But then there’s that dratted soul: the marshmallow-creamy center of me that dissolves into a puddle. And that puddle says “Awwwwwwwwwwww.” I reluctantly have to confess that I occasionally speak for my own cats in lolcat-ese (ex: “Can I haz tuna risotto?”)

Which brings me to today’s post: the balance of the love/hate relationship has swiftly tilted to the love side like a fat kid on a seesaw. I have uncovered a crock-pot lolcat! Oh frabjous day!

Thanks to icanhascheezburger.com for the brilliance.

If the brain side of you is still struggling with what your opinion on lolcats should be, read the Wikipedia entry on the pop culture phenom:  It has 25 footnotes, a “history” subsection, and is considerably longer than the entry on the Prime Minister of Sri Lanka, for better or worse.

I dont know what a grossissant does, but if it's for pecs, I'll take two. (moncarton/Creative Commons)

If you’re part of the legion of Crock Tease fans (How many is a legion, exactly? Give or take a mob?), you might have noticed that the site has been a little inactive lately. Then again, as trusty fans, you might have been too busy scrapbooking your favorite photos of me, sending me scads of jewelry, or writing acrostic poems that spell out C-R-O-C-K T-E-A-S-E.

The truth is, I haven’t taken a break by choice. A few months ago, while working my bookstore day job, I strained my pectoral muscle –an injury I have since discovered is common to weight lifting enthusiasts. I thought that fact was sort of funny, until I realized I am a weight lifter of sorts. Books and crock-pots are dang heavy!

And if that book happens to be The Complete Works of Shakespeare with Annotations, and the crock-pot is full to the top of beans that have soaked up a billlion times their weight in liquid, they’re ding dang heavy.

So, for the last couple of months I’ve done very little cooking (and even less going to work.) I get physical therapy three times a week from a skilled torture artist who hooks me up with bizarre electrode devices and presses blocks of ice to my delicate skin for what seems like hours, while I whine and complain and wonder which Batman villain she most resembles.

The good news is: the torture is working. I’m making progress, and I’ve even started cooking a little, with the fiancé doing the heavy lifting. He even stirred cake batter for me (bowl on his lap, watching Glee) to save my sensitive pec.

I’ll be posting some saved-up goodies soon, and plan to slow cook some holiday dishes. In the meantime, keep the fan mail coming.

P.S. Notice the new Scuttlebutt category? This is where you can find site news, food ramblings, and other non-recipe hoop-de-doo. Plus, how fun is it to say Scuttlebutt?