9:15 p.m.

Someone recently had a birthday, and it wasn't me. A delicious chocolate torte was involved, made by the lovely staff at Frog on the Green. We haven't even made it half-way through the eating part. But it is delicious. Just. Delicious.

9:10 p.m.

Dinners Lately:

Yum. T is responsible for all except for the dismal-looking salmon + salad thing.

12:03 a.m.

It's summer, 1994. I’ve sunken into the lumpily cushioned, cloth backseat of our station wagon. The Chevy Caprice is a big brown boat of a car, and we’re in the middle of the 1-70 ocean, halfway to Telluride. I know this because for the past four hours, I’ve asked if we are there yet. In the front seat, my parents ignore me. Utilizing the few visual elements of a very bare highway, they quietly play I Spy and eat chocolate-covered coffee beans.

I look at my Swatch watch. Time is slow. At least 8,000 minutes must have been killed by now. Between sunlit, lens-flared dozes against the car window, I've amassed a small collection of meticulously crayoned coloring-book pages, child-size crosswords and scribbled notes in the margins of my the American Girl Molly doll books series. Since leaving our house on Canturbury in the dark early of this morning, we’ve listened to my cassette, The Best of Elvis, five times. We will play the tape until the sun goes down against a flat Kansas horizon in the August evening. We will play the tape until it screeches to a halt in the middle of "Hound Dog" — until we don't need the music to sing it all. We will play that tape until Elvis is a part of me and us and I-70 and our fading, feigning memories.

Make sure to check out T's new website! It's sparkly and super lovely.

7:07 p.m.

Account of a Letterpress Studio

We walked up stairs, and more stairs. We walked until the smell of hardwood floors was replaced by an inching increase in chemicals and inks. The landing was covered in brown cardboard boxes of all sizes. It was all a small landscape of geometric shrubbery, quaintly pushed and stacked against white, marked-up walls. Higher we climbed, until we faced a dark hallway, ridden with gangly, old, empty frames. In angled messes, they stretched from the walls and threatened to catch our cold ankles.

We entered a bright room. The foggy windows overlooked rooftops and lines of smoking chimneys. A stratosphere of handmade paper hung above our heads like cream clouds. The room was a room full of obstacles: Fraying posters, paints, a special pen for repairing paper. We treaded carefully, past the Francis Bacon.

There were letters. So many of them, in boxes and on desks; hanging on walls and printed on artworks. This was a forest so dense with letters, it was difficult to make out a single one. Cases of haphazardly labeled uppers and lowers were stacked to the ceilings. The wooden shapes grazed our arms like tree branches.

In the center of the forest was the press. Though I had seen many letters and words, and had thought of many ways I could use them today, only one idea ran through me: machine. It looked heavy compared to the paper sky, powerful enough to form phrases. Dirty and inked, its weight excited me. I wanted to touch its cool metal skin. I didn't, for we had to leave. And we treaded carefully back — through the pulp canopy and frame bridge, down and down, until once again, we smelled the wood floors.

8:46 p.m.

For 2 weeks, I've thought about burgers. Everyday I found myself dreaming about a melty, cheesy, crunchy lettuce-y, delicious bread-y burger. I conjured the distinct onion fragrance that only wafts from a Winstead's steakburger; the outer crispiness of my dad's cheeseburgers; and the oh-so-delicious veggie burger that never fails at Foundry. I was overwhelmed with burger memories, hopes and dreams. I didn't know if I could live up to past experience.

Today my imaginings became reality — black bean burgers with all the fixings, including sauteed onions and mushrooms, and homemade fries.

The little sliders were plated and the condiments (tomato-onion chutney and wholegrain mustard) were tabled. So many times, the things I make are just-a-pinch to the right or left of great. But the creamy richness of black beans, the crisp kale, and the buttery goodness of red wine-doused onions and mushrooms left me scraping my plate with the last salty french fry. I done good.

8:00 p.m.

Okay, so maybe it was just a little overdone, but a Midwest girl like me can't tell! Delicious seared tuna and crunchy salad a la T!

Apple Fame!

It's kind-of a random thing to post, but the album cover I designed for Saharan Gazelle Boy has made it's international graphic debut on the Apple website!

Here's a doo-dad that was just written by the Pitch about it too. Also, big thanks to The Pitch. We've gotten so much love from you guys. We appreciate it!