this system of listing ingredient names first and then quantities, so you can run your eye down the column and see all the items instead of a bunch of numbers.
Well, hi, augury fans! The Ides of March come again, and what has your favorite haruspex to say?
Finding myself somewhat short of sacred animals to slaughter, I took a deep look into my morning oatmeal in search of signs. No surprise, the future looked kind of lumpy and ill-formed. Chaotic, though in a calm way. I mean, I like oatmeal!. But it doesn’t tell you much; it doesn’t give off information. The future, in oatmeal, is just a blob with some bits in it. And to tell the truth, or sooth, that’s how I do see the future — and that’s at the best: enjoyable for the moment but no through-story. At worst, it’s the burned, stuck-on, tasteless, and grim remnants of something that used to be sustaining.
Thus always to tyrants?
There’s a cat in here.
People lie, have you noticed? Cell phones open a new channel for the untruth observer. Yesterday afternoon, for example, I was riding the Number 61 bus placidly towards home when the phone of the woman behind me rang. She started telling her caller about some bureaucratic errand she’d been on and then said, “I’m waiting on the sixty-one bus.” Did I hear that right? I thought. Maybe she said sixty-three? But no, she repeated, “I’m waiting on the 61 bus,” and while my mind spun trying to derive a scenario where one could legitimately be waiting for a bus while riding it, she doubled down by adding, “But not long, it’s moving out soon.” So no, it was just a lie; perhaps to confuse her caller about when she’d be home, or something. I don’t know.
The toy dragon is just for fun. I found him on the street. Rawr!
I looked up from my seat on the subway to perceive that a woman on the opposite bench had a skirt and t-shirt of precisely matching, rather aggressive solid turquoise green; and then that her big square tote bag matched as well; and then that her sandals with their rosettes of suede fringe, her toenails, yes, and her fingernails, and the big earrings half-hidden by her blonde hair all matched. (Her eyes, as best I could tell, were blue.) So can you blame me for wondering briefly, so to speak, about her underclothes?