It's a bird! It's a brain! No, it's dinner and hilarity and a cat.

You guys! Doesn't my omelet look like a cross-section of brain? Three eggs, thyme and parsley, salt and pepper and some Bûcheron (aged goat cheese) made for an outstanding meal. Despite its appearance. I ate it with one of those slices of bread (the seriously buttered one) and then slathered the other slice with some plum-basil jam and called it dessert. Mah-velous!

After school today, I suggested to the boys that we walk to Starbucks and get a little treat. On the way, Jack described his class discussion on James and the Giant Peach and then asked: "Mom, do you know that the centipede is VERY rude AND says bad words?"

Oliver, mischievously gimlet-eyed, queried, "Ooh, what words?"

Me: "Yeah, what words? Like actual bad words?" as I thought to myself, "Did Roald Dahl actually write cuss words in his text? That's a bit awesome."

Jack: "Well, the centipede calls everyone idiots and dimwits and ninecompoops [sic] and...." His voice dropped to a whisper and I said "It's NINcompoop, not ninecompoop" just before he said, "the A-word."

Me: "What's the A-word?"

Jack, in a whisper: "Ass and asses."

Oliver, not in a whisper: "I know! Asshole!"

Jack: "Oh my god, Oliver, NO!"

Me: "Good lord, Oliver. I appreciate that you know that it starts with an A though. Wow!"

At that point I decided to be honest with the children and share my opinion that cuss words are extant for a reason: They don't do the job of their vanilla compatriots. Darn is most definitely not damn in many a sitch.

I mean, "That darn thief. He robbed me blind. What a butt!" does NOT, in any way, express what does, "That damn thief! What an asshole!"

You feel me?

So I said I rather admired Dahl and his centipede's authenticity and that if cussing and coffee and wine were my worst vices as I raised the boys, really, they'll be fine.

They tittered and seemed to concur. We were a jovial trio until Oliver went ape because I refused to buy him his own copy of the "Cook's One Line a Day" five-year culinary memory book that I bought for myself on clearance. Does he cook or much read? No. So really, what is he going to do with said journal, even if it was only $3.97.

Anyway, once home he cried for a good 20 while Jack and I ignored him. And then suddenly, we noticed the most magnificent sunset which ended all too quickly but brought a terrific quiet over the house. Then we realized Nutmeg had escaped, but bygones.

He finally came home and in typically self-aggrandizing fashion went and sat by the gifts I put under the tree today. He really is a hot mess of a present, and I love him.

Love at 10: styptics and cheese straws

A month ago, Tom gave me a styptic pencil. He'd ordered it because my weird body had managed to grow a pyogenic granuloma (PG), aka a flesh-colored mole-type thing that spurts blood at random intervals like a pissy volcano. Long story short, it's annoying, unbecoming and gross, and never in my life have I ever actually appreciated the little round Band-aids that come in every assorted Band-aid box. Until the past two months. When I needed them. And now have used all I'd acquired in a decade.

Anyway, because my PG sucker would bleed with even a sideways glance, T bought me a styptic, and I have used and traveled with it since. The styptic is an antihemorrhagic compound shaped into a pen-like object, encased in a handy travel container, that heals injured blood vessels in their weeping tracks.

Finally, having waited for weeks to get in to my dermatologist, I today had my PG removed. Dr. said, "You sure do get the rarest and most random of ailments." Cue memory of rogue bone growing subdermally in my hairline. And random mole on bottom of foot that I discovered when toying with Tom's loupe (only my darling nerd husband owns a loupe for no good reason) and thought, "Hell, that is ugly!" And weird spot on lower back. And stupid lipoma in upper back. And so forth. And so today, my PG. Not to be confused with the other dermatological PG whose G refers to gangrenosis. THANK GOD because who wants anything that has "gangren" as a starter-word.

I packed my styptic away once home and then cast my eyes upon my newest gift: a Marcato Biscuits Machine.

Now why, pray tell, would hubs have gifted me with an Italian-made cookie press? Em-i-lis tends not to make or enjoy cookies, so why? Why? Why?

Well, for love. Because this girl -moi!- wants to make cheese straws a la Louisiana and that dough is hard as balls to press through anything.

Cheese straws simply must be pressed through a star-shaped plate. Otherwise they look like turds -not authentic- and don't crisp as nicely. In recent years, I've been using the truly vintage Mirro Cookey Press I inherited when Tom's paternal grandmother passed away. It is/was an aluminum crank press that lacked seriously in the leverage department but has many swell plates and is not plastic. Ah, the good old days. With much sweat, exertion and determination, I've used that press to grind out dozens of cheese straws.

This year, it gave out. And I have been on a tear to replace it. This past Sunday, I forced T to Sur la Table to investigate the Kuhn Rikon press. It has a caulk-gun-like lever but is plastic, so I was skeptical. It did not work and was returned.

At that point, desperation took hold and I hand-rolled cheese straws. T concurred that they looked like turds and lacked appropriate crisp and sooner than I knew it, a metal Marcato press was at my doorstep.

It is smart-looking, yes? I let my dough come to room temp, loaded it in and started caulking my parchment-lined sheet. No dice, people. I think I was scared. This is such a press! Overkill, really. So I left everything at the ready for T who jumped in with abandon, and damn if all my star-shaped straws aren't cool and happy and made now.

We may not have many date nights anymore, and if we do, they tend to be of the on-the-couch-in-pjs variety, but in the past couple months, I've been given a styptic pencil and a cheese straw press in sweet attempts to better my life. And after 10+ years of marriage, and great kids who nonetheless exhaust us and pets who are spoiled animal-humans, I love my blood-stopper and my insanely well-engineered, riveted press.

And that's love I think.

OMG/Peace

Ol was up all night last night puking. It was chock full of salmon, covered two beds and was so vile that Tom nearly booted too. Ol and I ended up in the basement where we slept fitfully -periodic yakking will do that to you- but sweetly until it became clear that he was not going to school today. Nutmeg seemed enthused by this outward tossing and subsequently puked huge ribbons of just-eaten cat food all over our dining room. Later, I found small pools of Nut pee in the kids costume bins. Cuz it seems he has another UTI.

Needless to say, I won a medal today for sheer amount of laundry done.

Currently, Percy, who, in unanimity? support? jealousy? stupidity?, sprayed the basement couch with a wreath of urine today too, is sleeping in my left armpit, having just wiped his soggy eye boogers on my previously-clean shirt. #newitemforlaundrybin

And Jack, who I've officially tucked in eight times now, tried to convince me during his last trip downstairs that yes indeed he had washed his face even though his cheeks maintained a thin film of peanut butter from which hung celery strings and an ort of raisin. This "mask" betrayed him and he finally agreed to really wash up.

Despite this utter nutbagness, I am in good spirits because I:

• made two Reine de Saba cakes today;
• heard that all the food I catered to last night's party was "amazing" and a complete success;
• smiled enormously when I pondered two recent compliments [1. I have been given the nickname Gams Grossi as tribute to legs and last name. and 2. I was told that my Daily Em-i-lis is a much-admired acquaintance's 'morning coffee.'];
• thrilled when two women whom I love and admire told me 1. "You, on a regular basis, inspire/empower me to use my voice." and 2. "You give others permission to feel/voice things honestly."
• have completely and unabashedly come to terms with my adoration of olive oil; and
• laughed out loud and with utter appreciation when, during our had-to-happen trip to the mall today (Jack needs specific attire for his holiday concert which is on Friday), Oliver said as we bought more than we'd intended, "Well, you did say bringing me shopping with you could be dangerous."

HAH!

I don't often feel comfortable tooting my own horn, but shit, people, after all the puke and pee and endless rain and general assorted crap, I'm tooting away over here tonight. Just tooting to beat sixty, and I'm cool with that.

I roasted a celery root for dinner -random; obviously husband is not here- and ate the whole thing in front of a lovely fire whilst doing a crossword and sipping some wine. And now I wish to leave you with two articles.

One, the 2014 Haters Guide to the Williams-Sonoma catalog, is funny as balls. Literally, it almost shouldn't be legal to laugh that hard as tiny droplets of snot fly from each nostril over and over and over again. The second, about racial bias, is as serious and important as the Wms-Sonoma biz is crazy-funny.

You're welcome.

Goodnight!