We watched a few episodes of Chappelle ourselves last night. Too bad the guy cracked up -- I'd been looking forward to the next season. When Alane and I went to bed I talked to her like I was Rick James; she's had just about enough of me.

I got up early this morning to get the meatballs rolling. John Paul insisted on helping -- I had him sprinkle spices over the meat-bowl while I combined everything. I urged him to say "BAM!" as he shook on the dried parsley, but he was less interested in imitating Emeril than in being Emeril. A few minutes later I started to roll out the actual meatballs and place them on the tray (because these days we cook them in the broiler before dropping them in the sauce -- it blasts the grease out and gets them just as brown). John Paul watched very carefully as I rolled them. He picked out one that was larger than the others. "That's the daddy meatball. These are the children meatballs."

I tried to concentrate through tears of diced-onion and the fumes of fresh-grated cheese. I added more meat-spheres to the tray.

"This is a cousin Steve meatball. This is grandma. And grandpa..."

When he ran out of family, he started naming meatballs for classmates. Then Mojo started in, wanted some of his classmates included (fortunately, he doesn't keep track of many people's snames, so his input was minimal).

Anyway, we're in good shape so far today: all of John Paul's friends and family have been roasted and tossed in a simmering gravy. I've showered and shaved and will shortly go to Mass. After that, I'm starting on that giant bottle of Fortissimo that I bought yesterday. That'll unleash some college memories for sure...