I'm Melting. Really. Melting.

I don't know how your summer is going so far, but I should mention it's 300 degrees in Chicago these days. Okay, I exaggerate. Maybe it's only 250 degrees, but whatever it is, I'm pretty sure I can fry an egg on the sidewalk.

Now, I'm not supposed to be a heat-sissy, since I grew up in Dallas (where 98 degrees is spring-time weather), but there is little to no air conditioning in Chicago. It's one thing to live in a broiler if you've got central air. It's quite another thing if you've got a window unit that cools about two square feet of a room and trips your circuit breaker ever time you try to blow dry your hair.

I thought my reward for slogging through 10 months of sub-zero weather (10 months is how long winter feels to this thin-blooded southerner) was a mild summer with lots of outdoor concerts and a cool breeze off the lake. Not so. I am so sticky that I think soon I'm going to start acting as flypaper. I've even gotten complaints from Marco, my kitchen contractor, who is becoming about as regular a fixture in my house as Eldin in Murphy Brown's place.

I'm going to go stand by my open freezer door for awhile. Back in a bit!