Firewalk with me

If you tread on live charcoals with bare feet, it is possible to burn yourself. Again and again and again, if the coals are small and many, and yourself incredibly slow to learn.

So who knew this, and why didn't anybody tell me?

*hops about, scorchedly*

Something wrong, surely...?

Every time I think "beer!", I look around the kitchen or the yard and spot something else that I really ought to do right now. And then I do it. Where is my sloth of yesteryear?*


*"Sir, you have debauched my sloth!"**

**There's a reason our clubhouse is called the Debauched Sloth, y'know.

Acceptable cat-beds: an ongoing series

Stupid-expensive laptop? Tick.

Whoever said the sun could be this lazy?

If there's one thing I hate about life in California - and oh yeah, look, there is: it's this - it is these stupid early sunsets. It's not September yet, it's barely half past eight, and it's too dark out there to be grilling. I have turned the outside lights on, and they barely help enough. I guess this is the last barbecue for yogi nights this year. Le sigh.

(Since you ask? I'm doing my classic big lump o' pork, basted with a ketchup/mustard/vinegar/cayenne/smoked paprika glaze and smoked for five or six hours; plus I'm about to grill some cauliflower florets and smother 'em in roasted shallot butter; and John surprised me with some pineapples this morning, so there's a grilled pineapple salsa as well. And sesame seed buns, natch.)