Spoiler alert: we still don't know, as nobody in this BBC news story actually eats 112-year-old ham. I was really disappointed.
On the other hand, I learned that there is an Isle of Wight County in Virginia. A county. Which is not an island. Is called the Isle of Wight. Americans are weird. (I know we have the Isle of Ely, which is not an island either - but there are good historical reasons for that! It used to be! The Isle of Wight County quite clearly never was. It's just a tribute band.)
In other news, nobody is coming to yogi dinner tonight, because it's not technically yogi dinner tonight, we have moved that to Wednesday; but K is still going to yoga tonight, and anyone who goes with her is welcome to come back for fudz after, as is anyone else who isn't going to yoga, so the distinction may be blurry. But nobody is coming anyway. Poor K will be fed on leftovers repurposed, in the traditional manner: how could Sunday roasts not be turned into Monday curry? Not that there is any lamb's head left, but there is leg-of-lamb. And there are still shreds of chicken, if not gobbets. And there is potato, which I shall hash up with onion and Indian spices. And because I love her, she can have Brussels too.
Also in other news, it is apparently now impossible for me to buy lemons. I have lost the skill. It is most unlike riding a bicycle.
But now I must return to copy-editing for Lambda- and Shirley Jackson Award-winning Lethe Press, because paying gigs are not to be sneezed at. Coughed at, yes. Coughing I can do.