No matter. Pork tonight will be tasty and leftovers tomorrow will be even better.

So the husband fired up our charcoal grill, soaked some wood chips, and coated the previously rubbed meat with brown sugar.  He can never do anything with brown sugar and not sing the chorus from that Rolling Stones song, a quirky habit that I find endearing and cute but others may find geeky as hell.

The sugar, by the way, creates a delicious crust on the meat. In case you wondered.

Anyway, after an hour on the grill it’s time to mop the meat. Mopping helps to keep the outer part of the meat moist and adds another layer of flavor.  We made a balsamic/garlic-infused grapeseed oil dressing and added a few healthy dashes of Worchestershire sauce, chili powder and dried oregano. This will be brushed on the meat everytime we turn it.

How much of each, you ask again. Well, my detail-oriented reader, I have no real idea. We follow the basic rule of dressing: two parts oil to one part vinegar. Everything else was just tossed in to what appeared to be appropriate levels.

Recipe writing my not ever be my forte. I’m a dash-of-this kind of cook. Measuring shit is for baking, so I do it every single time when I’m working with pastry.

A piece of pig this big will likely take about three hours on indirect heat to cook properly.

Since there is only two of us tonight and there will be seven people here tomorrow, we will try not to eat it all tonight and save some of it to go with the boule that our friend @sparkleymegz will make for us tomorrow night.

This weekend, by the way, is a big old throwdown before we come to our dietary senses on Monday.

Promises, promises.

Tomorrow’s dinner will include a charcoal-grilled pork loin, fresh made boule, grilled asparagus and potatoes, and a seven-layer cookie and dark chocolate cupcakes with vanilla bean frosting.

We are going all out because @afloridapeach, who has been interning at the newspaper this summer, is leaving on Wednesday and this will, alas, be her final TBS dinner. We will miss her very much.

Today I made a dry rub for the pork loin, which includes:

• Smoked paprika
• Cumin
• Applewood smoked salt
• Smoked pepper
• Red pepper flakes
• Mustard powder

Now you may be asking, why are there no quantities posted here? What kind of recipe writer are you? Good questions. A little snarky, but fair.

I used equal parts, about three teaspoons, each of everything except the salt, which I used an extra teaspoon, to coat the 5 pound loin pictured here.  And that combo worked out to be the right amount for me.

You may ask, well why didn’t you write that orginially, you home cookin’  blogger bish?  Why are you wasting my valuable time?  Again, a good question, even if you are a wee bit testy today. Relax, have a glass of wine and let me ‘splain.

I come from the Julia Child school of individuality in flavor. To quote the fabulous Julia: “I like it the way I like it, you like it the way you like it.”

I like my meat strong on the smoky flavor, lighter on the heat. If you like less smoke and more kick, put in less cumin, use plain paprika, and ratchet up the red pepper flakes. Add more pepper, more mustard. Do what smells and tastes good to you. I

Also, you may need more or less rub depending on the size of your meat. Unlike sex, size does really matter in cooking.

But talent counts for the most in both.

The most important thing to remember is to RUB YOUR MEAT.  Your hand should look all sticky and grainy, much like this shaky photo, when you are done coating this huge hunk of piggy.  This noble animal should not have given his life in vain.  You want to season this meat to deeply enhance the flavors.

Tomorrow, the loin will cook low and slow on a charcoal grill and we will add a mopping liquid to keep it marinated and moist while it roasts.

More details tomorrow.

And in the meantime, chill out a little. Food is like sex, it should be fun and you know you are really having fun when it gets messy.

But one of the highlights of my week had nothing directly to do with the conference. It was an incident in Starbucks on the last morning, hours before I left.

I just get such a perverse kick out of watching people have a meltdown, and this one was fantastic.

I was in line at the Starbucks inside the NYC Hilton. It was a long line. The baristas were hollering over each other to get drink orders from waiting customers, which helped the line move along at a nice pace.

The woman in front of me ordered a muffin and a latte. I ordered my usual white chocolate mocha, no whip. I contemplated ordering a pastry but Starbucks puts the nutritional information on the price tags and I decided the WCMNW was enough sugar and fat and I didn’t need to pile on more.

See? Every once in a while I make good choices.

After I placed my order, the woman behind me, loudly and in a stereotypical East-coast accent, ordered “the biggest CAW-fee youse have.” And then I noticed she was in her pajamas.

Not sweats, not a T-shirt and yoga pants, which I’ve totally rocked at Starbucks.

She was in printed, polyester jammies. With an ugly sweater and her slippers. If this is a fashion trend in New York, and it could very well be because those of us who live in the fly-over states find out about these things years after they are out of style, then for once i’m glad I live in the sticks.

Read into this that I do NOT think this is a fashion trend as much as I think it was a statement to how klassie this bish was.

Anyway,  the barista poured her CAW-fee and set it next to the register. That’s when Miss New York decided it would be a smart move to step in front of the woman in front of me and pay for her beverage. This bold move DID NOT set well with the woman in front of me, no doubt another blogger from the conference who was contemplating how much shit she was going to get from TSA trying to take home a caddy of Play Doh (answer: lots of shit, from what I hear.)

Miss New York’s move did not impress Fellow Blogger, who did not hesitate to point out that “there is a line here” in an authoritative voice that clearly denoted “Do not mess with me, you tacky bish.”

At this point, Fellow Blogger was my hero.

But Miss New York? She was shocked, shocked I tell you, at the assertiveness of Fellow Blogger, with her non-regional accent and the “I’ll cut a bitch” look on her face. And so Miss New York proceeded to loudly proclaim her dismay to all the customers in the shop.

“WHAAAAAAT??? That’s my CAW-fee right there!” she yelled. “I just want to get my CAW-fee!!!!”  Her tone was dripping with frustration, indignation and exclamation points. I also noticed her hand was shaking just a little. As she hustled her ass back in line behind me, far away from Fellow Blogger, who was no doubt wondering if she could stuff the Mr. Potato Head toy swag down Miss New York’s throat, she bleated, “What kind of SYSTEM is dis???”

System? What kind of system? It’s called a line, you pajama-clad caffeine addict. In other English-speaking countries it’s called a queue, but it’s the same concept. This woman was at least my age, maybe older. She could not possibly have lived this long and never encountered this “system” known as a line, where you take turns, first come, first served.

She continued to grumble about the sheer injustice of it all, which is totally why I didn’t let her in front of me. Because as much as I respect another junkie jonesing for the java fix, I cannot tolerate an idiot. And at that point, listening to her whine was entertaining.

I paid for my WCMNW, and Miss New York laid down a couple of bucks, and no tip, for her CAW-fee, which she immediately took over to the counter, loaded with a half cup of sugar, and began to swig like a pledge chugs a beer at a fraternity party.

Someone needs a 12-step program. And to sit through a “What Not to Wear” marathon.

Stacey London would never tolerate any self-respecting woman running around in her p.j.s in NYC.

No. She. Would, Not.

What I really want to write about now is the hundreds of penises (penii?) that popped up magically in my back yard last night.

No shit. It’s like the Viagra fairy farted all over this one patch of grass during the night and this morning there were all these phallic mushrooms sporting morning wood.

Would I kid about this? Look at these dicks hanging out in my yard.

It’s been ultra humid here for the last few days and we’ve had all this tropical-style rain and the ground? She is moist and fertile. And where ever there is Mother Earth, all wet and ready to party, you can expect fungii to become erect.

I would not care too much about these nasty ‘shrooms in my yard, but last year we think one of our dogs munched on one and got very sick. Her life was spared by $1,000 of emergency vet care (Thank ye, Insurance Gods, for selling me pet insurance. Policy paid for itself with that visit alone.)

So we have to be vigilant about getting these fungal hard-ons out of the yard before one of our dumb dog decides to go down on it.

This really sucks.

Now that I am just about out of bad penis jokes, allow me to share this link and behold: The ‘shroom boobie!

Seriously, I think mushrooms are trying to mutate into human genitalia.

Disturbing, I know. Sign of the zombie apocalypse?  Let’s hope not.

It’s been a week since I came home from BlogHer 10, which was a totally amazing experience, and I have drafted several blog entries and have not published a single one. By the time I get around to posting with all the appropriate links, BlogHer 11 will be a recent memory. Major suckage on my part.

It’s been more than a week since I last posted any blog entry at all, so the whole NaBloPoMo-what-the-hell-ever challenge is again an epic fail. Even if you count tumblr and my other blog, I still missed a day or two. Suckage again.

In my defense, I was crazy busy at work this week. Two days off for a conference at the beginning of the month is killer for me; I came back to a mountain of invoices to process, a book page budget to finish, a column deadline looming and a book to finish reading so I could write a 30-column inch review. So, maybe that mitigates a bit of suckage on my part. I was NOT sitting around doing nothing.

On the food front? MEGA SUCK! I have been eating like Michael Phelps and haven’t been to the pool even once since I returned. I had chocolate cake for breakfast this morning before I pounded out that book review in what was a blind sugar rush.

Last night I wasn’t feeling well, so I had cereal and ice cream for dinner. EPIC SUCK!

And right now I have a cat that I voluntarily turned into a Fancy Feast addict staring me down for his next fix that is still hours away. He really thinks I suck.

Things feel a little spinny and out of control lately. I need a moment or two to find balance. Maybe I should wander around Europe and Asia for a year to find pizza and my peace of mind.

Who would play me in the movie? Someone who doesn’t suck, I hope.

First, two  memoirs by women with interesting perspectives on weight loss that are also funny and poignant: Jen Lancaster’s “Such a Pretty Fat” and Wendy McClure’s “I am Not the New Me.”

Lancaster’s book is hilarious and if you have constantly procrastinated about starting on a weight loss regime — also known as a diet — you will be able to relate to her rants and raves.

I am a big fan of Lancaster and I get her abrasive sense of humor. Some may not. If you don’t, really this blog may not be the best place for you. Leave if you must, I understand.

McClure’s book is also about wanting to lose weight, trying to lose weight, and finally coming to terms with weight. She’s an outstanding writer and her memoir is funny and poignant.

The book I just finished is Frank Bruni’s “Born Round.” Bruni became the New York Times’ restaurant critic after a struggling with his weight his entire life. His memories of food and of the shame and isolation of being unhappy with his body reached into my soul.

I know all those feelings. I know all those happy associations with family and food, and all the pain associated with feelings of inadequacy and guilt. He writes about binge eating, purging, trying all sorts of tricks and fad diets.

Nothing worked for long.

He did finally find the secret to being able to eat great food and maintain a healthy weight. You’ll have to read the book to discover what it is.

Or keep reading this blog cause I think I may have a new path that’s not really all the new.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I am at a blogging conference, so I need to go eat and drink now.

But I did blog twice over on tumblr from the train, because thank-ye-bebe-jeebus my 3G connection on my CrackBerry worked almost everywhere but the most isolated regions of Northern Virginia.

So yeah, there’s two entries there. And they are important reading. Go, look.

They are utterly brilliant. Or not.

Had a shitacular day at work, ate really bad food, helped polish off a bottle of wine and now I have a headache.

And why, oh why, would anyone want to read that? And what, oh what, does this have to do with being green?

Uh, did I mention I got nothing?

Except maybe this: Tomorrow will be a brand new day. Tomorrow is the ultimate second chance.

I can recycle my attitude, refurbish my outlook, and decide to give my life a much-needed makeover.

Or, and this is more likely, I can work my ass off during the day, run a hundred errands I put off until the last minute, and then panic pack for my trip to New York.

Yeah, I am going with the second option there.

I have never felt the need to find my biologicals because to me the physical act of procreation and giving birth does not really make you a parent.

Parents are the people who clean up after you when you hurl, pretend that you are a superstar when you sing off-key, care about what kind of person  you will eventually become.

So as far as I am concerned, the people who raised me were my parents. They are both deceased now and have been for a long time. I’ve lived most of my life on my own and, although it was not my choice, I raised my own daughter alone.

So possibly that explains why, now that my daughter is an adult and I am in my mid-40s, I started adopting animals. Maybe I feel the need to give back what I got, maybe I still yearn for that nuclear family that I had but could not give my daughter. Who knows. But I am knee-deep in it now.

It started eight years ago with my daughter’s cat ,India, and then my cat, Thai, when we lived in Nashville.

Thai is a tyrant that runs my life. He also loved me completely and almost without reservation.

The adoption trend continued when we moved to Virginia and I married my husband. We adopted Dexter, a retired racing greyhound, five years ago.

Almost two years later, we adopted Missy, another greyhound. We only had her for four months before we lost her to cancer. We called 2007 our summer of Missy.

Soon after we lost Missy, I started writing a blog about pets for the daily newspaper where I work.

Later that fall, we adopted Coral, yet another greyhound. Unlike Dexter and Missy, Coral had once been a good racer. But she seems much happier living with us than running on a track.

In the summer of 2008, we adopted a pit bull-mix puppy named Stormy. We met him at a fundraiser while  he was being fostered by a friend of ours for the local SPCA. He was so adorable, stubborn and pushy.  We couldn’t stand the thought of anyone with less than great intentions getting a hold of him.

Dexter and Coral helped us raise Stormy into a lovable, well-mannered little dude. He is far from the stereotype of an aggressive pit bull.

Three months ago, my daughter moved out and took her cat with her.

And then, two months ago, we lost Dexter to a brain hemorrhage.

And, for a while, I was content with just the three pets we had left, especially in the wake of Dexter’s loss, which pretty much ripped my heart out.

And then this weekend, as I prepare to travel to New York for the weekend, we took in a foster dog, Melissa. She’s our fourth greyhound.

I can’t begin to tell you what joy these pets have brought to our lives. Hoylier and I are way past the age to have kids (and I am missing the oven in which to place the bun) so these critters have become our pseudo family.

We have a big, fenced in backyard. We have a roomy house. We are competent at raising and handling dogs and we’ve learned a lot about each breed of dog and how to integrate a pack. We are good pet parents and adopting these animals gives them a much better life than they would face in a shelter.

Adopting a homeless animal is the very best way to be green. It’s the ultimate in recycling. No loving creature should ever go to waste.

Do I wish Hoylier and I could have had children of our own? Sure. But we have our daughter and these critters so we get to be doting parents.

But, just throwing this out there,  if you are young and have the room in your heart, home and budget, adopting children is a pretty good idea too.

I am certainly glad someone did it for me.