A half-strength brain sometimes means a no-content Wombat File, and I apologize to all who've wondered just how a person can get some, you know, service around here. But hey, some fields must be left fallow, that there be renewal in the next planting season. Not that pre-scientific agricultural practices have much to do with my current lack of anything at all to say here, but the lame attempt at metaphor did bring me one sentence closer to something like a post, a small construction of (dare I say it? Yes, I dare) meta-content to tide you over until the more satisfying fare of not-so-meta-content can once again be provided by this closed kitchen, which contains a half-loaf of stale sourdough, a wilted salad in a Tupperware container, five packets of low-sodium soy sauce, and a prematurely opened bottle of tonic water, now gone flat. The cook is dozing in a chair, his head propped absurdly against the empty spice rack.

Come back tomorrow, and I make you something nice, OK?