I'm home, I'm home. The sun is shining, the birds are singing, the mosquitoes are as big as birds and rather more numerous. I don't have to fly anywhere or go anywhere or leave for... well, until thursday morning actually, when I go to LA for the
Book Expo America. Then I fly home at 1:00am on Sunday to make Holly's graduation. And then I don't go anywhere until the 7th when Maddy and I go to Chicago on behalf of the Chicago Humanities Festival, so I can give a talk and a reading at the
Chicago Printer's Row Book Fair. (Hmm. A look at their website tells me that commincations are breaking down somewhere: everyone else has a bio and a thing about what they're doing. I get nothing but a "Coraline is Neil Gaiman's latest book" as if I'm trying for some kind of Pynchonesque anonymity.)
Then I'm home for a bit (although I have to go back to the UK to make myself useful for some of the
Mirror-Mask shoot and be filmed for the DVD extras documentary, and will probably take both Holly and Maddy with me).
Morels are a kind of mushroom. They look a little like brains from a 50s SF movie. They taste like heaven. I told my French publishers over a meal how one day in 1993 my lawn was full of morels, and how we picked and ate them and assumed that there would be more, and year after year, there never were. And I came home last night, and there were morels in the lawn for the first time in a decade, so we picked them, and I made morels and scrambled eggs for Holly and me, and I felt like the house was welcoming me home...
