Hook,

I don't know where I've been. In Stupid Land? Too stupid to write anything here, even stupid things. How many times can I say 'stupid'? Feels liberating to write it because I live with small people who are always ready to tell me "Don't say 'stupid', Mom!" As if I've really trained them so well. Wasn't it one of my darlings who only yesterday removed his diaper unnoticed and did...something in the dining room?

I don't need to have a dog in order to have poop on the floor. I love how I can streamline my life. Forget ridding my over-crowded house of unused, unnecessary, not to mention ugly books, furniture, toys and hoo-hah. I've got a recently and rabidly un-housetrained two year old instead: the perfect excuse to give the six year old who really really wants a puppy.

Would you rather I write about a recipe I'm dying to try? How about a whole category of food instead. Make that two: fruit pies and margaritas. Sour margaritas and any kind of fruit pie made with smitten kitchen's painfully beautiful and painfully buttery pie crust. The smell of that crust haunts my dreams. And I wish a tart margarita would haunt my days.

And when are you going to make me fried chicken, hmm? I'd make biscuits and slaw and strawberry pie and dress all in gingham. I know, you're at the lake going fishin' and eating bizarres with Bert. I can wait for fried chicken until you return, but not much longer.

Fagin