I just made a crème brûlée. It is yummy and smooth and it has all the proper diacritic marks. It is supposed to have a crusty brown top but I couldn’t get the dish close enough to the broiler thingie. (Note to self: look up definition of “broil.”) So I suppose what I really made is a fancy custard that tastes really good and will add about three inches to my waistline. If you notice me looking pudgier, try not to remark on it, thanks.
The crème brûlée was made in my slow cooker, using one of the recipes from my new cookbook, to date the only cookbook that does not surpass my reading comprehension. Right now am sipping a gingerbread latte that I prepared last night (no diacritic mark necessary), and in another six hours I’ll have some gumbo to eat.
This is perfect. Why is this perfect? Because, in addition to the gumbo, the diacritic-free latte, and the pants-shrinking custard, it is snowing, for the second weekend in a row. I have two cats in bed with me and a third one actually used the second litter box I purchased expressly for his use.
I am going to go play in the snow now. For me it is a biological imperative, similar to the instinct that drives people in the south to mob the grocery store if rumor of a possible flurry shows up in the forecast. Here is something to entertain you while I’m gone.
[Commercial break sponsored by Tom Waits: Women’s Nonfiction: A Guide to Reading Interests is on sale now! You can drive it away today! One size fits all! No muss, no fuss, no spills! Lasts a lifetime! Don’t be fooled by cheap imitations! It’s a friend and it’s a companion and it’s the only product you will ever need! It never needs ironing! Batteries not included. Act now!
And, we’re back! I can report that we’re at five inches of snow and still going.
At the library the other day a guy came up to the desk and asked how to get on the computer. Upon seeing the temporary login numbers we hand to folks who, inexplicably, do not have a library card, he pointed out that the word “internet” ought to be capitalized in the sentence “Type this number to login to the internet.”
Isn’t it annoying when people point our your flaws? Unless it’s me doing the pointing. My criticisms are always helpful and informative. It’s obnoxious when anybody else does it. I feel sorry for the guy, though. He hadn’t realized he was tangling with the wrong grammar snob.
“Actually,” I explained, “unless a style guide specifically indicates otherwise, the word ‘internet’ is no longer capitalized. Several years ago Wired magazine announced that it would stop capitalizing it. The word is ubiquitous; no one needs the capital letter to clarify its meaning.”
Do. Not. Fuck with me. On grammar. You won’t win.
(Irony: the above moral is riddled with grammatical errors, but corrections would leech it of its power. Let’s sidestep the issue by turning it into a poem.)
Fuck with me
You won’t win.
Oh hey, that’s almost haiku! Here, let’s try this:
Do not fuck with me
On grammar. You won’t win. I
Am a grammar snob.
And now, because my poetry coffers are empty, I am going to foolishly post this without proofreading it. I am a glutton for irony. If it happens that there are some problems present, please refrain from pointing them out (remember, that sort of behavior is annoying and obnoxious) and instead understand that this post is simply an extended poem.