The Isle of Marm

Champions of Breakfast triptych.
Per that toot the other day, the eggs are not amused, though—bad jokes about preservatives and perseverance aside—I am actually quite curious how things hold up with puncture wounds.

There’s a temporary lady doing books whose desk view just let her watch me eat breakfast.  I’m sure she is internally horrified.  I eat unamused eggs at my desk after I’ve taken enough data to earn them.  Sometimes that is closer to lunchtime.  It’s what I do.  Judge away!

Anyhow, Fridge Team Delta is go.  By which I mean done. I think I have quelled the completion anxieties for this week. No more scrimshaw. For now.

(Source: m.flickr.com)

Though labeled “wrong color for a heart”*, this actually *is* the color of a lot of cardiac muscle tissue on slides I’ve seen.  It doesn’t seem right, but there it is.  This one bleeds natural and artificial cherry goop. I bought too many the other day, that is the why we’re revisiting this as media.  Not hearts: that’s offal. (Groan away, I can’t hear you!)  Anyhow.  Popt heart.

What’s the real lesson?
Cryomicrotomatically broken heart: roughly the off-white to dusky color of non-enzymatically browned toaster pastries.

(*It’s a good turn of phrase, cf., E01.)

It’s like riding a bike.
A kind of delicious bike I haven’t really tried to ride in just shy of 3 years.
I’m a little wobbly; but I was then too.