Small things written down before they slip away.
For most oolongs I now throw the first infusion away and start counting from the second. The first one tastes of the journey; the second tastes of the leaf. Ninety-five degrees, forty seconds, and then add ten seconds each round until the cup goes quiet.
The kettle with the temperature dial was the best twelve dollars spent this year.
Found a roll of ISO 400 colour film in a drawer, seventeen years past its date. Rated it at 100 to make up for the age and shot it on a grey afternoon. The colours came back shifted towards magenta, the shadows full of soft grain, and two frames were simply blank. The other thirty-four are the most honest pictures I have taken in months.
The loop from the footbridge, along the east bank and back over the old railway bridge, is 6.4 km. I used to call it "about an hour". It is fifty-one minutes if I do not stop, and I always stop: at the bench with the broken armrest, and at the spot where the herons stand like they are waiting for a bus.
Back to a box of plain index cards for reading notes. One idea per card, the book and page in the corner, nothing else. Shuffling them on the floor is still the fastest way I know to see what a book was really about.
Soaked overnight, then barely simmering for three hours with a bay leaf and too much garlic. No recipe survives contact with the stove, but the rule that does: salt early, and never let it boil.