(...)

I can't start off by writing my title, as I have slowly discovered. Every so often I manage to think of something really perfect (at least to my mind) before I write, but other days I sit with the cursor blinking unconcernedly in the blank while my mind races around in a willy-nilly fashion creating and rejecting options faster than I can keep up. You would think that I should learn from this and just dive in to writing, but I almost feel like the title is my thesis statement, or at least some strange part of it, and so I feel very aimless without something to jumpstart my writing. Today the empty title box will have to do, and I suppose I will end up with something witty in it finally, like "Blank" which of course I can't use now since it would be repetitive. I am a master at shooting myself in the foot.

I tried to write last night with the horrible title "Porky Pig" about my feeble attempts to roast pork loins and tenderloins that never manage to come out right. The problem is the temperature - my recipe calls for half an hour per pound at 325 but using this method it never gets up to temperature. Last night I tried for 350 with no luck. I have left the pork in for almost twice as long and STILL it only creeps up to 140, and we're shooting for 155. I don't know if I need to tent it, turn the oven up higher, put the pan closer to the flame, or just give up and never try again. It's a little frustrating. And my mother, fount of all knowledge had nothing useful to say, as it turned out, which leaves me feeling drifting and baseless - a place I rarely feel in the kitchen (although foolish and dim-witted are customary - when I err, I do so boldly and generally with great confidence).

This fine page-long account of pork, and I'm sure something more interesting and poetic, failed to come about since blogger seemed to seize up in some kind of cardiac arrest and refused to let me post, although I could read my own blog and even log in for a comment. Very odd. Today, mid-day writing again, I have lost that sense of purpose that I like having when I sit down to write. The pork is too distant at this point and feels dull. I was thinking about writing something profound about marriage vows, but I'm not quite in the right frame of mind. I think the cause is, as it was last time, the lack of lunch and ultimate which leads me ultimately into a heinously short attention span. Although today the object isn't throwing (although it's quite a nice day for it) so much as cleats which are still pressing. Apparently I have a hook-up in Philly who can bring me a pair (for free, I think) but I'd rather go to a store and buy some I can try on first. With these in hand (and a subsequent trip to TJs), my future is definitely looking up.