Happy Feast of St. Dominic

Go out and feed your inner greyhound.

Meanwhile, I am in the state of having made my timeline and finding that it looks too easy, which means that I have undoubtedly forgotten something crucial.

But, thanks to modern technology...and BLEACH!...my whites are dazzling. When I walk into the room, I will project the perfect image of cleanliness. The microbes will be afraid to come near anything I cook. They won't even want to be in the same room as me.

Don't do that in here! I run a clean kitchen. What do you think this is, an operating room?

There is something awfully nice about having your whites slightly blinding. It won't last all that long, but it is one of those great anticipatory moments, sort of like the parade at the start of the bullfight. You don't know if the bulls will be good, or if the matador y su cuadrilla is going to be up to the challenge, but the potential is there.

Baseball needs something like this. The first pitch and that silly flag squawking are lame compared to the opening of the bullfight. The umps should come in on horseback, make a ceremonial tour of the ballpark, as the players, managers, groundskeepers and bat boys march in in stately procession, salute the representative of the Commissioner, and then procede to their respective dugouts, as the organ plays "La Virgen de la Macarena."

Hey, now. That's an idea. When the cooking gig is over, I think I am going to arrange "La Virgen de la Macarena" for organ. I am sure the neighbors will love that, especially when played at full volume, fueled by half a bottle of tequila and punctuated by cries of "Ole!" and demonstrations of toreo al salon on the front yard at 2am.

Although it seems odd to still call it toreo al salon when it is done outdoors, although who has a large enough salon to wield a cape and shadowbox with imaginary miuras? Come to think of it, I have only seen toreo al salon done outdoors.