Oh, dear friends, I am sorry. I know that the observation that creative inspiration hits at the exact moment that life begins to get hectic is a hoary old chestnut of an observation, so I will not make big whiny-pants excuses about how last week I promised tales and recipes, only to be out after work nearly every night and then off to Philadelphia for the weekend. (I am ashamed to admit that three days ago I meant to urge you to visit the Pie Queen for her tale of the superb dinner she made for me on Wednesday, as well as the preserved-lemon-based adventure that preceeded it. While you're there, be sure to congratulate her on being named the 2006 Tyson Fellow at the Writer's Colony at Dairy Hollow. I know that she will love the Colony and the Colony staff will love her. I'm so happy for her, and so proud of her, that I could just burst. I am like a proud auntie here. 
I am still in Philadelphia now. As I told Kimberly in an e-mail, I'm so used to my parents' house being the Land of Dial-Up and Pay-by-Hour ISP's that I keep forgetting that they have joined the high-speed club, and it is not only possible but perfectly acceptable to blog from here. My yutz-ness really knows no bounds. Poor Lloyd.
At any rate, the rumors of my dying in a freak hangglider accident are not only exaggerated, but are also vicious, scurrilous, possibly actionable lies. I will be home tonight, and unless my will to live is beaten into a paste by New Jersey Transit, I will be in a nice chatty mood. Really. I mean it. Those of you who are laughing right now will *not* receive any apple butter. Harrumph.