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It is one of those perverse jokes of life, one that leads me to suspect that if God does indeed exist, He has a sense of humor somewhere of the vicinity of Neil LaBute's, or Ian McEwen's during his Psychopolis days.  In the same week that I learn that PTMYB has been nominated for a BoB award, and is doing very well in the early returns (dear friends, please refrain from comparing my exit poll results from John Kerry's, although you may certainly feel free to snigger like teenage boys and say, in Beavis and Butthead voices, "you said 'polling the electorate'", I suddenly find myself unable to write much of anything.  Of course, I also find myself unable to do much of anything, or at least do it well.  Between the usual box factory nonsense and the additional box factory nonsense of having to address and sign 150 Christmas cards with Boss Fella, I find myself unable to sustain a coherent thought for more than 5 minutes, remember to retrieve my ATM card from the kitchen table before heading to work, or wait for the N train at 59th and Lexington without gritting my teeth or bursting into tears.

I suspect that all I need to shake this is a decent night's sleep (or failing that, a disco nap, which, coincidentally enough, I'll be taking tomorrow after work in preparation for the lovely bunni's Birthday ExpoFest-o-Rama), an afternoon at the gym (would it be an unhealthy thing to spend 12 hours at the gym in a single shot, to make up for all the lunch hours I've played through in the past three weeks?), and some nice deep green and orange vegetibbles.  To those of you who suggest that what I really need is, uh, something else...oh, cut it out, already.    Until I get to that point, some interstitial thoughts:

To everyone who has voted in the BoB awards, and/or has shared your comments here, thank you.  I wish I had the right words tonight for how much all y'all mean to me, collectively and individually.

Similarly, to those of you who are new visitors who linked via the BoB page, wilkommen, bienvenue, welcome.  Those of you who got here by searching "thelastday" on Google, I'm sorry, but I'm pretty sure that what you're looking for is not here.  And to the person who shows up about once every three months or so after searching on anal*cream*pie* -- ewww.  Stop that.

As I mentioned above, this weekend is the weekend-long celebration of bunni's birthday.  Last year the best bloke in Skegness sent a cast of dozens her way to wish her a happy birthday, which worked so brilliantly that I've decided to steal his thunder.  Go say hi to bunni, wish her a happy birthday, and give her an additional couple of attagirls for surviving her grad school apps.  Believe you me, folks, she deserves them.

One of the nice things I received in the mail a few days ago was an interview my dad did with the local paper in his hometown.  I have not bragged on my dad in this space as well or as often as I should, dear friends.  My dad is the executive director of a Boys and Girls Club in rural Maryland, and he fights the good fight every day. 

Tonight I sat in the kitchen and read the article as I made frittata for dinner.  Along spaghetti with butter and nutmeg and cheese toast, frittata is one of my favorite weeknight dinners, because I always have ingredients for it on hand.  Although you can make frittata from any combination of vegetables, my frittata of choice is potato and leek.  You heat some olive oil in a skillet, throw in a leek (if you are feeding more than two people, you can use two), saute it until soft, add some diced cooked potatoes (about two small taters per person, plus one for the pot), stir and season everything, break some eggs into a bowl (I usually use two eggs plus an extra yolk per person), whisk them, add a little milk to them and pour it all over the vegetables.  As the eggs around the edges begin to cook, lift them with a spatula and let the uncooked egg flow to the pan.  When the eggs are basically set at the bottom but are still a bit liquid at the top, grate some hard cheese, Parmesan or pecorino, and run it under the broiler until the top is puffy and brown.

After I put the skillet under the broiler, I read this line in the interview (which was written by Matt Ward and published in the December 10, 2004 Aegis in Harford County, Maryland):

The first thing Don Mathis can remember is sitting in his high chair, his baby-sitter holding out a spoonful of egg.

"[She was] saying, 'Come on Donny, eat the egg.' And I remember my first backhand."...

Donny-the-tyke swept the spoon and the cup of egg out of his baby-sitter's hand and dashed them against the wall.  The quick-moving left hand would later come in handy and, as a tennis player, he'd work on the move for years to come.

Now, I know that this anecdote was meant to illustrate how Dad was destined for the tennis court from his little baby high chair, but all I can think of is that sick sense of humor of the supposed Almighty's:  a man who loathed eggs from babyhood, who never got out of that loathing, grew up and fathered a daughter who is now devoting the next five years of her life to a culinary history of eggs in baking, and who started this project on a fellowship from the American Egg Board.  Really, what sort of sick bastard universe is this, anyway?

Speaking of sick bastard universes, those of you who are long-time visitors here know that orionoir is a very dear friend, and that I have been shouting at the universe on his behalf, but so far the universe remains stubbornly indifferent to my threats.  Since he has been in a poetry-sharing mood, I've been, too.  I'm sure it was just an accident that Lloyd's spiffy mp3 player kicked up this song tonight, from what is probably my favorite TMBG album, Flood, but this is a happy accident, one that takes my scattershot frame of mind and makes it -- heaven forfend! -- amusing.  Ladies and gents, Linnell and Flansburgh present:

A man came up to me and said
I’d like to change your mind
By hitting it with a rock, he said,
Though I am not unkind.
We laughed at his little joke
And then I happily walked away
And hit my head on the wall of the jail
Where the two of us live today.

There’s only one thing that I know how to do well
And I’ve often been told that you only can do
What you know how to do well
And that’s be you,
Be what you’re like,
Be like yourself,
And so I’m having a wonderful time
But I’d rather be whistling in the dark
Whistling in the dark
Whistling in the dark
Whistling in the dark
Whistling in the dark
Whistling in the dark
There’s only one thing that I like
And that is whistling in the dark

What the hell is this?  Isn't this supposed to be a site about baking?  Right you are, dear friends.  I have some leftover pecans and dried sour cherries.  I have a bunch of new baking books, plus more on my Xmess list, and I have a two-year-old pain au levain starter in my fridge.  If I feed it for the next week, including next weekend when Lloyd and I head to Philadelphia for the holiday, the starter will be mellow yet strong enough to make a nice pain au levain.  With the addition of those pecans and cherries, it will be an even nicer pain au levain.  Why, of course pictures and recipes will be forthcoming for anyone who wants them.