CleanTalk, the comment spam filtering service that I use to allow me to reasonably maintain the ability to accept comments here, reports that in the last week it filtered 51,821 spam comments and allowed 12 legitimate ones.

Most of the spam comments were SQL injection attempts from hosts in the Russian Federation and Germany.

While CleanTalk is doing an excellent job at filtering–it let through exactly zero spam and filtered out exactly zero ham–it’s exhausting to consider the amount of the Internet’s capacity that is taken up with attempts to undermine it.

Finally the anti-golfing movement takes hold on the Island.

Went poetry shopping with Oliver.

Went poetry shopping for the first time ever.

I’ll take a Tanya Davis, to go, please.

And I’ll plant it in the snow.

Short of ironing my shirts on those weeks I’m on the job in New Hampshire—a habit I learned from brother Johnny—I have never been an ironer. And I’ve absolutely never ironed pillow cases. But when life hands you entropy, you fight back with every bit of negentropy in your arsenal.

Twenty years ago last week my friend Catherine Hennessey started blogging.

And then she kept at it for three years, eventually writing more than 200 posts. Enough to turn into a book.

It’s always given me great satisfaction that Catherine was one of the people who invented this new medium, and that I was there to help.

Congratulations, Catherine!

I do so aspire to a fashion sensibility.

Back in April, at a campaign event in Summerside, I snapped a quick photo of Alex Tyrrell, leader of the Green Party of Quebec, wearing a smart black shirt and yellow trousers and I thought “that’s who I want to be.”

But I fear that I don’t have what it takes.

No patience for shopping.

No ability to shop.

Depression-era frugality baked deep into my DNA.

The component parts just aren’t there.

But you know what I can do: retire the grey sweater.

I’ve been wearing this grey particular sweater for a long, long, long time.

Here’s my first recorded photo of it, from June 6, 2006–14 years ago!–a selfie of me and Oliver at Legoland in Denmark:

Here it is in our 2014 family Christmas photo, 8 years later:

Here’s an appearance it made in 2015, while I was promoting The Old Farmer’s Almanac:

And two years later, in front of the late, lamented My Plum, My Duck:

It’s a Denver Hayes-brand sweater, which means it came originally from Mark’s Work Wearhouse, which isn’t even called that any longer.

And while it once may have been acceptable attire, I’ve been overlooking the fact that there’s been a hole in one of the underarms for several years, and that there’s been a hole in one of the arms for several months.

While both of these are, technically, darnable, there’s a larger issue that the sweater, due repeated use, has become a formless grey void:

It’s my very favourite sweater.

It’s comfortable. And familiar. And warm.

But it’s time to say goodbye.

I stopped at KC Clothing this afternoon while I was on my way to a plasma donation and found two new sweaters to replace it.

So that’s what you’ll see me around town in. At least until the snow’s gone and summer sets in.

My frugal DNA won’t allow me to actually throw my faithful grey sweater away, so it will go into the “things to wear while fiberglassing a kayak” section of the closet.

Goodbye old friend.

A commendable example of living the obligation to explain from they of Hundred Rabbits; in part:

Our head was previously equipped with a solar fan, an accessory not suited to offshore waters. It came with the boat. With this fan, waves that washed over the deck would sometimes come spilling inside — not ideal. When in the head, in your private time, the last thing you want is to have a salt water shower.

All reports from his adoptive family are that Ethan is thriving and is much-loved. I do miss him so, especially those times he would climb up on my lap, despite his 65 pounds, and fall asleep.

My grandmother Nettie’s signature dessert was her apple strudel. It was served at all family occasions. Not only was it very good, but it was made from phyllo pastry that she made herself, from scratch, a miracle of patience and technique.

As I was going through Catherine’s things a couple of weeks ago, I came across a laminated copy of Nana’s strudel recipe stuck between a couple of cookbooks on the bookshelf. I set it aside, with thoughts that I might make it myself someday; opportunity presented itself this weekend when we were invited to the multicultural potluck lunch tomorrow at St. Paul’s Anglican Church. We will be the Croatian contingent.

Setting out to actually make the strudel this evening, I realized that Nana’s recipe was very heavy on the phyllo making and very light on the strudel making. This makes sense: when you’re making your own phyllo, the strudel part, time- and complexity-wise, is insignificant.

I wasn’t up to making phyllo from scratch, however, and so I was left to follow her scant instructions at the very end for the strudel, and to wing it from there. I had the benefit of having watched her make it many times, but that was over 30 years ago.

I’m rather proud of the result. It’s demonstrably apple strudel. I could have used more phyllo, and kept the apples away from the edges, but the result is pleasantly tart, with a hint of cinnamon and walnuts, and while nowhere near as good as Nana’s, it’s a credible homage.

If you are a parishioner at St. Paul’s, there will be a dozen pieces up for grabs tomorrow morning.

Nanci Griffith Love at the Five & Dime, recorded live at Anderson Fair in Houston in 1988. Such a talent.