It's been a pretty standard weekend by my ... standards. I met Matthias at one of the pubs in town on Friday as I returned home from the train station, where we sat out in the garden under a double rainbow, listening to live music and watching various small children and dogs of all sizes gambol about. We made it home just before the rain began again, and sat smugly in the living room, letting the working week slide away.

Saturday was the usual gym classes and market affair, but it felt satisfying and noteworthy that our lunches this weekend have consisted of homemade hummus, homemade pickles, and homemade fermented tomatoes from the garden. Everything tastes fresher and more like itself than the shop-bought equivalent. The tomato plants continue to be absurdly prolific, and every time I go out into the garden, I end up returning with a bowl filled with about thirty cherry tomatoes, which feels utterly abundant.

Faced with this glut, I made a double tomato whammy of Indian recipes last night, sailing merrily past the instruction to serve the tomato rice with dal, rather than a tomato-based curry. Both recipes were excellent, and I'd highly recommend them, either singly or together.

Thanks to everyone who recommended Thunderbolts* as a return to form when it comes to the MCU — Matthias and I picked it for last night's Saturday evening film, and found it an absolute riot from start to finish. It was nice to know that Marvel can still make solid, fun films, when they remember to crawl out from underneath a decade plus of accumulated films and mandatory joyless TV series backstory, and just focus on the magic that can happen when you throw together a bunch of mismatched characters and force them to work together. I enjoyed it immensely!

It poured with rain all of Saturday night — I went to sleep with it lashing the bedroom windows — but I woke to sun shining on wet ground, walking to the pool surrounded by the smells of greenery and rich earth. There are some yellow leaves on the ground, but it still feels more like summer for now. I had to restrain myself from picking blackberries on the way home, since they're still not quite ripe enough to eat.

Matthias and I then wandered through town for a bit, sipping iced coffee (or chai on his part) and browsing through the market, before returning home for more of the aforementioned homemade lunch. Now it's the early afternoon, and after catching up on Dreamwidth, I'm going to spend a bit of time communing with plants indoors and out, doing a long yoga class, and figuring out yet another tomato-based dinner.

Two books seems to be my maximum per week at the moment, and I found one to be excellent, and the other merely competent. The first book was The Pretender (Jo Harkin), a reimagining of the story of Lambert Simnel, a Yorkist pretender to the throne during the time of Henry VII. (The Wars of the Roses produced a lot of random pretenders at various stages). In tone and writing style it reminded me a lot of Hilary Mantel's Wolf Hall trilogy: lyrical, and in the present tense (the latter of which I usually only tolerate if the writing is really beautiful, which this is, in my opinion), although unlike Mantel's Thomas Cromwell, who knows and understands much more than those around him, Harkin's protagonist is a child, and a rather naive one at that, so hers is a story of the journey from ignorance to rueful understanding of the political machinations of the world. I remembered the broad contours of Simnel's story (like most royal pretenders, he does not have much luck), but she's fleshed it out in a way which feels plausible and perceptive. What I found truly impressive about the book, however, is the way Harkin uses medieval and early modern literature — the various classics of the day, with which Simnel was being tutored by those using him in order to mould him into a plausibly believable Yorkist heir — to shape the story. This is not just in terms of allusions (when her protagonist hits his lowest point, he's reading Boethius's Consolation of Philosophy, for example), but even in the way the character moves through the narrative, so that there are points that feel more like a sort of mirror for princes, whereas other times where the story shifts to a courtly romance, and towards the end it reads more like a Renaissance revenge tragedy. It's a really remarkable feat of literary craft, and was a lot of fun to try to spot and anticipate these things.

The second book, Morgan Is My Name (Sophie Keetch) is the start of a new Arthurian fantasy trilogy, told from — as you can probably tell from the title — the perspective of Morgan Le Fay. There's nothing really wrong with Keetch's book, as she trots her readers through the familiar passages of the tale, and it's always interesting to see which bits of Arthuriana get slotted in where, and which bits get set aside (and speculate as to why), but I can't help but feel that an Arthurian retelling from the perspective of a female character needs to do more than just reiterate that patriarchal honour cultures are dangerous and awful for women, and that changing the point-of-view character from a familiar cycle of tales changes the perspective on events from within that cycle. (Maybe this would feel more groundbreaking to people who didn't read Marion Zimmer Bradley and a bunch of her imitators during their teenage years?) Keetch makes much of the Welsh origins of much of the Arthurian story in her afterward, but there doesn't seem to be much use of any of the Welsh tales I can remember — it's the usual mishmash of medieval and early modern sources, and the usual ahistorical mush of immediate post-Roman Britain politics, much later medieval cultural conventions, and fantasy elements. Her Morgan is ... fine as a point-of-view character, albeit very much lacking in any flaws beyond perhaps being too impulsive and quick to react emotionally in situations where it would probably serve her better to pause and come up with a clever plan. I'll probably stick with the trilogy, but it's definitely not among the more impressive Arthurian retellings, in my opinion.

I hope everyone has been having lovely weekends, and possibly better luck when it comes to the evenness in quality of their reading material.

I've had this Rebecca Solnit essay bookmarked for a few days, because it's such a clear distillation of my own personal and political outlook that rather than write the ten millionth iteration of my own 'behave as if you have agency' rant, I can now just point to Solnit's post and call it a day.

I might quibble with some of her specific illustrative examples, but the overall shape of what she's saying aligns exactly with my thinking. And while I'm on this topic, I'll add (yet again) that constant awareness raising about iniquities and atrocities absent any specific instructions about concrete action to take in response to those iniquities and atrocities provokes exactly the kind of demoralising, despairing-in-advance apathy Solnit deplores in her essay. The only people who should be raising awareness are those whose job it is to do so: people who work in the media, or people who functionally fill a media-like role (paid or unpaid) by virtue of the content they've decided to disseminate via social media, and the large audience they have there. Even in those latter cases, awareness-raising without context does more harm than good.

Hope is an action. This doesn't mean a naive, apathetic confidence in the status quo. It means being clear-eyed about the gravity of the situation and the potential societal and personal risks it causes, and using what agency remains to you as an individual, a community and a society to push back against the tide, without being overwhelmed by the knowledge that it will be a marathon, not a sprint, comprised of lots of tiny little moments of concrete action. (And being able to handle the fact that the greater the atrocities and injustices, the less likely it will be to stop them with one grand action, and to be able to acknowledge the weight of this without being steamrollered into apathetic despair.)

None of these complaints are directed at anyone on my Dreamwidth reading list, which (to my good fortune) is comprised of sensible, thoughtful people who are better than most at understanding the motivating (and demotivating) power of words and information. But I felt, in the wake of Solnit's post, that it was time to set out my own thoughts on this particular nexus of issues once again, with as much clarity as possible. (And thank you to muccamukk for giving me the push I needed to set words to screen.)

It's the start of a long weekend here, which I desperately need! Let's open the weekend with another open thread prompt.

This one is brought to you by the fact that I'm currently in the throes of a pickling and fermentation craze. I'm making apple cider vinegar with windfall apples from the garden. I've got a new batch of pickling cucumbers ready to go. I have a fermented tomato recipe lined up to deal with the absolutely unhinged number of tomatoes currently growing in my garden (each day I go outside and, no joke, end up picking about thirty tomatoes; even for someone who loves tomatoes as much as I do, there's only so much I can do with them fresh), and I regularly make this fermented chili condiment as well.

The only thing I don't really do is make jams or other sweet preserves, because I don't eat enough toast or bread to really justify it. But if I did, I would, and, inspired by the incredible homemade infused vodkas at ogniskorestaurant, I am planning to do something similar — so I do have plans with fruit as well.

What about you? What are your current culinary crazes or experiments?