So you were having a brat on the Terrace?

Why, yes. They grill them up outdoors by the lake. Here's the view from my table in the shade, looking out on the Terrace and Lake Mendota:



And here's that brat I was talking about:



Don't eat the bun and it's Atkins-compliant.

Later, I remove to the café:



Don't eat these things, of course, if you're Atkinsing.



Don't worry. I didn't. I was just waiting for my cappucino, which I then took to my table, where I edited my Civpro2 materials for a couple hours.

UPDATE: Thanks to Instapundit for linking and for coming up with the term "bratblogging"!

ANOTHER UPDATE: I'm finding it a bit funny that so many people are stopping by to look at my half-eaten sausage! If you folks are really so interested in sausage, I have blogged about sausage before, here. Careful, it's very golf-y. Scroll down to the dialogue and the paragraph just above it if you want to concentrate on the sausage. For more about bratwurst, the NYT has bratwurst content today in an article datelined Kenosha, Wisconsin, about how regular folk are reacting to the recent terror alert. You know they are regular folk because they are at a small-town diner:

"I don't know who on earth to believe anymore," said Michael Schumacher, a 54-year-old writer who was eating a bratwurst for breakfast. "You feel you're being manipulated all the time."

Additional sausage-related material: the diner is called Franks. I see Schumacher is having his brat for breakfast. Interestingly enough, my golf-oriented, sausage-related dialogue is about eating a frank for breakfast, which makes me feel that everything is connected. There's always a link.

Pronunciation note: "brat" does not rhyme with "cat." For my own catblogging, look here.