I begin to look forward to hearing Tony's songs on the radio these days. I wonder what it's like to be a rock star of his magnatude with lots of people around and taking care of you and wanting to see you and be with you, and I imagine he likely doesn't get much of a moment to himself. The tapes are no longer hiding in my sock drawer, but I haven't been playing them either. I keep them next to pile on the counter.

I have perhaps way too much time to myself. I do have a lot to do. The house is never clean, no matter what I do, and there is always baking. I am glad our church has a weekly bake sale for this, that and the other thing every week, as I have excuses to make things. There is somehting so satisfactory about beating a mixture with the smell of cinnamon warmly rising through the air, or chocolate melting in the double-boiler. Schafenberger for cooking. Lindt for eating. And everyone really ought to make their own vanilla at least once- I don't care how hard it is to get Everclear or Madagascar vanilla beans!

One may think that with all of these sweets I may be a bit too fat. But I cured myself of wanting to eat these baked goods by working in a bakery when I was younger. I love the smell and the look and the effort, but not so much of the taste. And Frank, of course, enjoys it.

Frank is appreciative of anything I cook. Once, just to test the issue, I burned the biscuits and served almost raw chicken. He wanted seconds. Strange man.  ¶ 7:48 AM