Signs.

It is mouse season. Since the Great Mouse Invasion of 2007, we have had no further pestilence or rodentine apparitions. However, the cat is our reminder that the mice are there, always there, in the field beyond the fence. The other evening (the night the Magic took the Jazz to the Orlandian woodshed, the very same), I opened the back door for Bruiser only to see, at the foot of the steps, precisely half a mouse and, out of the corner of my eye, an elderly cat scampering in a murderous way. The people, my cat is a serial killer. If she sees a mouse, she will pop a cap in its ass and then eat it. Except for a small pile of innards. Those, she likes to leave as a sign for the criminal profiler.

The economy is weird (or, For whom was this ad written?). Ad for Saks Fifth Avenue in today's New York Times: "MARC BY MARC JACOBS SWIMWEAR. Get a goody-filled zebra-striped beach tote with your $400 swimwear purchase, plus enjoy beach-ready body treatments and more."

I am flummoxed.

Celeriac, my dears. I got a couple of knobby, sprouty pieces of celeriac from Chad recently, and used them a couple of days ago when I made soup. Trim, slice, dice, saute, and your soup will be ever so delightfully redolent of celery, in addition to whatever other vegetables you may have whipped into the mix. What is a cleaner, more refreshing flavor than celery? I ask you.