Royale With Cheese

Remember "Pulp Fiction"? I was so young and innocent when that movie came out - what was it - 1995? Earlier? Uma Thurman snorting coke, her nose suddenly bleeding. Two thugs discussing hamburgers, driving to a hit. The needle to the heart. John Travolta dancing like he was young again. "In Paris, it's called a Royale with cheese."

I'm recalling this because my latest cocktail was a Martini Royale. Nothing stellar, unfortunately - frozen vodka and creme de cassis and champagne and a lemon twist. Alcohol, of course, doesn't freeze. (That's true, isn't it? But then I have this recipe for pina colada popsicles, and I seem to recall that under the title is the question, "Who says alcohol doesn't freeze?"). The vodka, nevertheless, did not freeze in the freezer over the course of 48 hours. It became sort of slimy, and yes, very cold. But so what? Ice is cold.

I wish I'd had a Big Mac. No, actually, a Quarter Pounder with cheese.

I am hungry tonight, for a burger, or a calzone.

For supper I had broccoli and radishes and cold chicken. I picked raspberries in the rain. Not a bad idea, actually, as the wasps stayed away. I thought about walking in Spain, probably because I was wearing my camouflage rain jacket, the one that I wore walking in England, where it every day rained. The jacket turned out to be completely waterproof, which was a blessing. Oh, the pain in my ankles and knees on that journey. We did the north half of The Cotswold Way. Someday I mean to finish it, to end up in Bath in a rooftop pool at the Bath Thermae Spa. Either alone, or with my mother, or Caleb, or ?

That's all, folks.

Tomorrow I'm off to Falcon Lake, yet again.

What a hell of a summer it's been.