The Berbere of April

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

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


  The berbere of April has arrived.  How can I do anything
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

.  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?


  1. I suppose it’d be even more hillarious if I admitted that I’m sore-like-a-first-time-weightlifter today. So I won’t admit that. Laugh away…

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