My dearest, how do I come back with another post after the libation I just launched? I'm thinking it's like the Oscars, someone does something over the top, and then someone else in a tux or gown has to come on, having to be the straight-faced act to follow. Darling, can you tell that I would so much rather not be typing this evening? I would like to do just about anything but - with you. And that includes simply hanging out with you, making salad dressing in a fluorescent-lit kitchen if need be.

I don't have all that much tonight. I have, in fact, put in a pan of marinading ginger-cilantro Indian-spice chicken in the oven. I have a wonderful book out from the library of Indian cooking, and I have made this one dish now three times since I checked the book out, and I've only renewed it once. I have a little recipe journal/notebook, and I like the recipe so much that I actually went through the effort of sitting down and copying down the recipe. Or recipes. Because part of it actually involves making a ground spice mixture, called garam masala, from scratch, and I actually did just that, stood at the kitchen counter cracking open cardamom pods and spilling the seeds into a pestle (or is it a mortar), along with cumin, peppercorns, nutmeg and cinammon stick. Anyway, on top of that - the chicken that is - I finely grated a peeled knob of fresh ginger, and clipped fresh cilantro that I've been growing in a tiny pot in the window over the kitchen sink.

Darling, the heaters are just now sonically, lubriciously, audibly filling with swelling hot water up here in the aerie. It's just me in a few lamplights up here, fingers tapping, thinking of you, kissing you just now. Will have to run down in a moment and check on the basmati rice, that's set on a very very low simmer - to go with the chicken.

My darling. I think that's it for me for now, but as always, I think of you as the night goes by. And I will. Very many kisses. XOXO