I'm standing at the kitchen counter just now, browning some beef shanks and sausage in order to get the gravy on and I'm noticing as I gaze out the window... it's still dark.

Crazy around here this time of year -- we don't get daylight until almost 7:30. Everyone else is still asleep, but I got the Sunday ritual under well. This sauce is going to simmer for eight hours. Even if we do have that Mass at 9 with the Cub Scout pack.

And what is a ritual anyway? Versus something that's just a good idea. On Monday we celebrated Columbus Day by driving to the Whole Foods on the east side of town. That's the second year in a row we did that -- using a day that Da Chimpz had school to indulge ourselves with pretentious food. It was fun. Got myself, among other things, a couple of small pumpkins.

We already hacked one to death. That was Friday night, where I cleaned it out, par-boiled the big shards, skinned it, then roasted it with nutmeg, butter, and some brown sugar. Nice.

Another ritual that's developing around here is group-viewing of YouTube videos. With the Apple TV the browsing and the video is all on the big screen. So we sit and watch videos (which explains why the boys walk around these days saying "This is Spartaaaa-aaagh!").

Yesterday we were watching clips about risotto. The dish made from short-grain rice (not the excellent album from Fluke). Cookie and I screened a few clips, and then we got to this guy.

First of all, I love the way this guy talks. Second, Cookie couldn't understand anything he said. Third, the first two things are very related.

So last night Cookie and I actually decided to make a risotto -- to go along with the pork chops and asparagus we would be having for dinner. Got everything lined up: the rice, the broth, the leftover pumpkin. It was quite the fire drill, if only because I was trying to get Cookie hands-on access to each step. Watching him chop the ends off the onion was nerve-wracking -- but all went well. By the end of what seemed an eternity we had a pumpkin risotto that neither Cookie nor Mojo liked very much. But I did -- had to cut myself off, because I would've eaten the stuff until I popped.

But that's what I do these days, now that I'm avoiding the gluten: latching onto anything that'll fill me up. (We bought a few of gluten-free products on Monday -- most of which were decidedly not delicious.)

I still like to walk around the house saying the word: ankylosing.

I'm glad Samizdata showed me this Mises quote the other day. I wonder if Frylock has anything to add?

At the bottom of the interventionist argument there is always the idea that the government or the state is an entity outside and above the social process of production, that it owns something which is not derived from taxing its subjects, and that it can spend this mythical something for definite purposes. This is the Santa Claus fable raised by Lord Keynes to the dignity of an economic doctrine and enthusiastically endorsed by all those who expect personal advantage from government spending. As against these popular fallacies there is need to emphasize the truism that a government can spend or invest only what it takes away from its citizens and that its additional spending and investment curtails the citizens’ spending and investment to the full extent of its quantity.

We've gotten ourselves in some serious trouble, and all we keep doing is piling on more of the same. It's not sustainable.

Heh: if you fail to honor Dear Leader the terrorists will win.

How is The Onion going to stay in business?

Remember when Ren and Stimpy became "the first cat and chihuaha to pass through the eye of a black hole"? They climbed a mountain of stinky socks and Ren imagined himself winning a million bucks and the Nobel Peace Prize.

Get it? All he had to do was find socks! He didn't have to liberate any dangerous nations or restore democracy to any previously-oppressed peoples. Just find lost sock and win! See, it's funny because it's true!

Eh, that's the problem with utopianism. It's all fun and games until people stop playing along. They got whole history books on what happens then. Gird your loins.

In other tales of Fabian ecstasy, I was in NYC earlier in the week. Now there's another collective that can't wait to go bankrupt. Wednesday was such a windy day that I knew my flight out would be delayed, so I kept checking the website. And the website kept telling me "on time." I knew enough to be wary, telling people in the office: "They usually wait until I get to the gate to announce that a flight is late."

But I got myself signed up for an e-mail alert anyway. Two hours before the departure time they sent a message saying "on time." I got to the airport itself and the monitor near ticketing said "on time." I went through security, got to my gate and that's when the e-mail hit my Blackberry telling me the flight would be late.

Asshats. I knew it all along. What kills me is this: so did they.