Gray, gray, gray, gray. It misted my whole run and even the crows didn't want to come down and visit like they normally do. I get it, crows. I don't want to hang out with me either.

Another night, another dream, and always about someone important from my past telling me how much they now, rightfully, loathe me. It's my most common recurring dream now, but this one had a funny twist: it was set on a plane, but the destination city was covered in this strange, cursed, persistent fog that evaporated people. So instead of landing, the plane just circled and circled. The whole dream I wanted to say this can't be real, you don't even like planes. 

But enough about my crippling depression. I'm making corned beef and cabbage because my grandmother made it every Saint Patrick's day, but surprise, surprise, I've already burned it! (Next, yellow jackets will probably come pouring out of the walls of my falling-down house and carry me off.) I should have looked at the comments section of the NYT cooking article I was using - all the real tips are in there. Well, no, first I should have been using my own recipe and not bothering with another version, but I guess I wanted to justify my subscription. This recipe uses Riesling instead of dark beer, and I thought oh, okay but no, it wasn't enough liquid and my dutch oven is cast iron - the temperature they suggested meant the wine scorched off. I'm trying to salvage it with some broth and stuff. Maybe it will just be a darker color this year. Fitting, kinda.