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We have rolls rising in the kitchen. Gimme a little bit and I'll have those bad boys in the oven. Pop 'em out and get the butter, baby!


Please, beings from other towns: We are being held hostage in Champaign. Send sunshine.

Scott P

Morning, all!

The Internet Gods have blessed me with a few moments of connectivity. Now what do I do?


Quick, sacrifice a chicken or something.

Scott P

Ooh, good idea, Gail.


Just SACRIFICE it, Scott. Don't do anything else to it.

Scott P

I don't have a chicken here. How about the constantly barking Black Lab that lives in the house behind me?


He can't help himself. Go on Scott! Brine it, dress it, roast it on a spit. A pleasant aroma pleasing to the Lord.

Mary Poppins Alert!
We've made fresh bread, delivered some to the neighbors, picked flowers, arranged said flowers, and now we're going out to pick strawberries in the side yard! Later today we're going to learn how to whistle so as to attract songbirds and hand feed them. You think I'm kidding.

The only thing to do when you have days upon days of rain is to stock up on tea, buy one of those candles that smells like a fireplace--unless you have a fireplace in which case fire that baby up, put on some funny opera (Maggie, help me out here) or something Celtic (Diana, suggestions), go to the florist and buy a couple of perfect peonies and put them in a little cup of water, and start reading. Jane Eyre, Room with a View, Mayor of Castorbridge, Northanger Abbey. If it's really really bad: Persuasion, Emma. Pretend to be in England. In a castle. Or go rent Enchanted April or Sirens. Lay in a supply of digestive biscuits and some nice sharp cheese. Then Indian for dinner.

It's your only hope. You can't fight it. Use it to your advantage. Think of it as scenery for your week of English drama.

Scott P

Solidarity with our Champaign sisters!!!

Oh, and PUPPIES!!!!!

[roasting on a spit]


Possums are very bad creatures. Very bad. They don't eat the whole strawberry. No. They take bites out of many many strawberries and just leave them there. Bitten. Rendering them useless to me. And frankly. They dig through the compost and strew it about.

Possum Fatwa. That's what we're considering here.

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