This can refer to a style of music characterized by a heavy beat and sweaty bass guitar licks, a malodorous airborne cloud, or a contagious bad mood. Last night I encountered the third definition.
Baby Harbat was in a good mood when we got home. As usual she stopped to say hello to the concrete owl near our front door, then came inside to march around the house calling out, “Dolly! Dolly?” We found dolly and I prepared dinner, a cheese and veggie chili quesadilla. She enjoyed the first two bites, then spit it out with extreme prejudice. Fail.
At this point my wife came home and made dinner #2, Asian fried rice. This was rejected. There was another rejected item—my mind has blanked this out for some reason. Dinner four was macaroni and cheese. She ate this then requested crackers. Crackers were not given and tears followed. Then I gave her a bath and we played the Most Funnest Game in the World: Everything Tears!!!!
Thus: funk. Then I made dinner: testicles on a bed of exploded squirrel carcass.
It looked at lot worse than this in person.
The rest of the night, I ruminated on the oven situation. I’ve come to the conclusion that the least expensive thing is to buy another relatively new oven. As much as I want a vintage oven, for various reasons it isn’t the right thing now. With a new oven, I’m going to have to drastically scale back my bread baking because new ovens aren’t actually supposed to be used. This I’ve learned after ruining our last oven. On a baking forum I frequent, I was accused of “abusing” my oven by using steam to bake. Ahh, but of course. Ovens are meant to be left in the plastic wrap, placed in a climate-controlled bunker, and dusted once a year.