Long weekend at the cottage
We spent the holiday weekend (Canadian Thanksgiving) at the cottage. The other cottage, actually-the one next door that we usually rent out for the season. But our tenants very kindly lent it to T. and me for the weekend, since my mother had friends staying in the family cottage, and we were both in need of some peace and quiet-rather than my mother's friend rambling constantly on about her grandson and the latest weird medical cures she read about in the Globe and Mail. (She's a lovely woman and I've known her my whole life, but she does *talk*.)
So T. worked on the maps for his book, and read an old Ian Fleming paperback, while I blew through five mystery novels from the public library in between bouts of staring at the lake. We took walks and paddled the canoe around the lake in the blazing Indian summer sun. We listened to this year's crop of teenage loons try to figure out their voices-and instead of proper loon calls, only come up with short hoots. It was nice.
Read: A Matthew Bartholomew mystery by Susanna Gregory (set in 1360 Cambridge; not bad but a bit of a slog); the two most recent books by Suzanne Arruda (set in 1920s British East Africa-good context and plot, but poor characterization); one by Barbara Hamilton with Abigail Adams as the protagonist (fairly interesting, and not as much OMGFREEDOMDEMOCRACY blather as I was expecting); and the second in the Vish Puri series by Tarquin Hall (set in Delhi-somewhat predictable but wonderful context and characters).
Tonight T. is taking me to dinner in New York for my birthday. All he will tell me is that it has three Michelin stars, which means it's one of five places and I'll definitely need that dress I bought a couple of weeks ago. He also mentioned Columbus Circle at one point, which suggests it's either Per Se or Jean Georges. PS would be the insane choice, and JG the sane one, but I honestly can't predict which of the two he will have gone for. I'll report back. (My birthday isn't until next Monday, but by then we'll be back in The Swamp and not in reach of any Michelin stars. Unless you count our house, and T.'s cooking, as Curator Friend insists should be the case.)
So T. worked on the maps for his book, and read an old Ian Fleming paperback, while I blew through five mystery novels from the public library in between bouts of staring at the lake. We took walks and paddled the canoe around the lake in the blazing Indian summer sun. We listened to this year's crop of teenage loons try to figure out their voices-and instead of proper loon calls, only come up with short hoots. It was nice.
Read: A Matthew Bartholomew mystery by Susanna Gregory (set in 1360 Cambridge; not bad but a bit of a slog); the two most recent books by Suzanne Arruda (set in 1920s British East Africa-good context and plot, but poor characterization); one by Barbara Hamilton with Abigail Adams as the protagonist (fairly interesting, and not as much OMGFREEDOMDEMOCRACY blather as I was expecting); and the second in the Vish Puri series by Tarquin Hall (set in Delhi-somewhat predictable but wonderful context and characters).
Tonight T. is taking me to dinner in New York for my birthday. All he will tell me is that it has three Michelin stars, which means it's one of five places and I'll definitely need that dress I bought a couple of weeks ago. He also mentioned Columbus Circle at one point, which suggests it's either Per Se or Jean Georges. PS would be the insane choice, and JG the sane one, but I honestly can't predict which of the two he will have gone for. I'll report back. (My birthday isn't until next Monday, but by then we'll be back in The Swamp and not in reach of any Michelin stars. Unless you count our house, and T.'s cooking, as Curator Friend insists should be the case.)