Yuks of the Irish

In honor of St. Patrick’s Day, this week’s column is a stew of Irishness. I hope it’ll raise the spirits of readers who, like me, gave up beer for Lent and are struggling with the effects of ADD: Ale Deficit Disorder.

Here’s a suggestion: clip the following potpourri of toasts and trivia; you can refer to it over the next week to banish a bit of your misfortune. And if that doesn’t work, it’ll make a fine coaster on March 17.

§ Your first St. Patrick’s Day toast should be brief, preferably one you can say while simultaneously guzzling a brew. Here are a couple suggestions, supposedly ancient and traditional, which probably means they were found in the bottom of Johnny Carson’s file cabinet:
> May your troubles be as few and far between as my grandmother's teeth!
> May you live to be a hundred years, plus one to repent!
> As you slide along the banister of life, may the splinters never point the wrong way!

Toasts like these are always much more entertaining when spoken with a rich Irish brogue. Try channeling Colin Farrell or Bono (for Gen X and Y readers); Liam Neeson or the lasses from the Irish Spring soap ads (for baby boom readers); or Barry Fitzgerald (for readers with teeth as few and far between as I hope your troubles are!)

§ Four leaf clovers are special, but they’ve got nuthin’ on the record holder: 18 leaves on one clover stem! It was discovered in 2002 in Hanamaki City , Japan , by a guy with a wonderfully Irish-sounding name (that is, if spoken with your best Colin/Irish Spring/Barry accent): Shigeo Obara.

§ Some pub-oetry:
Guinness was spilt on the barroom floor
When the pub was shut for the night.
Soon from his hole crept a wee brown mouse
Who saw it shine in the pale moonlight.

He lapped the frothy foam from the floor
Then back on his haunches he sat.
And all night long, you could hear the mouse roar,
“Bring on the bloody cat!”

§ That’s one soused mouse, but at least he’s a heart-healthy one. A few years ago, at a meeting of the American Heart Association, Guinness’ health benefits were praised in a presentation, which I hereby quote verbatim (apologies for the arcane medical jargon): “Guinness stout blah blah blood clot reduction, yada yada effective as daily aspirin et cetera et cetera antioxidants! In conclusion, Guinness is good for us! I move that the drinking lamp be lit!”

§ St. Patrick may never become a celebrity beer mascot like the Budweiser Clydesdales or the Swedish Bikini Team (remember, from those Old Milwaukee commercials? All my buddies and I do! Oddly, my wife and her buddies don’t).

However, St. Patrick IS an official beer brand, produced in a couple different versions: St. Patrick’s Ale and St. Patrick’s Best. I was interested in tasting them, until I read a review on the Internet, which mentions “a slight hint of farmyard on the finish.” Yuck; this sounds to me like the recipe includes “ingredients” provided by Clydesdales.

§ The following toast is only for very experienced pub-losophers, because it’s a tad long, and requires hand gestures and multiple fingers. I recommend enlisting a partner, so that neither of you ever has to put down your Guinness:
There are only two things to worry about: Either you are well or you are sick. If you are well, there is nothing to worry about.
But if you are sick, there are two things to worry about: Either you will get well or you will die. If you get well, there is nothing to worry about.
But if you die, there are two things to worry about: Either you will go to heaven or you will go to (Hades). If you go to heaven, you have nothing to worry about.
But if you go to (Hades), well, you'll be so busy shaking hands with all your friends, you won't have time to worry!

§ Speaking of the netherworld, here’s a fun definition of blarney: Telling a man to go to (heck) in a way that makes him look forward to the trip!

Interestingly, my Polish wife often weaves word magic like this on me, especially when she speaks like a lass from an Irish Spring ad. And dresses like a member of the Swedish Bikini Team.

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TakeFiveT5@yahoo.com

Untold Title Tale Tittles

No. 4 son (age 10) is a huge New England Patriots fan, yet he doesn’t seem at all excited about the Super Bowl. Maybe he’s overconfident that the game will be a boring blowout. Or maybe he’s just impersonating Patriots coach Bill Belichick, whose catatonic demeanor makes Dick Cheney look like SpongeBob SquarePants.

Then again, maybe No. 4’s just feeling a little ill. That happens sometimes after he reads my columns, and he just finished this one, which is chock full of my annual collection of Super Bowl factoids so obscure that they've escaped the notice of every one of the 3,400 journalists covering the big game. For example:

· The game will be played in Glendale, Arizona’s University of Phoenix Stadium. This might get you to wondering how the U of Phoenix football team did this year. Well, like the Patriots, they went undefeated! While simultaneously going winless. Because U o’ P has no football team. It has no athletic programs whatsoever! But before you question why the school needed a $455 million, taxpayer-funded stadium, remember: they do have intramural Frisbee golf!

Of all the $455 million taxpayer-funded stadiums in Glendale, U o’ P’s is the most unique. The playing field can actually be rolled outside of the enclosed stadium, on a set of railroad-like tracks, where it can soak up all that rain and humidity that central Arizona’s famous for.

When the field is moved, it travels a total of 741 feet, in about 75 minutes. This computes to 1/8th of a mile per hour, or about twice as fast as my kids move while doing their chores

· Records are broken at every Super Bowl, and this year there’s already a new mark in the books: Anheuser-Busch will spend $18 million advertising Bud Light, the most cabbage ever spent on a single brand during the big game.

This for a beer graded “D-minus” by the dedicated and conscientious citizens who imbibe and rate the brews of the world at beeradvocate.com, where Bud Light earns comments like:
>“Watery with some rice, malt and unidentifiable funkiness”;
>“If you have to drink something weak, pick something else”;
>“This stuff makes me feel like I'm not even drinking beer. It leaves a hollow void in my soul.”

And those were the favorable ratings.

I think the Bud Light marketing team is hoping that $18 million worth of Super Bowl ads will lead to scads of beeradvocate.com posts like this one: “En bouche elle est liquide et très légère, rafraichissante comme de l'eau, petit goût métallique!” (I shared this quote with my brother the beer connoisseur, hoping it’s très sophisticated sound would spur him to forgive me for that case of Bud Light I gave him three Christmases ago. Didn’t work.)

· We may also see ads from presidential candidates during the game. John McCain’s advisors say they sense the Super Bowl audience is “a very ripe target.” Although they admitted they may just be sensing the unidentifiable funkiness of the Super Bowl audience’s beer.

· Sure, the Giants’ Eli Manning is handsome, but as you can see, he’s merely following in the footsteps of New York’s original glamour-boy quarterback, Y.A. Tittle.

· When NFL owners awarded this year’s Super Bowl to Glendale five years ago, one of the losing bidders was Washington, D.C. The selection committee wanted a warmer climate, and the D.C. group couldn’t win them over, even with a promise to pump the stadium full of hot air collected from the halls of Congress.

· Throughout all the Super Hoopla, the Glendale Police Department will use motorized personal transporters to patrol the walkways, parking lots and exhibition areas around the stadium. Unfortunately, the transporters are on loan from a nearby retirement community, and their maximum speed is 1/8th of a mile per hour.

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TakeFiveT5@yahoo.com

Time for a Choc Talk

Sixteen thousand, four hundred. Can you believe that many links came back when I Googled the phrase “I hate chocolate”?

I couldn’t either, and upon further investigation, I found these unbelievable expressions of chocohate:

> “I hate chocolate. I don't like the taste, the smell, or the texture. I'll eat a Snickers bar, or some other candy bars with chocolate in them. I’ll also eat M&M's if they have peanuts in them. I like those!”
> “I hate chocolate. But I love chocolate chip cookies, brownies, and chocolate milk. Okay, maybe I don't hate chocolate that much.”
> “I hate chocolate. It’s just that when you eat some that’s really good, it’s a real bummer when there’s no more and your mouth is saying ‘Please please I need more!’”

Like I said, unbelievable! These people DON’T hate chocolate. They like-it, love-it, crave-it. As most everyone does this time of year, when St. Valentine’s Day inspires people everywhere to exchange chocolate boxes the size of freight cars. Nationwide, chocolate is the second most popular gift of the holiday, just after lovingly hand-crafted scrapbooks of my columns.

For those looking for just the right chocolate (Careful! Don’t smear it on your scrapbooks!), here are some things to keep in mind:

Chocolate Science and Arts:
> A study in last November’s “Journal of Proteome Research” says chocoholics have different bacteria in their stomachs than people who don’t crave chocolate. I’d explain more about this, but it requires words like “plasma metabolic profiles,” “urine samples” and “intestinal flora,” and I don’t want to be blamed when you think of those things while munching your V-Day chocolate.

I will mention that this type of research is called "nutrimetabonomics," a sophisticated research technique that examines how science can be used to take all the fun out of eating.

> Chocolate syrup was used to fake blood in the famous shower scene in Alfred Hitchcock's “Psycho.” Uh-oh, now I’m daydreaming of that yummy Janet Leigh covered in chocolate. . .must drive thought from mind! Intestinal flora, intestinal flora, intestinal flora!!!

Whew, I’m better now.

> The Massachusetts Institute of Technology has a student club called The Laboratory of Chocolate Science, which aims to “spread the appreciation of chocolate all over campus." They screen movies with chocolate themes (“Psycho” is a big favorite), hold lectures, and host a chocolate tasting around Valentine’s Day. In accordance with MIT regulations, the club promises on its website to “not discriminate based on any characteristic, including a preference for dark, milk, or white chocolate.”

Chocolate events:
> At the Chocolate Lovers Festival in Fairfax, Virginia (Feb. 2-3), the most popular event is the Taste of Chocolate. Admission is free, but every taste will cost you a $1-apiece exchange medium called a “pog,” which stands for “Please!!! One Godiva!!!”

Chocolate products:
> Kit Kat candy bars are very popular in Japan. This is partly because the bar’s name brings to mind the Japanese phrase “kitto katsu,” which roughly translates to "You will surely win!" This has led to mass purchases of Kit Kats as a good luck charm for friends taking school examinations. However, another Japanese phrase similar to the candy’s name is “kitto katto.” This roughly translates to "You will surely miss the cut." This has led to mass purchases of Kit Kats as a bad luck charm for enemies taking school examinations.

Chocolate History:
> Here’s my Mother Goose-ian version of how the Peter Paul candy company was founded:
Peter Paul Halajian and Calvin K. Kazanjian
Joined Calvin’s brother Harry and two Jakes: Hagop- and Choulj- ian.
But then their friend George Shamlian
Realized they – none! – knew candyin’.
So they hired Harry Tatigian,
Whose “Mounds” made them Richie Rich-ian!

Chocolate Gifts:
> If you’re in your sweetie’s doghouse this Valentine’s Day, try giving a Chocopologie. It’s but a mere trifle of creamy ganache with truffle oil. Oh, and it costs $250. Which equates to $2,600 per pound. Amazingly, you can buy it with only one pog (Pot of Gold).

I presume Chocopologies are sinfully good, but then, they'd darn well better be to overshadow the maker’s name: “Knipschildt,” which is Danish for “intestinal flora.”

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TakeFiveT5@yahoo.com

A Night That'll Burns You Up

It’s been a while since I wrote one of my guaranteed-to-please “Trivia about Some Dead-for-Centuries Guy” columns. Shoot, I haven’t foisted anything like that on you since. . .oh yeah, last week, in that St. Knut column.

Well, no matter, this storyline is irresistible: The worldwide observances, on January 25th, of Burns Suppers. Yeah yeah, “Burns Suppers” is how my family describes my cooking, har-de-har-har, but that’s not what I’m talking ‘bout. I’m talkin ‘bout elaborately staged dinners honoring the life and works of the immortal Scottish poet Robert Burns, who was born on January 25th, 1759.

You might be saying, as my wife and kids did, “Robert Burns? Who dat?” But if you’ve ever stayed up until 12:01 a.m. on January 1st, then I’ll bet your bottom dollar that you know at least one of his works: Yep, the theme song for Dick Clark’s New Year’s Rocking Eve (written when Burns and Clark were high school classmates).

Oh, and he also wrote another fairly popular holiday ditty, called “Auld Lang Syne.”

Burns is fervently remembered to this day for many other impossible-to-pronounce lyrics and poems produced during a life that was short and, shall we say, colorful: A big-time literary star at a young age; scads of kids with various women; a fondness for inebriating substances. All in all, an ideal candidate for an intervention by Dr. Phil.

Burns fanatics – and there are huge numbers of them – will strenuously protest that I mock Burns’ memory with this paltry explanation of his legacy. That’s certainly not my intent. My intent is to mock the Burns Suppers held by Burns fanatics.

Burns Suppers are very traditional affairs, whether they’re held in Scotland, Japan, or the Kremlin (where the annual Burns fete is – no lie – nationally televised. Its ratings have soared in recent years with the addition of a Burns poetry-reading contest judged by Paula Abdul.)

The main goal of a Burns Supper is to entertain, which is a breeze, considering its required elements: Scotch whisky; haggis, a dish made from sheep parts that even desperately starving wild carnivores won’t touch; Maalox; and lots more Scotch whisky.

Every Burns Supper follows a precise format. First, everyone stands as the haggis is brought in, accompanied by a bagpiper. If the guests have been keeping the host from his whisky, he punishes them by having the bagpiper play.

Next, the guest with the most whisky in him recites Burns’ famous poem, “Address to a Haggis.” (Burns made serious money writing stuff like this, so stop mocking me for hoping that my “Trivia about Dead Guys” columns will eventually do the same for me.)

“Address to a Haggis” is a challenging piece, requiring six or seven draughts of whisky to get through, thanks to verses like this:
His knife see rustic Labour dicht,
An' cut you up wi' ready slicht,
Trenching your gushing entrails bricht,
Like ony ditch;
And then, O what a glorious sicht,
Warm-reekin, rich!

At the poem’s end, a toast is drunk to the meal, which everyone strenuously pretends to enjoy. The haggis must be accompanied by tatties and mashed neeps, Scottish side dishes which everyone moves around their plates to make it look like they ate some. Dessert may be cranachan or Tipsy Laird, traditional treats made from stuff that was too gross to put in the haggis. All washed down with liberal tots of you know what.

Following the meal, numerous mandatory speeches and toasts are made:
· “The Loyal Toast”;
· “The Immortal Memory Toast”;
· “The Appreciation Toast”;
· A between-toasts drink;
· “Toast to the Lasses,” made by a gentleman to the ladies;
· “Toast to the Laddies,” made by a lady. Typically the speakers making this toast and the previous one will collaborate, meaning they hold each other up;
· “Toast to All the Toasters”;
· And finally, “Other Toasts and Speeches.”

After all this, Burns’ poems and songs are performed. Men are fond of cooing “Ae Fond Kiss” to a woman they didn’t bring to the party, while “Parcel O' Rogues” is popular with women whose men are singing to other women.

A Burns Supper is delightfully open-ended. It lasts as long as the guests wish – fuggedaboud what the host wishes. However, experienced Supper-goers know well NOT to leave last. That person has to take home all the leftover haggis.

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TakeFiveT5@yahoo.com

Bowledly Risking a Bad 'Do for You

College football bowl season is, and always will be, one of my favorite times of the year. Unless my wife ever acts on her threat to sneak up on me when I’m deep in concentrated football ruminations that mimic sleep and give me a bowl haircut.

Until then, I’m here to enhance your enjoyment of all 32 bowl games with the latest, greatest, wildest and mildest of interesting college football monikers.

Every university provides little bios of its players on its official athletics website, and it was fascinating to learn that all of these players have something in common: Utah tight end Colt Sampson, East Carolina wide receiver Colton Brennan, Texas quarterback Colt McCoy, and Louisiana State kicker Colt David. The common thread? They were all conceived while their parents were horsing around.

Here’s a great football name that unfortunately belongs to a punter, who, like most punters, avoids any contact rougher than a fist bump: Navy’s Jared Smearman.

Then there’s this great name for a shifty running back, which unfortunately belongs to a kicker, who (see punter description above): East Carolina’s Matt Dodge.

The 2007 All-Sounds Like a Faculty of Eccentric Hogwarts Professors Team: Navy tackle Sander Gossard; Florida Atlantic’s cornerback Gedel Merzius and linebacker Cergile Sincere; New Mexico linebacker Greyson Wieczorek; and Michigan State defensive end Jonal Saint-Dic.

Can you guess the nickname of this Florida Atlantic linebacker: Frantz Joseph? Why, naturally, it’s “Haydn.”

The ghosts of the Holy Roman Empire will probably be looking in on the action when Octavius meets Haydrian (Auburn’s O. Coleman and Clemson’s H. Lewis).

Opponents tremble with fear when they see Oklahoma running backs Dantrell Savage and Kendall Hunter line up in the Savage-Hunter formation.

Just because this name inspires visions of tropical islands, warm breezes and cooling libations: Oklahoma State defensive lineman Tonga Tea. (Note: Tonga actually hails from what you might call the polar opposite of the daydream his name inspires: Alaska.)

I hear that nobody celebrates a big play quite like Cincinnati linebacker Andre Revels.

The University of New Mexico has an offensive lineman named Derek Tallent. At 6’-4” and 320 pounds, I think you’ll agree that’s a LOT of Tallent.

Did you hear about the young UCLA fan who asked for a pair of UCLA PJ’s for his birthday? He wound up being visited by Bruins linebacker P.J. Tobyansen and guard P.J. Irvin.

The 2007 All-Do They Get Razzed for Having Such Famous Names? Team: Fresno State linebacker Will Smith; his teammate, tackle Andrew Jackson; Central Michigan defensive end Anthony Quinn; Georgia wide receiver Michael Moore; and, most razz-worthy of all, since it’s an actress’ name, fer goshsakes, Mississippi State defensive lineman Jazzmen Guy.

After a big-time recruiting war between Lamar University and University of Houston, defensive end Lamarr Houston finally chose. . .Texas.

You don’t suppose anyone would have the guts to nickname this guy “Cat,” do ya?: 6’-4”, 270 pound Florida State center John Frady. (Get it? “Frady Cat”?)

The 2007 All-Oscar Wilde Fans Because They Know the Importance of Being This Paragraph’s Punchline Team: Cincinnati tight end Earnest Jackson; Texas linebacker Dustin Earnest; and Indiana wide receiver Matt Ernest.

Right next to each other on Tennessee’s numerical roster: Courtney and Love (running back Court Courtney and defensive back Logan Love).

Oklahoma may field the kindest, gentlest linebacking corps in the nation, with guys like Ian Pleasant and Demarrio Pleasant. They can also send in Curtis Lofton and T.C. Bread, who form the (get ready now) Curt-T.C. tandem.

Finally, these two West Virginia defensive linemen are, I kid you not, listed right next to each other on the tail end of the team’s numerical roster: Johnny Dingle and Scooter Berry.

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TakefiveT5@yahoo.com

The Straight Poop on a Catalonian Christmas

There’s a familiar partygoer’s rant that says “Every party has a pooper, that’s why we always cover the floors with all-weather tarps when we host parties.”

You might think about your own party-giving experiences and say “Hmmmmm, I never intentionally invite a party pooper. Who would do that?”

Well, in at least one culture that I hope you were not raised in because I’m about to mock it, a party pooper is not only tolerated, but actually welcomed as one of the most desired guests.

I refer to the “Caganer,” a Spanish word that translates roughly to “Defecator.” Believe it or not, throughout the region of northern Spain known as Catalonia, the caganer is a traditional fixture of Christmas Nativity scenes, even those with no bathroom fixtures.

The typical Catalonian Nativity depicts the entire town of Bethlehem, not just the manger. The caganer, posed in the anatomically correct squatting position, complete with dropped drawers and a facsimile of his, um, output, is usually placed in an out of the way location, far from the manger. This is an especially big relief, so to speak, to actors in Catalonia’s living Nativities.

How did the caganer come to be dumped into Catalonian Christmas tradition? Some believe that it may simply be an extension of the earthy ethos of the Catalonians, who are known to say before a meal “Eat well, (caga) strong, and scoff at death!” It’s also said that children eagerly look forward to finding the caganer’s Nativity hiding spot each year. . .sort of a “Where’s Wal-doo” thing.

Other theories suggest that the caganer represents the equality of all peoples, or that his presence makes the Nativity story more “natural,” and therefore more believable. All I know is the word “caganer” is waaaaay easier to get past the censors of the family newspapers that run this column than its Dutch equivalent: “schijterkes.”

(Note: This topic makes me more nervous than ever about my heavy reliance on Wikipedia for background information; if this all turns out to be a hoax, I’ll look like a real jterkes.)

But wait, there’s more! The caganer isn’t the only poop-ular character in Catalonian Christmas festivities: There’s also Caga Tio!

Caga tio means “the pooping guy,” and yes, he’s pretty much identical in design to the caganer. The big difference is, caga tio figurines and statues are eagerly welcomed INSIDE Catalonian homes during the holiday season.

Here’s why: The caga tio figure is hollow, and during the weeks leading up to Christmas, he’s steadily “fed” candies and treats. Come Christmas day, he’s persuaded – either through words, whacks with a stick, or a proctology exam – to “poop” out these goodies, which are then enjoyed by everyone in the household who isn’t completely grossed out.

Historically, caga tio has been depicted as a typical Catalan peasant, in a typical Catalan squat. Nowadays, clever Catalonian businesspersons produce and sell caga tios, and Nativity scene caganers too, in a multitude of designs, including likenesses of movie stars, professional athletes, politicians, cartoon figures, and cartoonish politicians.

Since I’ve been a regular columnist for quite a while now, many of the papers that run my column hope to generate some holiday-season profits by making and selling a collectible caganer made in my image. I was all set to sign a deal, but my accountant brother in-law told me to wait; he thinks he can negotiate a better one, for a schijterkes-load more money.

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TakeFiveT5@yahoo.com

Who Let the Cat Out? (woof, woof, woof-woof!)

I never know what the heck my cat is thinking, except when she’s thinking about food. But that’s only about 22 hours of every day.

A couple of days before Halloween, her stomach was apparently full enough that she thought a road trip would be great fun, because she lit out – completely unauthorized and without permission – into the great outdoors. She must’ve darted out of the house while we brought our pumpkins inside to be carved. Maybe the sight of No. 3, 4 and 5 sons wielding wicked sharp knives was just too petrifying.

I’m sure as she trotted out the door, she fancied herself a macha, top-o’-the-food-chain critter, even though the only thing she ever kills is my appetite, when she jumps on the kitchen counter to paw and lick my turkey sandwiches. I also lose my desire for lunch when she woofs up hers; she’s a serial puker, thanks to her addiction to gnawing crunchy, indigestible items, especially giftwrap bows and ribbons.

Maybe she scooted out the door because she expected the turkey-sandwich hunting to be just as easy as indoors. She couldn’t know any better, I guess, because she is not the outdoorsy type. Meaning, she NEVER goes outside. EVER. Even if her cell phone is fully charged.

We like keeping her strictly a housecat. We don’t want her gallivanting about town with her girlfriends, getting into rumbles and coming home all gashed and scraped. (A cat I previously lived with did that all the time. I called him Mr. Bill, because every morning he’d straggle home with a tattered ear or bloody lip [do cats have lips?], probably inflicted by the tomcat down the street, Mr. Sluggo.)

When we realized she was gone, we first assumed she was snoozing in a closet, a favorite habit of hers. When the closets turned up empty, we checked less likely nooks and crannies, even those that she’s waaaay to fat to squeeze into.

Reflexively, as we looked for her, we hollered her name, even though she hardly ever heeds it. I’m convinced that (a) she doesn’t know her name. After all, she’s only had it for 8 years now, and it’s pretty complicated : “Zoe” (two syllables, long “e”). Or (b) she darn well knows her name but isn’t about to by-gosh humiliate herself by running toward us every time she hears it. That would be so, (shudder), dog-like.

Basically she only responds to the sound of food rattling in her dish. In fact, the kids searched for her with her bowl in hand, shaking it like a maraca.

My wife began fearing the cat had keeled over, kaput, in some won’t-find-her-until-she-starts-to-smell space. I didn’t give up her ghost so fast, and organized a comprehensive outdoor search mission. My duty was to tour the neighborhood every hour hollering “KITTY, KITTY, KITTY” in that high-pitched voice she likes. (Although I learned the neighbors don’t.) The kids volunteered for the job of staying home and watching for a “Zoe Missing!” report on the Disney Channel.

The night before Halloween, with her AWOL for 24 hours, I delivered to neighborhood mailboxes a fact sheet bearing her picture and our contact information, many watermarked with the kids’ tears.

But by Halloween afternoon, nobody had contacted us, and even I started wondering if we’d ever see her again. Then a new and insanely optimistic thought struck me: Even though she has absolutely no animal instincts, is herniatingly overweight and out-of-shape, and is unlikely to capture any food other than a wild turkey sandwich, maybe, just maybe, she’d be found in some far distant place, sort of like “The Incredible Journey”!

Wouldn’t you know, that’s exactly what happened! Well, the journey was “Incredible” by her standards. She was found, a couple of hours before trick-or-treating began, cowering beneath some tarp-covered patio furniture; and she was two full doors down from our house!

Back in our house (okay, okay, HER house), she purred up a storm. Or maybe it was just her stomach growling, because she ate like a horse. Then, to show that she’d forgiven us for letting her wander away, and for taking so by-gosh long to find her, and that she was ready to reclaim her role as Queen of the House, she made a gesture we’ll always remember: she puked all over a freshly made turkey sandwich.

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TakefiveT5@yahoo.com