The players: A woman, 40s-ish; her teenage son; an Unrelated Observer. All are in line (also known as “on line”) at the checkout.

Son: Hey, we forgot something. Be right back. [Son dashes away and returns moments later with a box of granulated sugar.]
Mom: Why do we need sugar?
Son: For the Kool-Aid mix.
Mom: I’m pretty sure that has sugar in it. It’s in the mix already.
Son: No, we have to add sugar.
Mom (reading label): It says it has sugar…
Son (turning the package of Kool-Aid over): No, see? It says “reduced sugar.” So we have to add some.
Mom: Oh, okay, you’re right.

* * *

Sometimes when the car thuds over a bad frost heave I think the phrase “frost heave, a roadway,” to the tune of “Frosty the Snowman.” Try it yourself and see!

* * *

After three decades on this planet I have decided I like the taste of coconut. I have no idea why or how this happened. It reminds me of when I was thirteen, the year I grew three inches between April and July — what up, cells that form my being? Who’s in charge here?

* * *

I have read, or am reading, a long list of books right now, some for “work” and some for “pleasure” although there is a sizeable subset that qualifies as both — a most enjoyable turn of events. Highlights include Ed Lin’s This Is a Bust, which evokes New York’s Chinatown so vividly I can see the sidewalks, smell the eels in white plastic tubs; Sam Lipsyte’s The Ask, which I’d been saving for a treat and now cannot put down; Game Change, which is exactly the way you think it is; and fellow New England nonfiction buff Elyssa East’s Dogtown, which is both thrilling and impeccably researched.

FYI, southern Maine, events of note on the horizon: speaking of Ed Lin, he’s visiting Portland on Saturday, April 11. Don’t miss it. Also pay attention to “Heroic Tales from Portland” this Wednesday the 7th and the Maine Festival of the Book (April 9-11) — oh yes, and of course the first-ever Scratchpad Reading Series event on April 20.

Not bad for the little city. Not bad at all.

* * *

The post-procedure painkillers I popped half an hour ago are working their magic. My mouth has stopped hurting, the world’s edges have softened, my thoughts are verging on the grandiose. This is the point at which I should either stop typing or start typing faster.

A reliable source has suggested it’s time for bed. It probably is.

I’ve been feeling type-ish of late, despite having less time than ever to type things that are not on the regular typing schedule. Perhaps I will come back here and type for you soon. Perhaps I will even re-introduce the concept of “paragraphs,” which I’m told are all the rage these days. (LOL.)

Step 2. Fill two glasses with ice. Measure a generous shot of vodka into each glass. Your shot glass doesn’t have to have a picture of a loon on it, but why not? There is nothing wrong with New England pride.

Step 3. Open a bottle of apple juice. Organic, you shameless treehugging yuppie. (It must be noted, however, that this juice tastes a lot better than the stuff from concentrate.)

Step 4. Measure two generous shots of apple juice into each glass. Stir with an old red chopstick that you bought in Chinatown. Our drink is becoming multicultural!

Step 5. The finishing touch: a sprinkle of cinnamon. Rosemont Market, represent.

Step 6. Serve to a thirsty Southerner. Repeat as needed. (Thirsty Southerner optional, if you don’t have one handy or if you just don’t want to share.)

As I turned on to my block I thought I saw my neighbor A. getting out of a car, and I immediately conceived a fantastic line I could use in this exact situation:

Neighbor A: Hi, Mary.

MPS: Hi, A.

Neighbor A: Whatcha up to?

MPS: Oh, [gesturing] I’m just airing my kale.

Sadly, it wasn’t A. Also, that’s not funny?

Bonus! Recipe for Elitist Kale

• 1 big bunch of kale
• 1 big Vidalia onion, sliced thin
• some mild olive oil, preferably from a Socialist country, like Italy
• a couple tablespoons rice vinegar
• a couple drops toasted sesame oil
• sesame seeds, for garnish, optional
• salt

Slice the kale into ribbons, or just tear it with your hands if you’re feeling aggro. Chop up the tender bits of the stems too. Dump it all in a big colander and rinse well, then pat dry (but it’s good if a little water is left on the leaves). Heat up a tablespoon, thereabouts, of olive oil in a big pot and saute the onion. After it’s softened throw in the damp kale and cover the pot. Stir after five minutes; the kale is probably tender enough, but maybe it isn’t. Stir in a tablespoon or two of rice vinegar and add a couple drops of toasted sesame oil, plus however much salt you want. Serve hot or warm or cold with a sprinkle of sesame seeds and as much indignation as you can muster.

• A large pot
• Some measuring cups
• Water or chicken stock, water is probably the traditional way to go but if you’re really suffering, use chicken stock
• Some rice
• Something to stir with
• A considerate helper

Instructions:

1. Pour about 8 cups of water/stock into the pot. Realize you don’t have any regular white rice in the pantry. Measure out about a cup of brown rice and put it in the pot, along with two random tablespoons of Arborio rice, because why not. Put it on to boil.
2. Send your considerate helper to the store for scallions, dried mushrooms, ginger root and some cheap chicken parts.
3. Stir the rice on the stove. Blow your nose on toilet paper, tragically, because there is no more kleenex.
4. Text a few times with your considerate helper in re: the difference between green onions and scallions.
5. Develop a chill. Put on your scarf. Stir the rice some more. Let it cook a long time, until it looks like congee.
6. When your considerate helper returns, throw the dried mushrooms and ginger in the pot.
7. Poach the chicken. Save the broth for later. Chop up the scallions/green onions and some garlic. Put it on top of your bowl of congee, along with some shredded chicken.
8. Eat in bed while feeling sad, and suffering.