One of those momentous things that I think should be commemorated: today is the 40th anniversary of my father's untimely death. I remember breathing a sigh of relief when I turned 35, because my father never made it that far. That was sixteen years ago. What's sad is that I remember more about him being dead than I remember about him being alive. And it sucks. Here's a picture of the two of us, taken the summer before he died. When I saw this picture, it made me realize just how young he was.

Anyway, enough navel gazing. I'm off to help Mary make kugelis, which is pronounced KOOG-u-la and is kind of like potato pancakes in a loaf form.