Last night's copyeditor nightmare
I learned that for years I have overlooked a fundamental style rule: all paragraphs written by men must include exactly seven sentences; all paragraphs written by women must include exactly eight sentences.
I would appreciate your analysis of this dream. The eighth grader's response was "Jeez, you must really love your job." I think he wasn't being ironic, but I'm not sure. He is not yet perfectly in control of his tonal repartee.
Last night's dinner
At the eighth grader's request, we had a double batch of toad-in-the-hole. My version involves frying up tiny sausage balls (Harmony-grown ground pork that I season with fennel seed, garlic, red pepper, sage, and salt) and baking them with Yorkshire pudding batter. Five minutes before it's done I sprinkle on freshly chopped parsley, just time enough to let it crisp up but not lose its color. I also made cranberry-orange-green apple relish and a plain spinach salad. You can't be interested in this information, can you? Because I'm barely interested. Winter cooking is a drag.
A few weeks ago an acquaintance showed me a picture of her version of toad-in-the-hole: an egg fried in a hole she'd cut out of a piece of toast. But in my patois this dish is called eggs a la dump truck because I used to have a heavy-equipment-loving toddler who would eat anything with truck in its name.
This week's Frost Place newsletter
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