Myth Happens

Things that were good about the last forty-eight hours:

Dinner with sigerson and sen_no_ongaku, who had made a lamb and lentil stew according to a recipe recovered from Phrygian grave offerings. I brought pear cake. I think they won.

An afternoon with rushthatspeaks at the Sweet Thyme Bakery in Lexington Center, where we walked and back. I have no idea why this place chose Lexington of all towns to manifest, but since they sell things like green-tea-and-pumpkin and rose-walnut cookies, roulades made with sesame and cranberry, yogurt-cheese bars with mango, pumpkin, or red bean, and in the right season they make moon cakes, I am profoundly grateful for their existence. I make a point of purchasing something from them at least once every week, in hopes of staving off the inevitable—I have become amazingly pessimistic about the future of Lexington Center ever since it lost its last non-chain bookstore and then the Waldenbooks went out of business. But in the grand old days of the Republic, hundreds of servants would change thousands of lightbulbs . . .

Catching up on the latest episodes of Dexter with Eric. Having been introduced to John Lithgow at an impressionable age—the eighth dimension was involved—I am delighted to see him here in a starring role, if only for a season.

Wednesday night's migraine was completely gratuitous.