This is the first normal winter night we’ve had in awhile, at a balmy 43 degrees. Emma (the Amazing Scrotumless Dog) and I took advantage of it to have a long, leisurely stroll around downtown — just us and the homeless guys and the fancy school’s groundskeepers, spying on second-floor bookshelves and dimly-lit private parties. A few of the restaurants weren’t closed-shop, but still had people in them; I’ve always had a soft-spot for the early-in-the-week, candle-lit, completely-indulgent dinner experience. It usually signals one of two things: a special occasion enabled by absence of a need to be anywhere especially early the next day OR total irresponsibility brought on by finding day one (or two, or three) of a work week harder to stomach than usual. Bet you can guess which I have the most experience with — and by a vast margin.

I swear, it almost feels like spring. And it is so not. It’s that deceptive thunderstorm feeling in the air, from the sudden barometric change. After all, yesterday’s walk looked like this:

LiveScience debunks some of the most popular myths in science; I know the 10 percent of the brain thing isn’t true, but I like to think its popularity comes from the (somewhat underrated or, at least, compulsively rewatchable) Defending Your Life. (Via Caitlin.)

Another myth? That not procrastinating means that you won’t suddenly decide to rewrite a key scene the day before your deadline.

The New York Times profiles my favorite cake of all: Red Velvet. Yum.

My grandmother’s recipe is the best though.