Lists

They are proliferating, in my pockets, backpack, near the phone in the kitchen; ingredients, supplies, tasks, and they migrate to new lists as they are ticked off. Somehow, though, it's hard to tell what's been acquired or accomplished. The paramount objectives, I hope, are addressed.
Two big loaves of bread are baking, just about done. They are what a nearby French bakery calls "jokos." They are substantial, yet...velvety.
The turkey which supposedly is organic, lovingly raised, and only had one bad day in its existence rests in state on the bottom refrigerator shelf. All seems to be in readiness.
Pamuk's The Black Book is wending its strange way intriguingly, but teh book group's next pick, Moscow to the End of the Line has lost me in the first few pages. The Stranger was enough existentialism for me, this next one is more of it with what seems to be an attempt at humor, and it's not engaging at all.