So, I bought this big chunk of boneless turkey at the supermarket yesterday. This evening I took a deep oven dish, lined the bottom of it with onions, olive oil, tarragon, and sage from the garden, put in the turkey, shoved it in the oven at 180°C, took it out halfway through to turn over the meat and put in some mushrooms and more herbs, and finally served it to my hungry wife with loads of potatoes, Brussels sprouts and peas.
It tasted disgusting. Oh well, you can’t win ’em all. At least there were enough potatoes to make a proper meal, and the gravy was tasty even if the meat wan’t.
I liked Blood Music. I’ll have to check to see if you’ve read Darwin’s Radio, which I loved for the science.
I like Kate Wilhelm. _Where Late the Sweet Birds Sang_ comes to mind. That bit of prose on the cover is a fair representation of the prose within. I love that sort of thing. P, on the other hand, can’t stand it. He couldn’t get past the first page of Ursula le Guin’s _Lavinia_ (which I enjoyed) because he found the prose to be too stilted. The otherness of the prose doesn’t transport him to other worlds, like it does me, it just annoys. I wonder if this is a common complaint of people who learned English as a second or third language.