Sunday: Secret Mark
"and one was a doctor, and one was a priest, and one was slain by a fierce wild beast, and there's not any reason, no, not the least, why I shouldn't be one too."
Linda's cooking our breakfast, which happens on Sunday morning, not other days. Other days we do our own thing twice a day, graze the refrigerator and/or pantry for breakfast and supper, with usually one prepared meal together, generally noon dinner which we sit down to at one o'clock or as late as two o'clock. About once a week, usually Fridays after visiting Malinda at Pruitt, we go out to eat, most often at a seafood restaurant but last week at Enzo's for pizza. Supper at home is a salad or a couple of saltine squares with cheese or peanut butter and a mug of iced barley tea or ice water.
Sometimes a tin of sardines. Now and then a bite of something sweet.
+++++++
Skirting, I'm skirting, avoiding what's on my mind, which is noticing what life has evolved into at ninety. Combining the advancing CHF and the receding years since Cleveland Clinic for the heart surgery, there's the exhaustion. Doesn't take much exertion either: this past week, Wednesday evening, we hobbled and wobbled out a 400 foot pier for a boat blessing, and back; fun but totally out of breath; usually for that distance I take a walker anymore.
There's the under desk eliptical for daily walks, about an hour a day to keep up the legs, but nothing helps the dyspnea, which is shortness of breath, nomesane? It's a factor in our plans for Sunday morning movements.
This is not a whine, it's a report, eh?
++++++
This morning between church services: a short discussion read of what's called "The Secret Gospel of Mark." I'll print my handout here later.
Leg of lamb ready to pop in the oven soon as we get home from church. Never red rare like a roast beef, we cook it somewhere between medium rare and medium, a little more on the medium side. Maybe a glass of red with.
Meantime, RSF&PTL
T90