Our neighbors are having a cookout with barbecued ribs. This is real barbecue, too, not any pansyass grilled stuff. The neighbor's been slow-cooking it all day. He sent some over to us and even though I'm already full of tacos, I'm scarfing this stuff down like a starving dog.
I am only slightly concerned about what kind of meat I'm eating. I know that the neighbor is on the local police call-list for when someone reports hitting a deer with their car. The neighbor doesn't hunt, but when the police call about a roadkill deer, he goes out to pick it up and eats it.
I'm pretty sure these are pork ribs. Not positive, though. I know it's not beef. But, you know, they taste good so I don't really care.
In writing-related news, I'm 25,000 words into Bloodhound and enjoying writing it immensely. I'm also switching out happily with Adventures in Zoology, which ripened at the same time and is about 2/3 done already. It'd be cool if I could finish both before summer.