Woot.

A highlight:

The paneling and drapes leant a certain gravitas to discussions with the Liturgical Committee about the prospect of moving a drum set into the sanctuary.

. . .

But the parlor was all the way at the front of rectory. Precious time would be spent on the journey there and back, and Father did not want to abandon his steak any longer than absolutely necessary. The pantry, then. Small and private like a confessional, not quite a true living space like the kitchen, and supremely economical. Father stepped into a corner to indicate that this was to be the place, set his glass next to a Mason jar of homemade applesauce, pulled off his oven mitt and fished his purple stoll out of his pocket. The short strip of embroidered satin made a comical appearance against his oceanic torso, more like a rake’s unraveled bow tie than an ecclesial garment.

From Meat

Only because a few of us were considering the question a few days ago of whether priests always carried their purple stoles. What's rather more interesting is the investigation of food, a subject rather near and dear to my heart.