In lieu of a real post, I offer bullets.
Also, the word of the day is tomato. I challenge everyone to write a blog-post or a flash-fic piece interpreting that word.

1. I woke up this morning with Ruby Tuesday on my lips – the song, not the burger joint – and it's still echoing in my head as I write this.
2. Inspired by a friend, I wrote some flash-fiction this morning, which you can check out at MoonChilde.com, my fiction site. If you read it, please leave a comment there. (LJ users can ignore this, as MoonChilde also mirrors to this journal.)
3. I really wish I had a butler who would make french toast and coffee and bring it to me, poolside. Well, one can dream.
4. Yes, I AM stil in bed at one, but I've posted to my new account at Blogit.com, and written a book review, and the above-mentioned flash piece. (Most of the Blogit content is the same as here, some is not.)
5. I love the way Zorro's fur smells like cinnamon and honeysuckle. He's so comforting. Cleo is also comforting, but she just smells like sun-baked dog.
6. When I first read Harriet the Spy, as a child, I began eating tomato sandwiches. Sometimes, I still do.

Permalink at MissMeliss.com

Joanne Fluke

Hannah Swenson owns a bakery called The Cookie Jar in a fictional town in Minnesota, and when she's not pushing sugar, she solves crimes. The formula for a Culinary Mystery is not new: cozy murder mystery combined with a cookbook, but unlike Diane Mott Davidson's tales, the mystery here is predictable, and the text is desperate for a good editor.

I confess that the book did inspire the need to make cobbler (mine was strawberry), and the recipe worked, for the most part, but I find it jarring to have the recipes within the chapters, and not grouped together at the end.

Permalink at Zenitopia.com

They wait at the corner, behind the picket fences that do less to protect their property and more to support the wild roses than any fences really should. Clad in ancient calico, with their white hair covered by straw hats, they work the soil, with serene smiles on their weathered faces.

They are always slightly built, but their arms are lean and strong, and on their feet are sturdy shoes, and stockings that have fallen down to reveal legs mapped with varicose veins. Their eyes are masks; behind their wide-open stares they could be plotting to take over the world, one batch of cookies at a time, or just re-writing their Christmas lists, putting whichever grandchild is 'in favor' at that moment, at the top of the list.

They carry with them the co-mingled scents of sun and soil, and Chanel No. 5, the latter spritzed on quickly, every morning, more from habit than anything else. They wear lipstick, but generally no other make-up.

They wait at the corner, and hold out bags of sun-ripened tomatoes, and ask, âœWouldn't you like to take some home, dearie? I just picked them this morning.â

Permalink at Moonchilde.com

Woke up this morning feeling groggy and drugged, looked at the clock and went back to bed. Spend the day floating in and out of sleep, thought about writing something real, but the words wouldn't come.

My head feels oddly disconnected from my body, and sinus pressure has formed invisible rings around my eyes. Sinus congestion would be an extremely effective form of torture, I think, if only it were controllable, but perhaps too inhumane.

Endless glasses of ice water laced with lemon or lime are my balm today.

Note to self: taking benadryl at 4 AM ruins your day.

Permalink at MissMeliss.com