I pity the poor fool who finds himself on the wrong end of my frying pan

People. You don't even understand how great this new pan is. It is fifteen and one-quarter inches across. I have a 13 1/4 quart enameled cast iron pot that I call my baby cooker because it's a morbidly descriptive term for the pan's capacity. And I hereby christen my new pan the baby fryer. Have I mentioned that The Gashlycrumb Tinies is a favorite book of mine? Well, it's not, so I'm okay to keep being a parent, DCFS people. Nobody macabre in this house!

The house tour went well and Joan brought me a thank you/penance loaf of very exciting-looking bread that I'm eager to try. I am a sucker for bread with seeds in it. But it has to be moist, right? Why is so much bread all dry and crumbly and glum-glum?

On my way home from buying my pan and this glorious knife for my in-laws:

I may have also bought one for myself for my birthday, used it last night, and been unable to shut up already about how it was the best serrated knife EVAH, thereby convincing them that they needed to own one.

I stopped and bought thirty pounds of pitted pie cherries. Because I am not yanking chains of anyone with yankable chains, that sour cherry jam will give you religion. And I want to be really, really religious. Coincidentally, the aforementioned baby cooker is also the right size to do a hella batch of jam.

Now I'm going to go scream at my children about the Grass Cloth semi-gloss interior latex they were kind enough to spill all over the family room carpet and couch. I like that they let it dribble out of the can for a good few hours before they came to me to confess just now. I'd better grab the frying pan.