Roger Scrafford

That's not writing — that's typing!

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Today I deleted all the emails in my gmail account. In box, Sent, Deleted, Spam — all of it. The emails now exist only in my own backup files, stored locally and off site.

Next candidate for a purge: Dropbox.

Now reading: “DISCOVERIES: A VOLUME OF ESSAYS BY WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS.”

It was too late to pull the batter, combine and refill into the loaf pans. So about an hour from now I will test the unleavened loaves for doneness, pull them when they are done, and set them out to cool.

Voila! My own, my very first doorstops. Live and learn.

While the timer was ticking away I started cleaning the countertop. That’s when I found my small prop bowl filled with baking powder and baking soda, sitting, unused.

The gods are pooping on me — the kitchen gods, anyway.

Today’s batch of my locally famous fruitcake — which I hasten to tell you has never been a doorstop — went into the oven in two loaf pans in a 325°F oven, as planned.

The Hitchens theme is now doing yeoman’s work here.
But Yes, Pat Dryburgh and P. I. Moore did the real work, for which my thanks.

Are they still called that— TV commercials?

In any case, I will be indescribably happy when images of maniacally dancing consumers fall out of favor.

Also, get all the vaccinations.

Quote of the day:

“One may cower within, but one cannot avoid,— le Bec de la Mort, the . . . ‘Beak of Death.’ ”

(Excerpt From “Mason & Dixon” by Thomas Pynchon)

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