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I had planned to write this entry on a book someone left on the desk a few days ago, a picnic themed cooking book some member of the family checked out of the library. What struck me at first glance of the book-jacket was that the guy who wrote it has an MFA from Iowa's Writers Workshop. Glancing through it it was clear that the prose didn't disappoint; it was for the most part lucid and funny. It was also annoying, and almost pornographic in its desire for quirkiness and spontaneity. In fact, my essay was going to detail just how pornographic the whole thing is, down to the cover picture of a smiling couple content merely with each other (and the enormous quantities of prosciutto and gazpacho they had just consumed. Probably a few bottles of wine as well). It was going to be a wonderful thesis on the pornography of the conventional. Unfortunately, I sat down to write the thing today, and noticed that the book was missing. After performing a cursory search, it became clear that the book had been returned. No one had even attempted any of the recipes. Of course this proves my point; if pornography defers yet almost constitutes sex, this cookbook does the same thing with conventional romantic practices. Could have been great, though maybe not, as I've never been too good at satire.