Safety Fork, the

I got home from work today, put on some music and read for a while before eating. After supper, I was falling asleep in the chair of nap-doom, at least until my last song by Die Prinzen finished playing. Since I was playing the music on my computer, my last song by Die Prinzen was immediately followed by my first—and only—song by Dinah Shore: “Shoo Fly Pie and Apple Pan Dowdy.” Despite the fact—and I should like it to be perfectly clear—that I have neither any idea what is “shoo fly pie,” nor any idea what is “apple pan dowdy,” I was instantly awakened from my near-slumber…and seized by a completely uncontrollable urge to bake a pie.

Perhaps it was karmic retribution for my Halloween costume. It took me three years to finally get around to making my promised animatronic disguise, but this year I attended Seth’s Halloween costume party as The Sims. I sort of avoided telling the other guests how one controls a sim—I mean, would you really want to be commanded by fifteen drunk people? But maybe someone accidentally directed me to “Serve Dessert.”

Whatever the underlying cause, in short order I was back from the grocer with ingredients. I peeled and sliced apples, which activity was immedieately followed by flailing about in an epileptic fit of pastry-making, during which I got flour on pretty much every part of myself mentionable in polite company. (Extraneous gesticulation may or may not have been caused by The Blues Brothers playing in the background).

So anyway, now I have this pie. If you just happen to show up at my door tomorrow, I won’t let you leave until you’ve eaten pie. If you want know where my door is, I’ll be perfectly happy to tell you, because I’m probably rotund enough without eating the whole thing by myself. Also, you know you want it. It’s cooling on my counter right now, and it smells great.

Mad props for inspiration go to Richelle, who I met at Seth’s Halloween party on Saturday.

I finished reading David Herbert Donald’s Lincoln this afternoon, and I wanted to write something pithy. I just don’t have anything, except to say that it was very well written, and that for an event so long past and so obviously expected, I was made surprisingly sad by Lincoln’s death at the end.

On my way to Decorah to visit John today I passed a roadsign which read, “Concentrate on Driving.” I promptly pulled out my cell phone to make a note so that I would remember the amusing sign.

I can tell the weather is getting cold when Rudolf (named in honor of his inventor) coughs out puffs of white smoke when turning over the first time—even after sitting out in the sun all afternoon.

Before attending the John Adams Society debate last evening, I went hat shopping. An acquaintance from the society had previously taken note of my top hat and suggested I might be interested in Heimie’s Haberdashery. I found the shop rather pleasing; it has an excellent atmosphere.

I had hoped to be able to try on some hats to find a style I think looks good. Unfortunately, I have an enormous head; the shopkeeper informed me that his suppliers literally do not make hats my size for stock. The largest they have is seven and a half. My head is size eight. If I like, however, he can have one made specially to fit—for a thirty dollar premium. I’m a bit tickled by the idea of having a custom-made hat, and the hats they did have were of very fine quality, but the resulting tag was alltogether too expensive to order on a whim. Besides, since I’d be ordering the hat custom, I’d have to specify how high I want the crown, and the width of the brim and band, and, not having had the opportunity to try on any hats, I don’t have too concrete an idea what I would want.

Perhaps I will make up my mind and order something for Christmas; it would still be less expensive than the camera lens I bought last year…