It’s Friday evening. I sit at my desk, facing the window, looking at the lights on the hill with my little Tuscany/Umbria, dark, now, but once again rich green in daylight. All that December rain followed by all the January sun caused things to grow, which caused my allergies to act up, which caused my asthma to flare up (first time in over 15 years), which led me to the emergency room last Sunday morning, wheezing and rattling. A few days with steroids and inhaler, however, and I’m good as new.
A vegetable tart bakes in my oven this evening: zucchini, red bell pepper, butter beans, sautéed in olive oil, splashed with marsala, dashed with balsamic, and sprinkled with herbs de Provence from the France trip last fall. A pastis seemed more fitting than my usual whiskey, so I sit here, and sip.
Today I emailed the agent who requested follow-up, also the one who said to allow five to six weeks for reply. Why not both? I count the agent with no website as a rejection, taking myself to 6/8.
The Super Bowl is Sunday; Dallas didn’t even make it to the playoffs.
I won't check my email for responses until Monday morning. I love to dream, and I'm also a realist.