Yesterday's rain petered out by mid-afternoon, so I was able do a bit more planting: this time, spinach and scallions. I'm still very short of seeds, and just now acquired these, which accounts for why the spinach is going in so late. Still, what's coming up looks good: thick stands of peas and garlic; radishes and salad greens ready for thinning; more chives than I can use. The perennial herbs are beginning to glow, and I'll harvest the first tarragon tonight for the roast chicken.

For dinner last night we had soft-shell crabs, expensive but delicious. To cook them, I soaked them in milk for an hour; drained them and dredged them in seasoned flour; fried them for 4 minutes a side; served them with remoulade sauce. Tom was extremely happy.

I guess the weather will be brighter today, but so far it's hard to tell. I ought to do a lot of housework, but I might go for a hike instead. I seem to be rather indecisive this weekend, though I did end up submitting a couple of poems yesterday, so that's something.

Anyway: update from the Alcott House, Deering Center, Portland, Maine, New England, United States, North America, Earth: The three human residents are more hopeful than they were at this time last year. The feline resident continues to be massively pleased with himself. Spring is appropriately cool and rainy, and the electricity flow has stabilized. The kitchen sports new countertop and and backsplash tile; however, the cold-water faucet no longer works in the downstairs bathroom sink, and the residents have resigned themselves to brushing their teeth in hot water. There is talk about building a deck, but all is fantasy so far. Plus, the residents are having to admit to themselves that the shed roof may not last through another winter. Today is the junior resident's final shift as a line cook, and he is jubilant. Next week he plans to recover by watching National Theatre plays all week long. This seems like a good idea. Meanwhile, his parents will continue to stump off to their various employments, in more or less good humor, and talk has arisen about the possibility of actually visiting faraway people and places. That seems like a dream. Still, one could be trapped in a worse place than Alcott House, with its constant renovations, inside and out. Always a problem to solve; always a tiny accomplishment. And the residents are fond of one another. And they tell a lot of jokes, and play a lot of silly made-up games, and they are serious about serious things, and they enjoy their meals, and they don't squelch each others' hopes and dreams.