The sleep pixies and work witches are having a ball with imsomniac me. It is now well past 1am, and I am lying in my pink dressing gown, aching to sleep… but caught with a headache and open eyes in the sneaky chasm between Sunday night and Monday morning. Argh!
I’m picturing in my mind’s eye a fresh, coldly perspiring glass of sauvignon blanc (mmm) and barrels of happy havarti (only the best cheese in the world). On the deck of our treehouse. Next to a vase pregnant with fragrant tiger lilies.
What shall I write about on this blog? Toast on honey, the magic of black-peppered-avocado, our supermarket splurges, champagne breakfasts? Noodles and cocoa, berry coulis, sausage casserole, brownies and bliss? Happy havarti, moody amaretti, butter and kaya, frogs’ legs and cheese?
I’m having strange visions of buying a cookbook and cooking my way through it, a la Julie Powell [of Julie & Julia fame].
Wow, I’m so sleepy.
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