Everytime I set my fingers to the keyboard this week I do something stupid. I continue to spell Orhan Pamuk's name every which way but right. I tweeted about the wrong guest of honor (Evanovich, not Grafton) at the New England Crimebake, and I answer emails to the wrong people. Is there a screw-up pollen floating about?
Maybe I should just lay off for a few weeks until all the big stuff has come and gone? What fun would that be? But I wouldn't have to make these continual corrections and apologies, mea culpa-ing right and left. So uncool.
I doubt if Proust had these problems, but then he died younger than I am, and I seem to having Senior Days of late. Acting in haste, repenting in haste. No fun in that.
Sorry Sue. Sorry Orhan. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Yes, and I've burnt the pot again that it took 3 days to scour. A bit of inattention to the pears in port wine. The sauce carmelized and burnt before my very eyes, while I stirred the saurkraut. Kind of a yin and yang dinner with Kielbasa and kraut followed by pears poached in port wine. We're that kind of household.