Oof. Didn't drag m'weary carcase from m'bed till it was exactly boys' breakfast time; this is most unusual, and (they suggest) not to be encouraged.
Since then, I have:
boiled chickpeas/garbanzo beans for hummus;
boiled rice for rice;
mix'n'matched two different recipes to make first a spice rub and then a bourbon-and-molasses liquor in which to cook what I call a hand of pork, what people here call the butt, what is actually the shoulder; which I have stripped of its rind and rubbed and liquor'd up and set in the slow cooker for ever, until it's pullable;
picked and shredded and chopped the meat from four pounds of oxtail (and if you have never done that, you don't know how much work it is; and if you don't know how much work it is, then you have never done that).
I am now working on my second quart of coffee, and wondering when the champagne starts, while I reduce to a smear the port-and-wine-and-duck-stock that the oxtail was cooked in, and chop all the carrots and shallots, and simmer them down in butter and more port with added sugar, and mix the beurre manié to put it all together into a marmalade, oh yes. (Funny thing, I only have to type "o" into Google and it instantly suggests that what I really want is "oxtail marmalade". Smart boy, Google.)
Then I need to concoct a salt-pork-and-pinto-beans thing, and put a salsa together and shop for greens and chips and so forth, and and and.
And people start turning up in about an hour and a half. Hey-ho. (Why wasn't I out of bed at seven, damn it? Or six? Six would've been good...)