Grumbling

So my innards are grumbling, and I expect the next few hours won’t be any fun at all.

I’m doing my prep for tomorrow’s colonoscopy.  You have my permission not to envy me.

I’m mentioning this not to elicit sympathy— because there is none on the Internet— but to remind those of you of a certain age that this is one of those things that has to be done regularly, a fact driven home to me twenty years ago, when Roger Zelazny died of cancer because he delayed this annoying but very necessary procedure.  If he’d got his checkup, we might have had twenty more years of genius writing to enjoy.

So do yourself a favor, and when your time comes around, give your friendly neighborhood gastroenterologist a call.

I’m already planning to give myself a reward, and here it is.

That’s twelve pounds of brisket in what, if I were more pretentious, I would call my “immersion circulator,” but which is really just a big stock pot with an Anova sous vide stick in it.

The brisket will be cooked for three days at 155 degrees F, after which all collagen will have melted and the meat will be as tender as a ripe peach.  The meat will be finished on a grille or in an oven to give it a perfect crust, and then I’ll serve it up.

Not that I’ll be eating all twelve pounds myself.  I’ll have plenty of friends to help out.

Friends that I plan to have a round for a long time, in part because I’m doing what the doc says, and getting myself checked out.