My father called me up . . .

. . . to wish me a happy birthday, and to talk to me about the writings of St. Anselm. Specifically the bit that includes "Chew by thinking, suck by understanding, swallow by loving and rejoicing. Be glad to chew, be thankful to suck, rejoice to swallow." (The actual text is at that point comparing Jesus/salvation to a honeycomb; whether or not this is more or less suggestive is apparently debatable. It did, however, provoke ibnfirnas into exclaiming, "Sweet, waxy Lord!", which is worth the effort overall.)

Dad's lady friend (the university theology professor) has this posted on her office door at the moment, apparently. And nobody has commented.

This is what passes for normal conversation with us.


I have made the cake that I said I'd make. I feel horrible. I hope that this passes and thus that I can be at least marginally useful tomorrow, but I have a horrible feeling that I'm not going to be doing any better than making frosting and whimpering occasionally.