Today, while Ph. and I were throwing around a lacrosse ball in Thornden Park,
the good people from the USPS left a parcel at the door.  Ph. found it when
he ran back to the apt. to get a baseball glove because, after two catches, I
was already whining that the lacrosse ball was stinging my sensitive paws,
especially the one left with blister from yesterday’s Festival of Plunge (I
*did* eventually clear the drain last night, and then I cleaned the tub just to
remind the bathroom fixtures who’s in charge of the show).  And inside the
package?  A double-bagged pound of

berbere powder and two handwritten notes, one each from good friends and
former colleagues back in KC,

E. and

M.  The berbere of April has arrived.  How can I do anything
but cook some for the Final Four tomorrow? 

Which reminds me.  You know two weeks ago when I flew into Rochester? 
The guy who drove me all the way to Syracuse knew all about the Ethiopian
restaurants in Rochester.  And he knew how to make

injera.  Behind all of that complaining, I got to talk for 90 minutes
about how to make injera.  Nah, still not sure whether I’ll have time to
give it a try tomorrow, but I can make the sauce either way.

Other than celebrating the berbere of April, I’ve used up the better part of one good day smoothing out a
proposal for the
Contesting Public Memories conference here at SU in the fall.  Read a
few weblogs.  Goofed around with a new-but-barely-used miniature web cam. Wrote a few lines for an independent study proposal. Ate some Ruffles.
Yeah, that’s about all.  It’s going to be a busy month; no need to
over-exert myself on the first day, right?