I made chana masala and dal again last night for dinner. Delicous, economical, and much less swimming in oil than the takeaway version would be: what's not to love? I'm almost glad our local Indian closed down, if it makes me do this sort of thing. Part of the disappointment of takeout meals, to me, is that they're there and then they're gone. If you make it yourself, the coming-together time, the measuring a spoonful of red powder and a half-spoonful of yellow powder and a tincture of orange this and a grating of yellow that, and frying an onion almost to charring point, makes the whole thing so much more satisfying.
It was 72 degrees today and Mabel was barefoot outside again. She'd just got used to wearing tights and we've probably set ourselves back two weeks now. Tomorrow it will be raining with a predicted high of 55. I think we've seen the last of summer. I've said that before, but I think this is really it.
Dash keeps saying "... and so on, and so on, and so forth." Maybe I can make him say "and forsooth." (He just asked me if there's something called "so-a-hundreth".) I met with his teacher today, who said he's got a great vocabulary, he asks a lot of questions ("Oh, you've noticed that?" I said), and he never lets her get away with anything. That sounds about right, for Mr Heightened Sense of Injustice.
I finally have a lull. It seems like it's been the next thing and the next thing and forsooth (as they don't say), for months now, from starting school to October's trip to Chicago to Halloween to Mabel's birthday to our visitor last week. We don't do anything for Thanksgiving, so beyond roasting a chicken or something that's not really a blip in my planning. I think I might be at the point where I start the Christmas shopping now.
Which really means I'm looking for a new pair of boots and I need to get a haircut. Because until I've sorted myself out I can't begin to shop for other people.