I haven't made brioche for a while which might be why I haven't written here for several months.

I am, however, making mongolian beef. This could be my new pavlovian diary writing response.

My (not) fat dog is ill in a way that is expected to be his end. He's also old, so it's not unexpected but it's no less sad. I tell him every day how I will miss him, and he looks for me in the morning and eats his dentastix. That's all I need from him but he always gives more. A higher concentration of love in such a small body I have never seen, and I intend to take in as much of it as I can while I can.