Combustion overdose

This afternoon, I cooked duck for the first time. I could have done without the grease fire as I poured out the rendered fat or the smoke alarm that helpfully informed me there was danger of fire (I think I liked them better before they talked), but since the ultimate result of the experiment was a deliciously sautéed duck breast, I am not so displeased. The weather is dismal and cold; I still have student papers to grade; I really hadn't wanted to go out for lunch. Next time, I'll remember to turn off the burners when disposing of the fat, the pan lid will be within easy reach, and I'll see about sauces. Mmm. Duck.*

And since I do have those papers to finish, in other news—

erzebet spreads the gospel of moss graffiti. The beer component of this project continues to amuse me. That way lies oracular moss.

hans_the_bold responds to my Gor post, for which I suppose neither of us still has a valid excuse.

I still want a Jill Tracy corpse cooler T-shirt. It will go along with the exactly two other band T-shirts I own: the Dresden Dolls and My Favorite. I wish author T-shirts were as much of a phenomenon.

*My family raised ducklings for a few years when I was a child. They were adorable. My brother and I were dearly fond of each year's crop, and far too many were named after the protagonists of Make Way for Ducklings. Yet this has never, for whatever perverse culinary reasons, stopped me from considering duck one of my favorite foods—is it my fault they grow up so plump and tasty? I can't help it. I'm not built to regard "cute" as a synonym for "inedible." If I were a plant, I'd be the carnivorous kind.