Yesterday was one long thunderstorm: it started pouring midday and pretty much kept that up till well after dark. In the meantime, with Paul's encouragement and aid, I took the plunge and decided to make puff pastry. The project took all afternoon, and I was nervous, but all worked out well, and now I have dough for three shells in the freezer, and leftovers from a beautiful little free-form peach tart on the counter.

Tonight we are going downtown to listen to a Brazilian band. The rest of the day we'll spend being extremely hot. After all that rain, Portland feels more or less tropical, though I think the weather is supposed to moderate later in the week. I did waste a lot of time in the kitchen yesterday, so I should try to concentrate on actual paying work today.

I'm still reading Le Carre, still editing, still not writing poems . . . feeling the creep of this fall's teaching storm approaching, beginning to mutter to myself about next week's reading, staring at the insanity of our so-called president. My blood runs cold.