A three-day weekend and a new Terry Pratchett book? Mm, tasty. My newly minted plans to check out the Saturday Pilates class may be undermined by the inertia induced by a shiny new book with adjacent caffeinated options. Who wants to do the Hundred when they could be giggling through a latte?
Lately I've been reading mostly food porn, including M.F.K. Fisher excerpts that should probably carry some sort of warning label, or at least drool-proof pages, and a book summing up the Julie/Julia project (blogger versus the entire Mastering the Art of French Cooking in a single year). All the talk of butter and and pate choux and duck and rich winy sauces tends to trigger my late-summer/early autumn Slavic craving for heavy starchy baked things, lest winter catch me unprepared and blubberless. "They throw thin ones to the wolfs!" warns the inner babushka. "Have a pierog and some kartoshki, you feeling better." I'll bake something and then give most of it away; so far that's kept the yen for massive piles of carbs under control.
Next week the barn goes back to a regular class schedule, so I'll be riding three times a week rather than twice, hip permitting. Scheduling snafus meant I got only limited horse time this week, but I did manage to eke out time to take Doc for a graze. He claims to live on the ragged edge of starvation, and I am not above bribing him to think that my arrival means happy food time as well as happy games of running around in the woods. As long as we can sustain the "me != misery for Doc" equation, it counts as an equestrian success.
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