I went for an early morning walk yesterday, hoping to spy the first maitakes springing up around the roots of the oak trees in Baxter Woods. Instead, I discovered a last-hurrah of chanterelles--a quart or so of tiny, just-sprouted gold, glimmering in the wet fog.

Here is the risotto, underway--with homegrown garlic, and a homegrown jalapeño, and freshly made garlic broth, and with a dish of chopped homegrown parsley and fennel greens waiting in the wings.

And here is Ruckus in a too-small box, fervently underfoot. Because what is cooking without a cat to trip over?

***

I got a lot done yesterday--the bulk of the housework and the bulk of the editing project; and I'll finish both of them today, which means I can finally turn my attention to page proofs. And here she is, the new collection, looking just like the real thing.

If life were easy and small presses had their own copyediting staff, I wouldn't have to proofread my own collection. But as it is, I do, and at least I know how, though the task always makes me nervous. Writers are the worst at seeing their own typos. I'm sure I'll find something horrifying, and miss something horrifying, but c'est la vie.