A recipe for paradise, my friends.

Outside, Vermont has recovered from the unseasonable warm snap (60 F? In January? Shut up) and it's currently 5 degrees outside. Luckily I am inside with several good books, a giant ball of yarn, the trailer for the new Pirates of the Carribean movie and the SciFi channel. And one perfect martini. Bliss.

I'm working my way through Caitlin Kiernan's Threshold and Secret Ingredients: Race, Gender and Class at the Dinner Table by Sherrie A. Inness. The former is spooky and delectably chewy, a tale of trilobites, ghosts, tragedy and the South; it's dark and absorbing and will keep you up late into the night. I can't remember the last novel I read where I cared so deeply about the characters, as well as enjoying the richly detailed setting. Kiernan has an incredible mouth on her for both internal and external worlds, and is one of the few writers I've come across who can express dreams as I at least, experience them.

The latter is a non-fiction sociology text that I'm using as an anchor, lest I fall completely into Threshold. It's one of those books that you'll get only if you're a foodie freak with a small collection of select cookbooks and zines. Luckily, that's my demographic to a t.

I found Secret Ingredients while meandering around the library on campus. I like to spend my lunch hours there, recharging my energy by wandering through the non-fiction section of the third floor. The stacks are long corridors of peace and quiet; very few people climb the stairs all the way to the top. Or those that do are usually on some kind of mission, researching lgbt issues, or the trope of the absent father in Dickens, or canoeing. I find their discarded shopping lists tossed on tables or placed on stacks of discarded resources. I think I'm one of the only people who just wander, pulling books of the shelves by title alone, or a recognized author, or the color of the leather, whatever. Last time I did this trick I wound up with My Search for Warren Harding by Robert Plunket, which I thought would be a fine non-fiction tale of research, but instead is a strange, hilarious tale of one researcher misspending grant money in Los Angeles during the 70s. The cast of characters are unsympathetic but intriguing, with the whole novel--and the protagonist's life--spinning gradually out of control.

Yes, I read a lot.

I also keep finding these great homemade theft-alert slips, placed on various tables and unattended backpacks by library staff. The quarter-page slips have a little cartoon thief sneaking someplace below the legend, "Beware: Thieves at Work!" And I can't help myself. Every time I find one, I have to take it. Drop me a line if you want me to mail you one. They're awesome.

Meanwhile I must make that most agonizing of three-day weekend decisions: X-Files episode or another couple hours lost in a good book?

ps. Happy Birthday to my insane mother, no long in Swaziland at all, but back to terrorizing the West Midlands. Happy Birthday Mumblur!