Leaving my computer keyboard smoldering in angst, I drove my way into the kitchen under darkness and found myself rescuing an English muffin that had tagged along home after Leo a week or so ago from Baba-a-Louis. It would turn green soon. I thrust a fork into it around its perimeter, tore it apart, and slid half – only half – into the fiendish maw of the toaster. Down it plunged, to rise blackened and charred a few forgotten moments later, no longer in danger of producing penicillin. Harshly I tossed it upon a plate, and there I slathered it with good Amish butter, before further layering it with an organic peanut butter that presented no real threat of salmonella or real peanut taste. I grinned fiendishly as I strewed its surface yet further with sliced onions, ground shards of gray seasalt over all, then, for good measure, coarsely ground pepper. I considered horseradish, but was too hungry, too eager to sink my teeth into this delicacy. Oh yes, my Darl..... CHOMP!