Look, ma, no bottles.

Was discussing maple syrup with autumnesquirrel earlier ('cause I'm thinking of doing a maple wine this winter), and finally got irritated enough at myself to bottle the stuff that's been waiting for me to bottle it for ages. (The "Egyptian" braggot and the rhodomel.)

The braggot is a gorgeous mahogany colour, beautiful coloring. The rhodomel is . . .


Orange.

Not just orange, dirtydianadd orange. ;)

Out of bottles. But maybe this will get my dear Mother to stop tapping her foot at me to bottle up the booze.

I managed not to get too much of the stuff on the kitchen floor, but I smell strongly of the rhodomel after liberally anointing my left arm. But that's fine. It smells grrrrrrrrreat! (What was that guy's name? Tony the Tiger or something like?)

Grah. Food. Find food.

Enough with the damn headaches already.

Fluids. Sleep. And all that good stuff.


Today's work: 409 words, which is, I think, all of section 34 barring tweaks. I was feeling awful, so I figured I'd just do a paragraph or two to get the beginning of the scene down, and . . . well. Okay. I'm not going to argue.


Also, the infernal editor amuses me. Had a dream last night that involved being a catcher at the major league level (which amuses me in retrospect, as I've always played outfield, and never on a proper team, more's the pity). It was going on quite well until some level of consciousness broke in with, "Your wrists would not be dealing this gracefully with handling a major league fastball." At which point the whole thing dissolved.