Previous Iteration

The soup was so good I wish I remembered exactly how I made it. The dried onion crumbles (an Indian trick) were fantastic. Labor Day, so I don't do anything but read all day. Another holiday alone, at which I have become expert. Re-fried cheese grits with salsa for breakfast, an open-face grilled sandwich of tomatoes and mozzarella for lunch, an artichoke for dinner, dipped in a garlicy mayonnaise with a touch of horseradish. I fried some sweet potato chips to eat during the all-day reading session, careful not to oil the pages of the last of the library books, William Gibson's newest, "Zero History". He's an awfully good writer, edgy and well researched. I read a few pages of myself, looking for clues as to why several people, Linda (my best critic), and several people I don't know, thought I was writing well right now, and I wondered about that. I don't like doing this really, reading myself, I notice mistakes, the extra word, the missing word, bad punctuation, and cringe, like you might expect. There are always mistakes, dues to Allah, I sometimes embed them on purpose. I'm not above not being truthful. Nice to have the house opened back up again, the AC off. I used it 14 times, which seems like a lot, but isn't that much really, the interests of creature comforts. The drone of late summer bugs. I get through the entire day without saying a word to anyone.