Recap

Saturday flew by, with a maternal walk managed in mid afternoon, when it was about as warm as it would ever get. Latish evening pasta repast, at a place where the owner told us amiably that they did make their own pasta, just as the menu declared, and we were welcome to come watch them do it any afternoon. The piano player was enthusiastically doing renditions of what I call "washed up music": Tunes from the past several decades which we've heard covered in places from Yachats, Oregon, to Maui. Sometimes they're sung, more often they're performed instrumentally. There is a vast repository of these songs nestled amongst the walnut wrinkles of brains of a certain age; makes for diverting naming of the tunes.