So I retreated to the basement early this afternoon to escape the tumult of having Da Chimpz at home, planning to watch a little TV and call Guido to tell him about the wacky stuff we saw at motocross last night (no shit, we went to motocross at the Gund Arena). We had just gotten back from an open house at the school so I turned the stove back on to heat the precious meatballs, sausage, and veal-slab that were floating luxuriously in that thick red sauce. In fact, I turned it up higher than I normally would -- wanting to get it back to the even simmer that would take us to dinnertime.

As usual, there was nothing on TV. So I dialed the phone and talked to Kay for a bit. Then Guido got on the phone and I told him about the wacky motorcycle stunts we saw last night, described Cookie's hypnotic captivation, and then asked him to read me the name of that weaponized grappa we drank week before last. For the record, it was Travarica -- the finest in Serbo-Croation chemical warfare; a gift from Andre when I saw him last month (thanks, Foz, I think). If anyone feels compelled to try it, you can order it and other herb-infused turpentines of various grades at this site.

I jotted down the name of the stuff, planning to do some toxicology searches on the internet, then strolled upstairs to an acrid smell that filled the kitchen. The sauce! I hung up the phone and pulled the steam-tossed lid off the pot -- the tomato sauce was in a rolling boil over a much-too-high heat and I could tell the bottom was badly burned. I quickly grabbed another pot and poured the burnt pot's contents into it. Anything stuck to the bottom (and there was quite a bit) would not be salvaged.

What I poured off... was not bad. Not bad at all. In fact, I didn't notice any burnt taste as we ate our penne (with the sauted broccoli-rabe on the side, yum). I dodged a bullet that I had accidentally fired right into the gut of my Sunday.

Could use some of that poison grappa right about now to soak the burnt pot...