Force of Habit

Nulla dies sine linea, attributed to the Greek Apelles, who said he never passed a day without a line. Trollope adopted it as his motto. I'm committed to that. Any more it's just word lists, which get me in a reference frame, more than usual, which takes me to the stacks. I'm currently reading Brewer's Dictionary as if it were a novel. Small rains through the day, enough to drip and make the leaves look great. A little breeze, so the drops sparkle. What more could you ask? I get out for a little while, between showers, and pick a few blackberries. It smells so fresh, so green. I got further from the house than I had intended, so got drenched and had to change clothes. I'd gotten some Brussels sprouts, remaindered, cleaned them up, halved them, micro-waved them in a little white wine, then finished them in a skillet with butter, salt and pepper. At the end I put in a couple of small flounder fillets. I ate this right out of the skillet, and cleaned the pan with a sop of bread. I love those last tastes of oil or fat, sopped up with a piece of bread. I clean the skillet with kosher salt and a paper towel and hang it back on it's nail. I will probably die, a cast iron skillet to the skull, somewhere near the island.