batting cleanup.

Above: my dad makes some pretty great meatballs, I guess for me pretty much the quintessential meatball.

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So yeah I'm in Phoenix, the weather isn't quite as awesome as it looks like it is, it's a little on the cool side, but still, yes, I wore shorts yesterday while running after baseballs that were hit over the fence onto the mountain playing baseball with the knuckleheads.

As always, cooking here is a fun exercise in using whatever incredible surplus of ingredients my packrat of a dad has stockpiled. Right now the immediate candidates for restructuring are: salmon, lots of salmon; about six cups of tomatoes that need to turn into something rather urgently; and a piece of seared/rare tuna. I'm thinking.

Remind me to tell you about Cole's burgeoning relationship with profanity. Cole to my mom: "Nan, I can't get that word out of my mind. I just keep saying it quietly to myself, F-U-C-K, F-U-C-K, F-U-C-K." He's seven. "Sometimes Dylan and I just whisper shit damn and fuck to each other."

He also wants to know why he can't have sex with his dog.

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