Your leaking thatched hut during the restoration of a pre-Enlightenment state.


Hello, my name is Judas Gutenberg and this is my blaag (pronounced as you would the vomit noise "hyroop-bleuach").


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Like my brownhouse:
   in search of gluten free pizza dough
Saturday, January 17 2009
It was nine below zero last night, but again the coldest temperatures registered in the greenhouse remained 30 degrees.
Today I went off on one of my errands to get provisions, including a new microwave oven to replace the underperforming unit I'd picked up for $10 at a yard sale this summer. Actually I was perfectly happy with that one, but Gretchen (who does nearly all of the cooking) was not, so the new oven would be a birthday present. Getting the oven proved easier than another assignment: the purchase of some gluten-free pizza dough. We'd be having a birthday party for Gretchen tomorrow, and vegan pizza would be one of the main forms of non-liquid sustenance offered. Unfortunately, though, we have a good number of friends who seem to think they are allergic to gluten. So there I was trying to find something to make them happy. I tried Hannaford, even asking for help, but came up with nothing. So then I went to Adam's Fairacre Farms. Those guys have everything a member of a coastal elite could possibly imagine masticating and swallowing, but it turns out that they don't stock gluten-free pizza dough. One of their employees, an attractive young woman with a repaired harelip, told me so when again I did that thing that I hate doing: asking. (Yet another example of how I am just another typical ballsack-swinging dude underneath my love of cats and lack of interest in athletics.)

Meanwhile Gretchen was spending nearly the entire day in the kitchen, preparing food for her own birthday party tomorrow. She'd been ambivalent about this party since inviting all her friends to it two weeks ago, and now that weather was threatening it, she was beginning to wonder if all her cooking was in vain.

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