It was too shaggy. It barely held together when being shaped into disks for the fridge. Rolling the dough out later was tricky and getting in into the pie pan, trickier still. It was friable, cohering with mashing and not finesse.

And yet. And yet! It turned out to be delicious, making for one marvelous quiche and one delicious apple pie.

What’s the lesson here? Something about the perils of relying on the standards of previous efforts, perhaps. Something about holding low expectations…

I know I’m home because I’m typing to jackhammering.

I know I’m home because I didn’t sleep well two nights last week.

I know I’m home because the garden calls like a Siren.

I know I’m home because I’m looking forward to writing with my Tuesday writers this morning.

Back to dog walks. Back to really tasty salads.

My son returned to Colorado with Covid. If biting your tongue made a sound (regarding masks, which he not once wore), he would hear it from Massachusetts. How hard is it? I truly don’t understand. It wasn’t just him — in almost every mode of transport and crowded venue, I was the only person masked.

Lest you think me extreme, a woman coughed (goopy, wet) for all six hours of this flight. About five rows back. It did not sound like she was even bothering to cover her mouth.

PS. Flight was a red-eye and the coverup helped me sleep too.