Me in the kitchen last night with Dora and this blue desk chair, which now lives in that spot, whether or not it makes any sense. I was on my way out to dinner, which was delightful until, as we left the restaurant, I failed to see the curb in the dark, tripped, and fell flat on my face. I'm okay, but skinned up both knees and bled on my favorite pair of Snag merino tights. After dosing them overnight with Grandma's Secret, I still need to soak them in cold water to see if I can get the stains out. If I can't, I will be bummed. Anyway, into every life and all that. I'm still sore and plastered with bandaids, but it could have been a lot worse, and obviously I'm pretty tough. I've never had a bone scan, but I think I can safely say that any osteoporosis my body might be contemplating remains minimal to nonexistent, for which Deo gratias.
I did feel really nice in that outfit, though.
Last night was cold enough that I wanted a coat, even over a wool dress, a substantial cardigan, and wool tights. Today is beautiful, but chilly in the shade and blustery. I'm basking in the sun on the patio, however, still enjoying the redbuds in bloom. Jane-next-door tells me that redbud flowers are edible: you can strew them on your salad as you would violets, dandelion flowers, etc. I hadn't known that before, and it is good to know. Apparently redbud is a popular garnish for Asian dishes, too. Jane said that she hadn't had any idea about any of this, until she saw her grandson with redbud petals all over his mouth. He's five or six and apparently quite the fount of information.
Putting up my Sun poems for next week, which include this witty little seventeenth-century gem from Margaret Cavendish, Duchess of Newcastle. She was apparently a remarkable person, who wrote all kinds of treatises in philosophy and natural science and went up to London (or down, really, but somehow it's always up that you go when you go to London from anywhere else in England) to debate people like Thomas Hobbes. She was the second wife of the Marquess of Newcastle, William Cavendish, later elevated to the Dukedom; by her own account, hers was a marriage for love, and a meeting of intellects. Not surprisingly, I guess, given the day, public opinion held that her husband must have done all that writing for her, which is the thrust of the featured poem.