the cat is trying to comfort you in your time of illness! She's very attuned to that, actually. next she'll try and curl up on the keyboard and nudge your arm with her nose. it's her lovenudge.

she's being incredibly sweet, but also batting at my kleenexes. but i am glad to have her in my lap because i'm so cold and she just radiates heat. i hate this sick thing.

I think you should write Quentin/Shreve in winter, and Wash/Zoe in summer. Or, you know, vice versa.

*snugs*

Feel better.

Winter ticks like a watch from late September on, snow flakes falling mechanically until the streets are paved white with it, ice growing over brick and breath turning white and pale as it slips out through Quentin's open lips, heating the space between them in the small, stark bed, warming the crisp cold sheets that Shreve pulls tighter, tucks beneath him and Quentin's hands shiver against him, shiver against the cool, against the winter that sneaks between their skins, that rubs against the window panes, treacherous and dark eyed, and Quentin's pink face against the unmarked pillow is open and awake, and "Shreve," he whispers, "Shreve, night last so long," and it does now, it does, and Shreve takes Quentin's hands to his chest where they shake against his heart, where they hum and skitter across his skin, and he says, "More time here," and Quentin smiles slow and easy, not sharp like he smiles in summer, distracted and thoughtful, eyes lost in the dark, unknowable and frozen against Shreve's body, and Shreve holds him closer, says, "I'll --" and Quentin laughs loud in their small room, shakes his head, says, "Shreve, there's nothing," and his voice is empty and mechanical, like the storm outside, filled with nothing more than water turned hard. "There's nothing, Shreve," he says again, his thumb tapping twice above Shreve's breast bone, "Can't you remember --" and he does, but he can't hear Quentin say it, with his voice, his winter voice, can't hear the ice capped promise of death the doctor gave to Quentin's hectic eyes, his red cheeks, the ending, the judgment, this last long robotic winter marching long through his veins as Quentin's hands shudder on him, as their bed grows cold, and when spring comes it will still, grow empty, when spring comes Quentin's smiles will be nothing more than bone, and Shreve wants to say, "I will fix this, I can" but it's too cold for the lie, it's too cold for the speech, it's too cold, so cold and white, the pale lips of Quentin Compson against his own, and this winter will be all they'll have, and so Shreve warms his hand, Shreve warms his mouth, Shreve closes his eyes to the ice, and holds what he has left.

You ROCK!

That's gorgeous. I love the bit about more time - that's perfect!

I want a cooking show called, "What We've Got".

*g* I used to play that game with my mom all the time when I was an undergrad. I'd call and say, "Okay, there's frozen corn, ketchup, three dodgy-looking pickles, rice, and a can of beans. What are we having for dinner?"

She's amazing, though. She'd just answer, "Spanish rice. You start with a big pot," and go on from there. I used to tell her she should start a 1-900 number service.

I'd watch that! That's how I cook all the time. Actually, Jacques Pepin's show is kind of like that. He does a lot of "what do I have in the cupboard" kind of recipes. Although his cupboard is a lot better stocked than mine is.

(Here via flists, hope that's okay).

The nearest thing I've ever found to "What We've Got" is "Real Fast Food" by Nigel Slater.

I have also been known to Google "[thing in fridge 1]" AND "[thing in fridge 2]" plus "recipe OR recipes".

This is actually what I was going to suggest! It works.

Epicurious.com also sometimes is a good resource for such searches, but the Google one is more delightfully random.