My father invented a way to roll plastic grocery bags around his hand and tuck the handles in so that each bag makes a round bundle smaller than an apple. Then he would put them in a kitchen drawer; you could pluck them out one at a time; they didn't try to escape when you opened the drawer. I still do this, and stash the little bundles in an old bucket and in the corners of drawers wherever I might need one to line a wastebasket, or wrap something. As I am rolling the sack into the little bundle I remember my father--showing me this--every single time!
Tonight we went to Indian River for pizza at Vivio's. We had something called the Mediterranean: black olives, marinated artichoke hearts. thinly sliced fresh tomatoes and mozzarella cheese. It was not greasy, the crust was neither too thick or too thin, and it was delicately seasoned, but not overseasoned, with several spices. There was a hint of fennel. The restaurant is large, older, made of logs and with whole stuffed dead animals/trophys and fish. There is even half of a young elk that seems to be coming through a wall outside the rest rooms. The carpet was made to look like plank floors. It was quite terrifyingly dark inside, and there were red and white checked tablecloths. It was one of the most delicious pizzas I have ever had. Many pizza-of-the-future may suffer by comparison.
I finished an informal essay on the use of the season-word or kigo in haiku today and am feeling quite virtuous. I always prefer "having written" to actual " writing," which is why a blog is such a good practice for me. I'm hoping to do better, dear reader. Good night.