Yesterday, we went to the RISD Museum, because Spooky's been wanting all summer to see the Todd Oldham exhibit, but, what with one calamity and another, we'd not made it. For the first few years we lived in Providence, we frequented the museum, but I'm not sure how long since the last time we'd visited. At least three or four years. Despite my complaining feet, it was good spending a couple of hours among the art and artifacts. Afterwards, we dropped by Paper Nautilus Books, where we still have credit from the Great Debooking of 2013 (Paper Nautilus took a lot of them, back when they were still Myopic Books), and we found copies of Rombauer and Becker's The Joy of Cooking (1931, though this is a 1953 printing) and Berolzeimer's The American Woman's Cookbook (1938, though this is a 1974 printing). The latter is the book I learned to cook from, in my teens and twenties, from my mom's copy. My feet aside, it was a good day out, and those happen only very rarely.
We started Series 9 of Doctor Who last night, and I was very pleased with "The Magician's Apprentice" and "The Witches Familiar." "Under the Lake," "Before the Flood," and "The Girl Who Died" I enjoyed less, but they were still vast improvements over anything but the final two episodes of Series 8. Finally, someone woke up Peter Capaldi and got him to spit the marbles from his mouth. With the interminable, wretched "Clara loves Pink" story out of the way, it feels like Doctor Who again. And Missy is one of the best things ever to happen to the show. Oh, and we watched the Christmas special, the one with Santa Claus, and it was just, well...peculiar.
I slept for shit, but no surprise there.