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Having been single for four years now, my long road of self-discovery has turned up a few real gems, and a few odd lumps of what I sincerely hope is just a form of sticky, black coal.

I have small binder that I call The Book Of Secrets: Notes from the 1980s, small pieces of paper, six photographs, a Kamikaze headband from my first solo flight, an empty bag of popcorn.

Although you’d never guess it from their names, Jean-Francois Boudet is French and Premysl Sedivy is Czech.

A Guac recipe.

You know, I try not to listen in on telephone conversations unless I’m in a switch center and the techs are placing bets. Will she? Won’t she?

OK, so I mostly built a concrete Ofuro at Shoal Creek, and had gotten rather used to the whole idea of a nice, hot soak after a long day of helping loony airplane builders:

I write about relationships for the same reasons I write about flying: it’s something I do, enjoy, and don’t completely understand.

Scientists use instruments for various things, and one of the more common visions is that of the astronomer looking to the night sky with his telescope.

Ah, Mussels. I love ’em. Cindi won’t eat them, having survived (barely) a bad mussel in Italy in the fog of the early 90s, Vince won’t eat them either since they’re shellfish, but I sure as hell will.

Sounds complex, but it’s a two-pan wonder and is done start to finish in 15 minutes. Looks impressive, tastes incredible.