Well, Paul passed his permit test yesterday, so things are moving forward on the finally-get-his-license front. While he was DMVing, I went for a walk on some trails circling an old landfill, which exuded an ominous Love Canal feeling--mountain of blank grass imprisoned behind chainlink, burbling rusty water in the culverts--even though there were plenty of small beauties visible: birds, and berries, and sky-blue wild chicory.

And I did get more editing done than I expected, on this slow complicated dual-language project, so maybe I'll be able to take a little time to copy out Blake poems today. Teresa and I are almost finished with our reading-conversation dates about Songs of Innocence and Experience, which have been intense and enlightening. She is so smart and curious, and Blake is so strange and wonderful. But instead of poems today, I might find myself having to wrestle with French footnotes: not exactly my ideal way to brush up on my high school-level language skills, but I'm managing, in an awkward, trundling way. 

I also need to write a small commissioned essay about Shelley, I need to consider my next shrub purchases for the backyard, I have to make beef stew . . .

Yesterday I made the first tomato soup of the season--essentially fresh puree, thinned slightly with broth, sprinkled with breadcrumbs, seasoned with snipped basil and salt and pepper. It is a simple and beautiful thing. On the side were cheese wafers and a green bean and cucumber salad. For dessert: dried cherry ice cream, topped with a few late strawberries.

And I stood in my kitchen and said to Paul: "Can you believe this luxury? A box for heating food! A box for keeping food cold! Hot and cold water, that drains away! Washable countertops! Lights!" When I think of all the centuries, the millennia of kitchens--open fires, no refrigeration, no plumbing, winter afternoons of shadow and darkness--I am amazed. I cook among miracles.