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Pie Exists [Sep. 6th, 2019|01:47 am]
A bit of a breeze has come up tonight. It feels pleasantly cool, though the air itself is still quite balmy. It's predicted to drop down to 62, but it's going to have to get going soon if that task is to be accomplished. It's 76 right now. It would be a nice time to go to the beach, if there was a beach around here. In lieu of going to the beach I'm going to have a slice of lemon meringue pie. There might still be enough sherry for a small glass to go with it. Trader Joe's doesn't stock that sherry anymore, or any other sherry, or any port, so I'll have to find a different source for the dessert wine, because I have no intention of drinking any sweet muscatel, which TJ's has in obscene abundance.

All I picked up there this evening was an onion and a tomato. Their onions are good, but the tomatoes are inconsistent and pricey. I didn't actually need them tonight, but thought I might need them for lunch tomorrow, so. I an in fact out of my favorite beer, since I downed the last bottle with dinner, so that's something I'll need to pick up tomorrow evening. I haven't decided yet if I should attempt a Friday bus ride to the accessible markets or not. Probably not, though, since early afternoon temperatures are still pretty unpleasant.

A stop a the Goodwill store netted me two more unnecessary books; one with three novels by P.D. James and one with four novels by S.S. Van Dine. I've never read any books by either of them, though I've seen several adaptations of James on PBS (English people murdering one another!) And of course I've seen some of the unintentionally campy movies from the 1930s that featured William Powell playing Van Dine's monocled detective, Philo Vance. Raymond Chandler once called Vance "the most asinine character in detective fiction." But I have a suspicion that I can get a few chuckles out of these notoriously humorless books. Because I'm weird like that. But we shall see, eventually, when I get around to reading any of them.

In the meantime I'm still working on Agatha Christie's Poirot collection. The utter triviality and frequently implausible plots of these tales are oddly relaxing. They require almost no thought at all, and very little memory. I can fall asleep in the middle of reading one and easily pick up the thread the next night. Plus their familiarity makes snatches of the music from the BBC television series play in my head, which is enjoyable. These days that's about a much as I dare expect.