Chicken soup

A woman's right to choose is paramount.

Somehow, I burned the chicken stock I was making yesterday. I don't know how. But it has a distinctly burnt flavour.

I am frustrated to no end that my chicken soup does not have the clarity of my mother's golden elixir. It's murky. Is my chicken not lean enough, not clean enough? Am I using the wrong kind of vegetables? Did my mother forget to tell me about the pinch of secret magic clarifying powder I'm supposed to add? Even what I skim off the top is murkier than my mother's scum.

All my other soups come out of packages and cans. Chicken soup I insist on labouring over from scratch. It's not nearly as good as mom's. But generally, it tastes . . . OK. Yes, it's definitely OK.

Helena has discovered the laundry basket. It's a great thing for sitting in with a blanket and a book. All the time.

Perdido Street Station has infected me. It's under my skin. I find my thoughts keep returning to it. Not in an I-can't-wait-to-see-what-happens-next or just-one-more-chapter-before-I-turn-out-the-light way (I could be reading right now after all), but in a that's-some-serious-shit way. I worry about the circumstances they live in and whether they can save their world.

As part of Helena's musical education, J-F the other night was comparing and contrasting versions of The Clash's "London Calling," and again I found myself harking back to New Crobuzon, thinking this song captures the mood of that place perfectly. If they ever make a movie of Perdido Street Station, this should be The Song. Of course, they'd have to change the setting to London. . .

Also, over the last week I've been wandering around the apartment flapping my arms a lot, as if I should be able to fly. (Not flailing about; more a graceful stretch in anticipation of lift-off.)

I took Helena with me to the dentist yesterday. She would peer in on me from time to time then go back to her toys or tapping on the aquarium. It just goes to prove: I really can take her anywhere.

The ache in my jaw is subsiding, but it still hurts to yawn.

Chip Kidd wants "One with a big penis on it." Something about good book cover design.

Could it be true — "that our Sun has a companion star responsible for recurring episodes of wholesale death and destruction here on Earth"?

Ever wondered what the birth of the universe sounded like?