Almost forgot. Listening to Agatha Christie, the Secret of Chimneys

An amazing shot of damselflies on a plant. (Photo Roberto Aldrovandi)

USA. A breakfast counter. The waitress recommended the biscuits and gravy, and when the plate arrived, I thought something had gone wrong in the kitchen. I say this with shame. The dish looked like a construction site after rain. Pale mounds. Gray ladle-fall. Speckles I could not identify. In my land, the eye eats first. A meal is arranged like a garden. This meal was arranged like weather. "Is it… finished?" I asked, carefully. "Honey, that's what it looks like." The man beside me was already eating his. He did not look up. "Just try it." I am a man who has charged hillsides at dawn. I raised the fork. I tried it. I must now formally apologize to the biscuits, the gravy, the waitress, the kitchen, and the entire breakfast tradition of the American South. It was magnificent. Warm. Peppered. The biscuit drank the gravy the way a field drinks rain — THAT is why it is shaped like that, you fool — and every mound I had insulted was a soft fold of comfort that my homeland, in eight hundred years, never once thought to invent. "Well?" the waitress asked. "I judged it," I confessed. "By its appearance. I am ashamed." "Everybody does, hon." Everybody does. A national dish that forgives you for doubting it. It expects the doubt. It waits for you on the other side of it. Do not judge the gravy by its face. Judge yourself, for hesitating. I order it every Saturday now. I no longer see the construction site. I see only the garden. It was a garden the whole time. The eye must be trained.

If you get to ask JRR Tolkien one thing, what would you ask him?

I was afraid to eat the honey dew. I don’t know which would have been more heartbreaking, if it had been too sweet or too tasteless. It was perfect and in one bite it brought me back to my childhood, and you. There was sweetness wasn’t there? Since your death I don’t let my..

Learned a new word, scurryfunge. It's the manic cleaning you do to frantically tidy up when unannounced guests are on their way over. Also referred to as scurfing. It popped up in America in the 1770s. I think we have all been in the midst of a major scurryfunge at some point. 😆

Wanted to update everyone with the rules for the art competition: 1. Submissions are due by June 23rd and can be submitted by tagging @bookstiffany. 2. Submissions must include both a picture of the original piece as well as the re-creation. 3. There will be 3 categories: Best All-Round, Most Hilarious, Closest Copy. 4. You may make 3 submissions- one for each category. 5. AI submissions can be posted for humor (and I will gleefully repost) but will not be for prize consideration. Remember the Best All-Round winner will receive a custom bookmark by @whodamoose. Go check out his other AMAZING art at Father Son Woodcraft. Link in the comments below.

it’s ready!

Writing a new series in the subgenre grammatical horror; the MC's name is had. First sentence: Had had had enough.

I'd like to buy a vowel

The city of Sibiu in Romania, where buildings have eyes 📹 madelinevindel