shaver

I had only one concrete plan for today, so small that it was really just a planette, and that was to see The Hunted with Coop. Don’t believe the anti-hype, it’s really not all that bad. It felt like it was edited with a heavy and perhaps somewhat overmedicated hand, but what was left was not unpleasant. Unless you have a problem with blood, in which case maybe you should just stick to Carrie.

The bug I was pretty sure I fixed on Friday may or may not be fixed. I’ll find out tomorrow, before I start drinking to forget in honour of St. Patrick’s Day. I must be part Irish somewhere, given that my mother’s name is Halligan, so I figure I’m entitled. Also, it will keep me from, you know, going insane.

It took some doing, because a lot of places close at five o’clock in this fair city, but Chris and I returned to the house with some nice thick pork chops, assorted vegetable matter and some fatty cow juice. Over the following few hours, we turned them into some a-little-too-spicy, but still oh-damn-that’s-juicy pork chops, not-as-overdone-as-I-feared broccoli, a very nice pilaf — note to self: Korean pear; who knew? — and a crème brulée that, on its very own, justifies the continued existence of dairy products. I only spilled a little wine, and in my defense I think there are quite a few human endeavours where an error margin of a mere few inches would be considered a virtual bullseye. It’s not like I bombed a Chinese embassy or something.

Kittens: still damned cute.