Something bad happens to my brain when I don't get enough sleep. Oh, yes, there's the crankiness, but my baseline a.m. grump level is sufficiently high so as to render any temporary spike imperceptible.
No, the bad thing to which I refer is the complete lack of mental cohesion I experience. This is why I didn't write at all for the twelve years I was either pregnant or nursing. I can't string two thoughts together for the life of me when I'm this tired. Today, don't call me Ishmael; instead call me 'Randomina.' Or 'Randomella.' 'Randi,' for short--but make sure to dot that 'i' with a little heart, or I'll subtract points for misspelling.
Someone who has been a close friend of mine for 19 years, yet shall remain nameless so that I can pay finger service to preserving his illusion of privacy, sends me links to unusual websites once in a while. It used to be that when he did this, I would think, "Where does he find this stuff? And, more importantly, why?"
I don't wonder anymore, because now I know the answers to both questions. It's the wonder of that random place we call The Internet. Can you fathom the magic, the wizardry, the genius of something that rewards you for typing the words 'watermelon sculpture' into a little box with something like this?
I'm going to brunch this morning at groovy gal Kara's house. Kara is great at co-piloting flights of random thoughts when it's just the two of us, but today there will also be in attendance a bunch of really smart moms whom I have not met before. I'm very concerned I won't make a good first impression. And apparently they are all dieting, which means I can't win them over by bringing Sour Cream Blueberry Muffins, or something similarly brunchy and delicious.
Do you think that if I quickly Bedazzle a T-shirt with the message "Please Like Me" and wear it, they'll obey without noticing? Of course, I'd have to get my hands on a Bedazzler first...perhaps I need another plan.
Speaking of Sour Cream Blueberry Muffins--Ann Hodgman, the funniest food writer ever, once dedicated a cookbook to Keanu Reeves. I'm reasonably sure that a) she doesn't know Keanu personally; and b) Keanu has some sort of eating disorder that would drastically limit his appreciation of Ann's culinary brilliance. Whether or not my suspicions are true, her quixotic gesture endears Ann to me all the more.
And now, I offer you a recipe. Not for the muffins; that belongs to Ann. But following in Ann's footsteps, I dedicate this recipe to someone whom I admire from afar. Ed Robertson, this one's for you.
Birchmount Potato Salad