I can work Ryan Gosling into any conversation

hello, old friend

I have nothing extraordinary to report. I spent yesterday working and writing and being generally kind of maudlin and then spent about an hour and a half mowing the lawn, which turns out to be good exercise, as I've noted many, many times in the past. An added benefit to springtime mowing is it includes an annual game of lawn pick-up sticks. My hammies are killing me.

I love saying that.

I can report I'm starting to get one of those indents in my butt, the kind you get from exercise. It's an indent into the fat, but it's an indent nonetheless. I mean, I'll never have Ryan Gosling's ass...or body.... No matter how you interpret that sentence and whether it is within context or not, I'm saddened to realize that statement is 100% accurate.

I have to admit I feel a little absurd keeping this blog. I get more page views than I had anticipated, but the whole thing smacks of smugness, and a little ham. But, in case you're wondering, we cooked up the chicken and mushrooms that we purchased at the farmers market on Saturday. I tried to remove the skin from the chicken before brining it in sugar and salt, but I got so unbelievably skeeved out, Groom had to come in from working on his boat to do it for me.

And then he had to make me a martini. Does anyone else think touching a chicken is a lot like touching a dead person? Removing the skin is just eery.

Sidenote: my sister can debone a chicken in, like, minutes. I tried to find a picture of it, but couldn't pull one up. Instead, I offer you these pictures of my other sister and my older brother showing off their stupid human tricks this past summer. She can flip her tongue horizontally and he can hang five spoons from his face as well as pull his skin a clear three inches from his own face. That picture is too disturbing to post. I bring some excellent DNA to the table, don't I? (They are going to kill me.)

Back to the chicken. Braised; no skin; smothered in lemon rind, rosemary, and olive oil; and grilled with some lemon wedges while basting with a tiny bit of butter, dijon mustard, and lemon. The result? Heavenly. It tasted like grilled chicken with skin on it. Crazy good, not dry, super flavorful. Thank you, Cook's Illustrated. I attributed it to the recipe. Groom made sure to mention the chicken from Maine-ly Poultry in Warren was fresh and delicious. He's a better person than I am, level-headed and much more aware of others. It's so hard to be married to a saint.

We--and by "we," I of course mean "Groom"--also cooked up the mushrooms we got from Oyster Creek Mushroom Company with just a little butter and olive oil.

Overall, very rich and buttery-tasting, but actually a healthy meal. Until I totally dove into those fatty thighs--insert dirty joke here--and ate every last bit of chicken.

Today, I'm helping myself to some tuna with mustard and sesame dressing, but the thing I want to mention is the pickles. I found these Wickles at Brackett's, the IGA in Bath, and they are ridiculously good with tuna. My god, the picture looks disgusting, doesn't it?

Once I digest this pile of tuna, I plan to go to the Y. Odds are really good that I will instead mow the lawn and take a turn on the elliptical because, deep down, I am a hermit. A hermit who doesn't steal, but a hermit nonetheless.

Anyone else obsessed with the Maine Hermit? I would love to meet him. Does he understand Internet? Cell phones? The Kardashians? We have our own Rip Van Winkle. Did he come out of his tent and immediately proclaim his hatred of the Soviets or East Berlin or the Eastern Bloc? Does he still rally against Apartheid?

Is he sad Michael Jackson died?

(Too soon?)