Here's what my friends do on Sunday mornings when they roost at my house.

I believe at one point during the morning I blurted out, "We bought bigger and better couches, and here we are, piled up in the far smaller room on the far smaller couches.  This makes no sense to me."

Things I love about this photo that aren't immediately obvious:

How I managed to forget to document this recipe last year, I do not know, but I did.

This is the bread dip of great evil I break out only once a year: PHE*.  When you read over the ingredients, you'll understand why; our arteries really can't cope with having this dip with any greater frequency.

Ingredients

• 1 head garlic, roasted. (At least ten cloves. You want more than that. Be bold.)
• 1 pound unsalted butter
• 1 pint heavy cream
• 1 can (about 6 fillets) anchovies
• salt, if desired
• white pepper, if desired

Directions

Roast the garlic. (We assume you know how to do that.) Mash the peeled garlic cloves together with the anchovies into a smooth paste. Melt the butter into the cream.  Add the anchovy-garlic mixture. Simmer on low until flavors meld.

I will be glad when this is over.

This has been a two-week span in which it felt like nothing went right, in which events would seem to fall into place only to spin out, away from my hands, out of my control yet again. Repeat ad infinitum, two weeks and counting.

I thought meltdowns were supposed to be teary, sobbing water fountains.  Instead, it was the hollowness of sitting on my spot on the couch on a Sunday morning and realizing I felt out of my depth, overwhelmed, and unable to exert any kind of control over the situation.

A situation which, Jeff has reminded me, I couldn't have fixed from the start.

* * * * *

If you're attending PHE, please go to http://domesticat.net/phe2009 and give us an idea of your crashspace & meal needs.  Planning has commenced.

For those of you far and near, a hug and a toast. We are in our comfortable clothes, Jeff and I, me tapping out words on a keyboard while he tidies the computer room behind me. We have plans for the evening, quiet plans with a new set of friends; with PHE falling shortly after New Year's, this holiday tends to be a calm weekend of preparation for us.It's found me doing everything from replacing burnt-out bulbs in the foyer to doing initial prep work for the PHE bar. I'm best described as living in a state of constant, low-level nervousness and excitement.

In life, there is a continuum between money and time. Most people, in order to make the amount of money they want to have in their lives, must sacrifice time. Those who want lots of time must give up money.

Money's good.
No time for writing.

Current temp is 102°F. I am currently incubating some nonspecific virus—that is not influenza—which currently thinks I am teh hawtness.

Or it's making me that. Whatever.

Jeff is tending me, all but putting the ibuprofen in my mouth every six hours, and bringing me things like Gatorade and cool washcloths for my neck.

Note to self. Keep spouse.

At least PHE is over. I can take as long as I need to get well. There's no timetable.

We are nearly prepared. Yes, PHE 2006 is just about to land on us, and land on us with this sickening, alcoholic *thump*.The RSVP list currently stands somewhere around 40. There will be thirteen people staying in our house alone. I have a fridge full of food, and I'm not done yet.

I have a sweater to finish knitting for Saturday—if I'm diligent, I will finish tonight.

In my brain, the storm-signal flags are at 'PHE hurricane warning' level: instead of black-on-red squares, blue-on-white squares with little penguins at the bottom. Not to mention the little dusty white fingerprints from the all-purpose flour I've been going through like water.

Oatmeal cookies? Check.
Gingerpeople? Check.
Molasses spice cookies? Tomorrow.
Chocolate chip cookies? Not gonna bother until Saturday and Sunday.

Yep, gingerpeople. They're androgynous, chubby little things. Yet strangely delicious when you bite their little heads off. (Remember, if you don't give the cookies mouths, they can't scream when you do that.)

Monday night: "Uh, I don't think we should go to the movies tonight. I feel kinda funny. I'm gonna lie down, I think."

Tuesday: "Why does this thermometer say my temp is 102°F?"

Wednesday morning, Dr. Fisher: "You have the flu, Jeff. Here's a prescription for Tamiflu. Don't go back to work before Monday."