Tortilla Soup, Another Peasant Soup

We are on a soup binge. Yesterday Iwas carrying a load of paperwork downstairs, using the big laundry basket to transport everything, and I missed the last step and landed on my ankle. Ouch! Apparently nothing broken, but a bad sprain, so I am hobbling around.

Soup seemed easy enough, with 5 ripe tomatoes staring at me from the kitchen window, and a big can of chicken broth, onion and garlic of course, last weeks still pretty fresh cilantro, corn tortillas in the freezer, and a seen-better-days jalapeno in the fridge. That's all you need. We added sour cream and Mexican cheese and more freshly fried tortillas to eat with the soup. Make a big batch and we have it again tonight, with a salad to use some more of those tomatoes--four more on the window sill and a half dozen in the garden.

When they ripen, they ripen. I'm thinking tomato bread salad for the weekend and some fresh tomato soup. It's the last of the bountiful harvest. It's a long, long time until July when the garden bursts forth again.

Apropos the garden: all the geraniums need to be brought in, and after the first frost, the annuals pulled up. Or do I just do cuttings? Always kind of sad to see the beautiful colors go. I've had such a riot of reds, purples, yellows, orange, pink and every lovely hue all summer.

All my life, summer has been my favorite season, and it still is.

I'm entering the Amazon novel contest--just about ready with the entry, and all the adjutant stuff. Always a lot of work even if you have the novel ready, but is a novel ever ready? One more pass has revealed just a few things that need fixing. I'm sending off World of Mirrors, which has come close to selling a couple times, so maybe it will do well in the contest, although it's not an Oprah kind of novel or a thriller kind of novel. I hope it's a good story that keeps the reader involved. Can we ever ask for more of our books?

Reading Madame Proust and Tell No One. Kind of a schizoid list, even I admit. Finished On the Road. The Mexico stuff was pretty good, but I got so friggin' tired of Dean Moriarty and his women and his disloyalty and his childishness. It's interesting how books affect you depending on your age at reading. Has anyone ever written about this? Good essay topic, but not for today.

Meanwhile, back to World of Mirrors and the manuscript tweaks.

Grapeshot