Hoo-boy this is late, I know, and usually the Sunday or Sunday-for-Monday blog is the easiest one to birth. The weekend just happened, and stuff happened worth talking about. But I socialized on two — two! — back-to-back nights, then took a bike ride with Alan on Sunday, and I just hit a wall. I mean, what do I think I am? A 40-year-old? I am not. If I’m going to act like one, I need more strength training.

It was a good weekend. A friend who moved to Philadelphia a few years ago brought a bunch of Philadelphians to her hometown for a weekend of getting to know the city of her birth, for no real reason other than why not? And it was a good time. The Friday party was at a combination wine bar/cookbook store, a market niche I am confident is filled by this business and this business alone. The wine choices were incomprehensible to me, although just fine, and the cookbooks were not Martha Stewart or Mark Bittman, but titles like “My Palestinian Kitchen” and “A Very Vegan Thanksgiving.” (Don’t go googling for those titles, as they’re from memory.) There was a small patio outdoors, and I’m told I left moments before a car crash at the corner had one vehicle close to hurtling into the Philadelphians and Detroiters enjoying the fresh air there.

Saturday’s finale party was at a still-under-construction grocery store in a gentrifying* neighborhood, and there was a fire ring outdoors we all enjoyed. Then home to catch up on “The Great British Baking Show,” which is disappointing so far. So far all the bakes look revolting, especially the “American-style cookies.” They looked like hockey pucks, and who told them American cookies are all frosted? Adding Nigella Lawson to the judging team was brilliant (as the Brits say), but let’s step up the bakes, people.

*Gentrifying, not yet fully gentrified. One of the guests had recently had all four wheels stolen from his car in that very neighborhood.

And now it’s Monday, and I kicked it off with a Covid/flu vaccination combo. A quiet normal life.

Let’s skip to the bloggage:

If you read “Edie,” George Plimpton’s book about Edie Sedgwick, the Warhol muse who died young, you’ll want to read this sensitively written obituary of her something-or-other relation, John Sedgwick, in yesterday’s NYT. Gift link, of course, worth your time.

Annnnd I just went through the recent clips on the political scene, and they’re all the same. You can find your own. I’m gonna go make some apple turnovers instead.