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The frolics and recipes are on their way, dear friends, really, they are.  But before I can continue working on them, there are a few things that must be shared.

Not long ago, the beautiful and talented e, creator of the Tweedy bag that garners me such admiring stares all over Manahatta, and coiner of the nickname Momerina (e, my mom still thanks you for it!), took a road trip to New Orleans and picked up many lovely presents for her own roll of dear friends.  My goodies arrived in a bead-filled, feather-laced, beautifully-printed box.  Inside these box were an assortments of pralines (i.e. God's Own Candy), a can of Cafe du Monde coffee with chicory, and a bright red apron with DON'T FUCK WITH THE COOK emblazoned on it.  It seems like a whole 'nother age now, one in which e filed superb travel dispatches from the road and made me fall in love all over again with a place I haven't seen in 15 years.  The thought that it might be gone now, gone for real, gone for good, not only fills me with sadness and anger, but it makes me wonder if the universe's designs are really that intelligent after all.

e has sent me a link from the New Orleans Convention and Visitors Bureau.  I don't want to downplay the very real losses suffered by the communities hit hardest by Katrina; nothing is worse than death and destruction and the washing away of places that were once celebrated as being so tough that even Camille couldn't knock them down.  Still, for me, one of the hardest things I've heard, seen or read in the past two days was the simple line, "Martial Law has now been declared for the city of New Orleans."  Even though I know that this is an extreme circumstance, the likes of which have not been seen in most of our lifetimes, it is still a cold and dreadful thing to see in print.

Dear friends, anything you can do in the way of relief, either by writing a check or providing volunteer assistance in communities that are equipped to accept volunteer help, please consider doing so.  I would also urge you to listen to the August 28 broadcast of Harry Shearer's fine hour of radio, Le Show, which Lloyd and I listen to on Monday nights on WNYE-FM.  If you don't have Real Player, it's worth getting the free download, even if you only use it for listening to Harry.  This week's show is particularly fine, even if the opening musical selection, Randy Newman's "Louisiana 1927," just about put me away for good.

Oh, Jen, is that the best you can do after four days off?  Yet another Big Picture of Fruit?  Fear not, dear friends, for I have much more than this.  I have words, and plenty of 'em, thanks to the weekend I spent in the company of three truly superlative women.  I am trying to get them all down on paper, so to speak, but in the event that my forehead falls onto the keyboard before the words finish making themselves known, we can at least celebrate the fact that it's the season for my favorite little sour purple rose-scented fruit, the source of my favorite little tart purple rose-scented jam.  Behold, the damsons have arrived.

In which your Bakerina continues to display the skills that made her the high-powered desk monkey she is today...

1.  Wake up.  This means you, slug-a-bed.

2.  Commence daily bleary-eyed stare at closet to determine what to wear.  Remember, happily, that tonight your office is throwing a do for the sweet young woman who is leaving for greener pastures.  You are going to a nice restaurant in a neighborhood you like.  There will be drinks.  There will be dinner.  It will be a happy good fun time.  Woo-hoo!

3.  Pick out your happy good fun time outfit, in the form of black capri pants and black lace shirt you bought on last year's Labor Day weekend trip to Colorado, the form-fitting (but not inappropriately for the office), short-sleeved, va-va-voom shirt, one of the few pieces of va-va-voom clothing in your largely practical, functional and black wardrobe.  Take your outfit, along with appropriate underthings, and head for the shower.

4.  Shower, shower, shower.  Exit tub and dry off.  Consider the small stash of interesting potions with which to rub your newly clean self.  Alight on your new dusting powder.  Open the tin and sniff gently.  Oh, mercy, that smells wonderful.  Yes, this is what you want.  Remember, vaguely, the tutorial that the nice young woman at the shop gave you on this powder, namely that it should be applied to skin that is still a bit damp, not entirely dry.  Since all your life you have been incapable of completely drying yourself off after a shower or bath, this is the powder for you.

5.  Dust yourself with powder and rub it in your skin until you can't see it anymore.  Oh, that's luscious.  Oh, you are hot stuff this morning.  As you apply powder, sing provocative show tunes like "Hey, Look Me Over," "Gorgeous" and "Do You Want to Have Fun" in a breathy voice.  Wash your hands and put your clothes on.  Oh, that's the stuff.  You smell like a vanilla marshmallow, you look curvy and stylish thanks to your ensemble.   Even your tummy looks good; pudgy, yes, but in a sweet sort of way.

6.  As you wash your face, realize that you missed powdering your left forearm.  Sprinkle on a little more powder.  Only...whoops, your arm was completely dry and the powder is sitting on the surface of your skin, as Nice Young Woman said it would.  Run your hands under the tap, dab the powder into your skin.  All done.  Pretty as a picture.

7.  Continue with your morning rituals.  Wash your face, brush your teeth, watch the news with your spouse, drink your coffee, get your bag and reading material, head to the subway.

8.  As you walk down the street, you notice that as your skin continues to dry, some of the powder is still a bit noticeable.  Pay little attention to it.  Enter the subway, get on the train, open your new copy of Keep the Aspidistra Flying by George Orwell (actually your husband's new copy, but he was nice enough to loan it to you) and bury your head in it.

9.  Notice that a nice young man in a sharp silk pinstripe suit is sitting next to you.  Your arm and his arm are grazing each other.  Continue reading your book and feeling like an overheated little tart.

10.  There's your stop!  Get off the train.  As you stand back to let Nice Young Man pass in front of you, realize with horror that you have left a stripe of powder on his sleeve.  Wonder if you should cue him in as a swarm of commuters desperate for your newly-vacated seat descend upon you.  It's too late.  Holy cow, how much powder did you put on?

11.  Emerge onto the street and look at the powdery streaks upon your arms and neck with dismay.  Oh, dear.  Vow to scrub your arms as soon as you get into the office.

12.  Get to the office.  Run wet paper towels over your arms and neck.  There you go.  All cleaned up, and you still smell pretty.  Now get to work, you.

13.  Work, work, work, converse, converse, converse, work, work, work.

14.  Go to the watercooler for a cup of water.  Catch your reflection in the Mylar-lined window in the cafeteria. Notice that there are little streaks of powder on your pants.  Discover instantly that your pants are the least of your problems.  Your general breastal area is completely grey.  You look like you've been felt up by a ghost.  What the hell did you do to yourself?  All you did was type all morning -- and the realization comes crashing down on you like the 16-ton weights from Monty Python's Flying Circus.  You powdered the inside of your arms too, you silly bint.  Forearms, elbows, biceps -- they all got powdered, and now every time you type, every time you reach sideways for the phone, every time you reach forward to adjust your computer monitor, every time you blow your nose, you are redusting yourself in a way that is absolutely not conducive to professional office conduct.

15.  Race to the ladies' room.  Grab more wet towels and get to work.  Wish that you had a brush.  As you try to get this stuff off of you, you see this outfit with new eyes, and the euphoria of the morning evaporates.  You look at the shirt and the phrase "mutton dressed as lamb" springs to mind.  That pudgy-in-a-sweet-way tummy now reveals itself as the crime against humanity that it is.  You wonder if you've already been caught on camera by some local news station doing another story on the obesity epidemic, and if footage of your headless body, walking down Lexington Avenue, is destined to show up on the news at 6 o'clock tonight.  You hear Michael Stipe -- the young, gorgeous Michael Stipe, not the old, gaunt Michael Stipe -- singing "It's all wrong, it's all wrong" in your head.

16.  As you clean off the last trace of powder from your rump, consider that maybe you should stick to body cream in the morning, and powder before you go to bed.  Return to your desk, feeling consoled only by the notion that you still smell really good.

17.  Say hello to a big from one of the other divisions.  "Don't you look nice!  Special occasion?" she says.  Feel relieved and happy, until she frowns in a worried way and says, "Oh, what happened to your legs?"  Look down and see white streaks all over your exposed shins and calves, the streaks you somehow missed after 20 minutes in the bathroom.

18.  Wonder how you managed to live as long as you have without being able to bathe and dress yourself like a normal human being.  Think about "Put on a Happy Face," your favorite episode of the Mary Tyler Moore Show, in which Mary Richards has a bad, bad day.  Feel a little better.  Only a little.

Dear friends, I thought that I would only need a day or two to decompress from the Big Project at LuthorCorp, but it appears it will take me a bit longer than I thought.  Luckily, there is good news to be had.  Those of you who visit here regularly know that 'mouse is a good friend, to me, to PTMYB, to blogs various and sundry, and to the people who feed and water them.  I have been proud to call 'mouse a friend for three years, and in much of that time, I, along with several other friends, have encouraged him to blog.  We have sweet-talked, cajoled, wheedled, threatened, offered baked goods, expensive alcohols and unguents, sexual favors; you name it, we have offered it, and still 'mouse demurred prettily, agreeing only to guestblog for anyone who would have him do so.  Finally, the wily-yet-goodhearted Keith, keeper of Word Shadows and Scrine, took matters into his own hands and built 'mouse a blog without his knowledge or consent.  Bwahahahaha.  We think 'mouse is still getting over the shock, so while he gets acclimated to his new authorly status, I will share with you one of his finest moments, his reverie on Thai mangoes, "Strange Fruit," which originally appeared here on June 30, 2004, while I was frittering my days away in Arkansas, writing about eggs.  A warning:  Be sure to crank your air conditioning and keep the fans running while you read this.  You'll need them.

Without further ado, leave us turn the floor over to 'mouse...

(Let me just get the apology for the title out of the way up front)

Once upon a time, a much younger, less adventuresome and painfully shy 'mouse (one you'd hardly recognize today) set off in a pea green boat (okay it was a silver 747) from his North American homeland to the semi-tropical island of Taiwan. He was there to learn some Chinese, expand his horizons, and, at least in his more exciting young dreams, sow a few wild oats.

As for what happened in the grains foodgroups, well, this is a family blog, so you're going to have to use your vivid imaginations. This post is about fruit. Strange fruit. Fruit that to a horny 20-year-old in the peak of his prime shocked young senses with a radical epiphany: Some fruit is BETTER THAN SEX!

You can shake your heads and say, "We know you 'mouse and we know how much you like sex and there ain't no way that's true." But I kid you not.

Taiwan is home to "cloud fruits" that are pear shaped and light and glow with a translucent whitish-pinkish-reddish blush that itself suggests the color of sex. They are full of sweet water that bursts over your tongue and cools you with the slightest hint of apple and pepper on the hottest tropical days. They're great. But at their very best they're a 75 on a scale where good-average sex is 100.

Taiwan has longans. They're good fresh. They're really interesting dried. Perhaps the closest analogy is a dried cranberry. Except they're sweet and nutty and rich. A plump raisin that's been to Fiji and packed in a ship of spices and sandlewood. Exotic and Asian and like licking your lover's salty skin but without the salt. In just the right mood, they can score an 80.

Lychees. Fresh from the tree, stored in the refrigerator just long enough to get icey cold. Peeled and eaten whole. A pure burst of refreshment. The softly feminine yin to the longan's yang. Sweet. Wet. Pure. Cold. A 16-year-old Hawaiian nymphette and her buff lover playing under a waterfall in one of those advertisements that look too perfect. 85 points on a good day.

Milk, honey and papaya create a drink that gives you hope in a world filled with bad news. Stopping in an air-conditioned streetside milk bar and looking out as college students walk by shiny and young and full of promise. Papaya wraps that up and preserves it with its red flesh. At the same time, it hints that it knows the wisdom of the ages. Papaya must come from Egypt. It smells of Cleopatra and the pharaohs. But it never scores more than 88, even with honey and milk.

Then there is the slightly spicy, woody pleasure of the two different types of guava they have in Taiwan. "Thai" style are big and crunchy and I grew to enjoy them. I know people who swear by them, but I can't say that even the best guava ever rated better than a golden delicious apple and that's only a 50. Kind of like when your lover nuzzles those soft, fine hairs on your neck just back below your right ear.

But then there is the fruit that does it all. Huge. Red and gold. Royal colors. The skin warm from the sun. Yielding yet firm, like a young breast, budding with potential. Yes, I'm talking about the famous Thai mango. After several weeks wondering if they were worth the outrageous price of $1.50 which was more than the cost of most of my student-budget meals, after feeling them up at the fruit stand and smelling their promise, I was ready to try.

I took my lover back to my room. Luckily my roommate was out so we would have complete privacy and there would be no embarrassment and no sharing of our special moment. I smell her deeply. I look at her shape. I rub her flesh against my cheek. Closing my eyes, I feel the smoothness of her glowing orb. As I open her up, her juices begin to flow. I lick them from my fingers. Again, my eyes close involuntarily. This is going to be hot. It's going to be messy. I spread a bathtowel on my desk and turn the fan up. I take my shirt off. I lock the door.

I bury my face in her moistness. Juice runs down my chin. I savor every bite. Melting in my mouth. Sunshine yellow made soft flesh. Sweetness with a hint of acidity but no sourness. No tartness. Buttery perfection on my tongue. I can't stop. Oral orgasm. Repeated over and over. The only way a man can understand that shuddering, wonderful potentiality of multiplicity. 120 on a scale of 100. Eyes closed. Senses focused. One with the universal truth. Sated.

And then I took a cold shower and promised myself one the next day. And the next. And the next. The summer passed way too quickly.

Years later I made a quick business trip to Taiwan and discovered they were still as stunning as I remembered. (Checking the calendar to be sure the statute of limitations has expired...) I even smuggled one back to the States to share the experience with my lover. Risk of a $10,000 fine and jail time. Worth it. The things we do for love. For mangoes.

I'd tell you about the Rainier cherries here in Washington which have just come into season but then I'd have to get excited all over again. Let's just say that on a good day in the right mood they'll score a 97. But I'm an adventuresome adult now. Why keep fruit and sex separate? Perhaps together there are yet-unreached heights of pleasure to be shared.

Dear friends, should I be concerned when, in a single 24-hour period, I receive hits via the googling of  "dirty rimming" (okay, that one I had coming to me, thanks to my making fun of the rimming sugar at RhymesWithVoleFoods), "1970's song that mentions zucchini" and "humiliating games with duct tape"?*

Ah, well.  I will quote the lovely Snowball when she found herself in a similarly Googlerific situation:  "Welcome, perverts!  I hope you like my blog."

*I don't even know where to begin with this one.