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Location: Connecticut, United States


Saturday, April 29, 2006

The Housecoat and the Shoe

Hanging on a hook at the back of Grandma’s bedroom door was a multi-colored “housecoat” that no one ever saw Grandma wear.

It was hideous; a yellow, orange, green, red and purple flowered, short-sleeved snap coat.

Grandma wouldn’t have been caught dead in it…so we wondered why it was always hanging on that hook and why the large front pocket was always bulging with what appeared to be “used” tissues.

In my mind, I figured she must only wear it when she had a bad cold.

Grandma was no fashion maven, but this ugly housecoat always seemed out of place to us. Its position on the bedroom-door hook indicated it was something she wore frequently, but no one had ever seen her wear it – not even when we’d drop off a pineapple pastry and the New York Times newspaper to her, early Sunday morning, so she could do the puzzle -- which she loved to do as quickly as possible, especially while munching her beloved pineapple pastry.

We all knew every inch of that tiny house, every nook and cranny; every drawer and cupboard. We knew what was in the attic crawl space and what could be found in the “sideboard” or the small drawers in her nightstand.

We knew about the shoe in the bathroom too and what was inside the shoe.

If we were going on a field trip or to the movies or to the beach or on vacation; if we showed her a good report card or if we helped her paint her porch or rake her leaves, Grandma would tell us: Get the shoe.

The shoe was a reproduction of a Victorian woman’s lace-up boot made out of pottery and painted black. Inside the shoe was a wad of fives and ones and a few tens and twenties…maybe a hundred dollars, maybe less. It seemed like a fortune to us.

She would dip into the shoe and pull out some bills and say: Here, take this and buy yourself some … (popcorn, candy, souvenirs, whatever it was that we wanted at the time ). The bills were rolled and pushed down into the shoe and they stayed rolled until you folded them lengthwise to straighten them out.

Just thinking about that shoe puts a smile on my face.

If she had reached into her purse and pulled out her wallet to hand us some money, I doubt it would have held the excitement that standing on the toilet, reaching up to the top shelf and hopping off with the shoe in our hands did for us.

We were at Grandma’s house one day and after dipping into the shoe to hand us our “salary” for picking tomatoes and watering the garden, Grandma’s doorbell rang.

It was her neighbor Michele. Born in France and having lived in the states for less than five years, Michele’s accent delighted us as did her numerous mispronunciations and general misuse of the English language. But this day wasn’t one where we could enjoy Michele’s accent as she was crying, sobbing uncontrollably.

We were quiet as Michele attempted to tell Grandma what was wrong between loud hiccups of grief…her beloved younger sister Edvige had been hit by a car while crossing a Paris street, and was on her death bed. Edvige’s fiancé had called Michele to tell her that her sister was “on death’s door,” “hanging on by a thread” with “one foot in the grave.”

(Michele actually said her sister had one foot on death’s door and was hanging on to the grave by a thread, but this time no one had any desire to giggle.)

What was intolerable for Michele to bear was the fact that she couldn’t go to Paris to visit her sister; to see her one more time, or, if the worse happened, could she afford to travel to France to go to her funeral. She was forced to stay in Connecticut while her heart, soul and mind were focused on her dying sister thousands of miles away.

Grandma hugged Michele and spoke in soft, soothing tones. We couldn’t make out what Grandma was saying until her very last words to Michele before she went out the door: Go home and pack right now.

As Michele went out the door, Grandma called to us: Would one of you please get my housecoat hanging on the back of my bedroom door?

Sure. We wondered why she wanted it – but not for long.

She reached into the pocket of the hideous housecoat and pulled out a wad of tissues.

Then she reached in again and this time pulled out a wad of money…bills and more bills but unlike the shoe, these bills had $50 and $100 on them.

“One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten,” Grandma said.

She continued counting. “One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, two thousand,” Grandma said.

Thousand! We were stunned.

From the pocket of that old housecoat Grandma fished out two thousand dollars in hundred dollar bills. And we could see there were many rolled up bills still inside the pocket before she shoved in the wrinkled up tissues till they spilled over the pocket’s top.

Which is how Michele ended up flying to France to see her dying sister. (Who never did die though she sported a pretty deep scar on her chin for the rest of her life.) Michele used the money from Grandma’s housecoat pocket to buy her ticket.

A few months later, Grandma told us that Edvige’s fiancé had repaid Michele for her traveling expenses as he owned a popular café in the heart of Paris and was quite wealthy. Michele returned the money to Grandma and the housecoat pocket once again bulged with rolled up bills.

When Grandma got cancer and moved into the nursing home, we were left to sell her house and belongings. She told us to be sure to look in the shoe and in that housecoat pocket where we did find money, but less than she had once squirreled away, as she called it.

She must have given money to other people at different times; dipping into the shoe for small treats and into the hideous housecoat’s pocket for big problems.

When we told her about the movers coming to clear out her house she said, “Don’t forget to go into my housecoat pocket and give them a good tip for their troubles. Then keep whatever money you find and for God's sake, throw that damned housecoat out."

Which we did.

Wednesday, April 26, 2006

Water in my Basement; Cobwebs in my Head

I'm sick of thinking about all that water in my basement and what is now ruined...so I am listening to Rachel York sing her heart out. A one-album-only artist (so far) I think she should give up Broadway, TV and Movies and just sing.

She has a way with the standards that makes them all sound so new. Her voice can be sweet and high or low and sultry. She can whisper a song or belt it out like Ethel Merman. She's really good.

A friend of mine is interviewing her tomorrow and I am so jealous. I want to shake her hand and tell her what a fan I am. I want to push her into the nearest recording studio and keep her locked in until she comes out with another album.

Same thing for the Ditty Bops. One album is not enough. I need more! (Just did a check and they have a new album coming out in May...that makes me happy.)

I think the mold in the basement has affected my brain cells. I feel like my head's filled with sawdust or maybe even mold itself. Something isn't quite right up there. I keep tasting soap too.

I can't seem to get motivated to do much but listen to music and wander around my home futzing around.

When I futz I get nothing accomplished. Usually the place looks worse after the futzing.

I futzed with my CDs in my lifelong quest of having them organized....there are now piles of CDs scattered all over the living room...

(Right now, Rachel York is singing "I Love How You Love Me" -- it's my favorite on the album!)

I have malaise, the blahs, and vague worries like: where is the hose?

Lawn men finally made their debut cut of the season and when I told husband he said: What about the hose?

The hose..what hose? I am assuming they moved the hose.

I went outside and I see no hose anywhere. Could the lawn men have mowed the hose, bagged the clippings and took them away? The hose was green, after all.

I have also been staring at the Hog's Breath Saloon web cam waiting to see if another one of my friends and his wife show up. They are supposed to be doing a gig there, but I'm not sure what day or time. They travel all over, like the wonderful gypsies they are, entertaining with their unique band...Lucky Mud is one of the names they play under.

Web cams fascinate me. I'm a born people watcher and web cams seem to cut to the chase. Earlier I watched the raw bar guy talking to a woman and each time he smoothed his hair, she smoothed hers. He talked with his hands up waving them around and she did too. He pushed glasses up on his head and so did she...it was like watching adults play Simon Says.

How the hell am I going to get the moldy cellar taste out of my mouth when the beer fridge is sitting in water and I don't want to swim over to it to get out a beer?

That's all folks, a completely inane post at your disposal. I am no way as interesting as my friends.


Saturday, April 22, 2006


I just got tagged by
Irina to list ten simple pleasures I enjoy.

Here they are!

1) Watching the birds at my bird feeder.

2) Reading

3) Playing the piano.

4) Petting my cat and dogs.

5) Watching children at play.

6) Walking on the beach.

7) Making a special cocktail and pouring it in a beautiful stemmed glass.

8) Bubble bath

9) Friday bagel breakfast with friends

10) Sunday New York Times Crossword Puzzle

I'm supposed to tag ten people but I'm not sure ten people visit my blog ;-) so I will tag anyone who wants to share their simple pleasures with the blogworld.

Thanks Irina...it's good to remember how much fun the above, inexpensive pleasures truly are....( your meme meshes with my post on being content...!)

Friday, April 21, 2006

Let it be Known

Let it be Written

I am content.

I’m not going to use the word happy because it’s so emotionally charged. It means different things to different people.

But content we can all relate to.

Sure life would be better if, and but,…shoulda, coulda, woulda…etc. etc.

If ifs and buts were candy and nuts every day would be “Christmas”.

Which I think is the point (dulled as it might be) of this post: We couldn’t stand it if every day was our birthday, Christmas, wedding day, graduation day, move-in-to-your-first-house day...or any other day which is supposed to be above and beyond all other days in happiness levels.

If every day was spectacular, we’d have to go beyond spectacular to get that happiness high.

So content really works for me.

I like the feeling; I hope I can have it more often, and I don’t have any idea why I’m feeling this way.

Hope you can feel content today too.

Tuesday, April 18, 2006

Log-ons, Passwords and Pin Numbers

It's like pick-up-sticks or a house made of cards. It's the straw and the camel's back...it's the feather that knocks you over.

I have reached my personal ability to handle log-on names and passwords and when I switched to Cable Phone, I needed to create two more log-on names and passwords and now I'm totally on overload.

There's no way I can remember and deal with all these sign-on identites and passwords -- so trying to put a small order in to Drugstore.com and buy a book from Half.com and adjust my preferences for my Optonline Voice I managed to confuse all log-on names I've ever picked, all passwords I've ever used and can't seem to do anything now.

I know there's Password Manager...a system to keep all your log on names and passwords neatly packaged and available, but I don't want this unseen Manager to know all that information. He/she/it could ruin me financially and wreak havoc on my life.

I have thought of writing a group email to Drugstore.com, Half.com and Optonline.com asking the three of them to put their pretty little heads together to figure out what it is I'm supposed to put in the blanks to access my accounts...maybe they should be forced to figure it out for me.

I currently have passwords, log-on names and/or pin numbers for the following:

Peoples Bank
Toys r us.com
King Arthur Baking Circle
The Spice House.com ( a place to buy excellent herbs and spices and not the naked woman site with a very similar url, causing me to always put the wrong url in first bringing up the boobs instead of the basil. )

I have more I'm just tired of writing them down.

I can't remember who I am at this point. And if I can remember who I am, I certainly don't know what my password is.

Yours truly, (I think)

Friday, April 14, 2006

I Always Hated Going to Church

As I said last year this time, I don't believe in Jesus or the Easter Bunny so I really dislike the Easter holiday.

This year is going to be better because we have renamed the holiday Celebration of Spring. I can get into that...new buds, singing birds, warm breezes..and I do like candy, especially Cadbury Cream Eggs.

I went to shop for asparagus and all I could find was asparagus on steroids. The stalks were as thick as an anorexic's arm. I know that larger asparagus can be very tender, but this was beyond large...these looked like fence posts.

(Another family member has been alerted to the asparagus problem in my grocery store and will look in her store...)

I also needed cherry tomatoes. My store was selling six for $3.99. Husband is the shopper in our family so I'm out of touch with 2006 vegetable prices but this seems ludicrous. I could eat six cherry tomatoes while I'm making the tossed salad!

Tomato problem will be passed on to husband when he goes out in the morning for the weekend supplies. I couldn't bring myself to buy them and maybe another grocery store is more merciful when it comes to pricing itty bitty tomatoes.

I do love watching the children hunt for eggs and I do look forward to a party with close friends and family.

I feel nostalgic for a time when -- even though I hated going to church (ever since I can remember going to church, I hated it) -- I did love the new Easter dress, shoes and hat my mother would buy me.

But then I remember "communion" and all the gagging I did with the mucous-tasting host in my mouth...gag, gag, gag all the way back to my pew where my parents would glare with steel eyes and downturned mouths; Privately praying that I wouldn't vomit up the host in front of the whole church.

Some things you are born with.

I was born hating church...the sounds and smells, the men in dresses...the incense. Only one thing was wonderful within the church walls and that was the music.

I loved the gorgeous music that was sung and played throughout mass...it was church's only saving grace...

In my preteen years I learned how to faint in church.

Being there gave me such creeps, (the body and blood of Jesus Christ) I mean that is disgusting. Who wants to be a canibal? Not me.

I would feel the black coming in from the side of my vision, get light headed, and all it would take was one more "body and blood" mention and I'd be out.

So by fainting before communion, atleast I alleviated the gagging walk from altar to pew.

I am listening to Bryn Terfel sing some incredibly beautiful music...Ave Maria, Panis Angelicus - but I don't associate this music with either god or church or mucous-tasting hosts.

If I did I'd be gagging or fainting.

So to all of you -- the ones like me who don't celebrate Easter as a religious holiday; the ones who do; and the ones who celebrate other holidays like Passover....

Hope you enjoy the day however you choose to spend it.

And if there are any rumors about giant asparagus taking over the earth...please email me and let me know.

Thursday, April 13, 2006

The Wayback Machine

(One year ago today this is what was on my mind. Drunk slugs. Since I have nothing on my mind this year, I decided to republish last year's post.)

Wednesday, April 13, 2005

Club Med for Slugs

Echrai’s reply on my ant post got me thinking about the year I turned my strawberry garden into a Club Med for slugs.

The slugs were eating my strawberries. They’d gnaw a hole and suck out the juices and let the rest of the strawberry rot.

Strawberries are hard to grow and wonderful on your cereal especially because you have to plod out to get them on an early summer morning - still sleepy-eyed and coiffed in bed-head extraordinaire. Early morning strawberries are warm and dewy and all you have to do is swipe them under the faucet for a couple of seconds and then slice them up for breakfast, that is if you don’t just eat them all right over the sink with the water still running.

Unlike the store varieties (that look like real strawberries only much huger and redder), these smaller pinker versions packed flavor. Let’s see a show of hands, who remembers when strawberries actually had flavor??

Okay back to the slug story.

So the slugs had invaded the strawberry garden and I read, like Echrai suggested, that if you put out a bowl of beer (which I hate to part with because I adore beer) the slugs will come and drown in the beer and leave your strawberries alone.

May I say this is not so. It might be so if you choose a bowl with high slippery sides, but I chose a soup bowl with low sloping sides. Big mistake.

When I timidly peeked at the bowl to see how many dead slugs and more important, how many strawberry’s lives saved – I was stunned.

A bunch of drunk slugs were leaning up on the side of the bowl as if they were chilling in a hot tub filled with beer. They were happy, healthy, drunk and slightly pink where the strawberry juices had stained their lovely see-through gray bodies.

I was out a Stella Artois (all I had at the time) my strawberries were decimated and the happy inebriated slugs were going to give me a good neighbor award.

Nothing like a hearty meal of strawberries topped off with a couple of pints of good beer and a nice place to rest and chat with your friends.

Tuesday, April 11, 2006

The Grey Squirrel

Like a small grey
sits the squirrel.
He is not

all he should be,
kills by dozens
trees, and eats
his red-brown cousins.

The keeper on the
other hand,
who shot him, is
a Christian, and

loves his enemies,
which shows
the squirrel was not
one of those.

Humbert Wolfe


A male friend, where I used to work, wrote this down for me on a piece of cardboard -- complete with beautiful calligraphy and a fancy border.

He gave it to me one day when he noticed a group of women ( or sharks in shirtwaists) swarming at the water cooler; and even though I thought of them as friendly co-workers they saw me as shark chum. He overheard the talk and felt sorry for me I guess, so he gave me the poem in his handwriting and I've kept it in my office for years.

It seems I don't get along well with women.

I usually find the actions, thoughts, hobbies and interests of men far more appealing.

Not all women, but of the women I am exposed to, most have desires and drives that are foreign to me.

I do not like to make crafts; I prefer a beer to a cup of tea.

I hate shopping and I love sports.

Jeans, tees, flip-flops and a neat, but unfussed with ponytail, take me through most of my days.

Girls night out is not appealing to me as I have no interest in seeing a chick-flick and then going for a sundae or a Cosmopolitan.

I do not want to sign up for a home dermabrasion party nor do I want to arrive en masse for a pedicure with 6 other women.

I do not want to either hash up my husband or elevate him to sainthood.

I don't want to talk about my children ad nauseum nor do I feel comfortable in sharing intimate details of any part of my life.

If I'm going to see a new Broadway play, I'd prefer to do it with my husband in the evening, not with women "friends" at a matinee.

So for some reason, when I see the spring squirrels running around the yard, scampering up trees and cheecheecheeing at the neighborhood cats, I think of this poem and my relationships with women and feel a bit sad.

I wish it were different.

I envision this female friend: a regular gal with a brain. Someone who won't let any of the seven deadly sins override a friendship. Someone who can be close without being clingy. Someone who "doesn't know it all" but is still learning like me. Someone who doesn't always need to be the center of attention, but someone who has a spark other than on her gas stove's ignition system.

Someone who might very well be a wife, mother and employee, yet not let those aspects of her life be all she can talk about.

I am thankful for the blog world and the interesting, intelligent and wise women I've met safely on my computer screen. I wish you all lived near me.

And I've also come across blog women who would fit right in with the water-cooler clique and I'm equally glad they don't.

I once started a blog entry titled: Why I Like Men Better than Women.

I never finished it but here's what I did write:

Men don't cry easily or often. When women cry they screw their faces up and let their noses run unwiped. The rare occasions men cry, they keep the action limited to their eyes with no facial deformation.

Men are competitive in sports but not in relationships. Women compete with other women at work, the PTA, cocktail parties, the gym - and most of the time it's all about one-upmanship, envy, jealousy and physical beauty.

I won't quote all of it, but the real truth is I do love women.

I just wish I could meet one I really liked other than on the computer screen.

Saturday, April 08, 2006

Grandma and her Fear of Thunderstorms

Grandma was terrified of thunder storms, and if she was minding us, and a storm blew in, she’d quickly get her “storm kit” and usher us down into the basement.

I swear her periwinkle eyes turned navy-blue and her short gray hair seemed to rise up from her pink scalp in frightened spikes. You could see, smell and touch the fear that surrounded her at the very first flash of lightening or the first clap of thunder.

Psychologists would probably say she was doing us a disservice; setting us up for a lifetime of fearing storms.

Au contraire.

Grandma’s palpable fear made her children and grandchildren become fearless and brave.

We loved her so much we wouldn’t dare add to her nervousness or discomfort. There isn’t a single one of us today who fears a thunderstorm; even though we all knew it was one of the only fears Grandma ever had; or one of the only fears she couldn’t hide from us.

Once in the basement, Grandma would seem to be more relaxed and she’d open her box: flashlight, candles, matches, cookies, paper, pencil.

She’d light the candle even if the power was on -- and it was then she’d tell some of her best stories.

I think telling us stories was a way for her to keep her mind off the storm though we’d all notice how her hands would tremble right up until she’d announce: Okay the storm's blown over and we can go upstairs now.

The basement was half scary and half Disneyland.

Potatoes were stored in bins and seemed to always have long sprouts she called “eyes” that felt icky on our hands. Onions were also stored in the basement and there always seemed to be a smell of a rotting onion somewhere near the root bins as she called them.

But there was also a player piano, a bar with bar stools, copper mugs that hung from pegs and kept root beer so cold your lip would stick to the edge of the mug.

There were rainbow-striped glasses filled with stirrers that Grandma and Grandpa had brought home as souvenirs. Some were heavy glass in beautiful colors; some were plastic and my favorite one had a red whistle dangling off the top.

An old fridge with an erratic heartbeat, still kept sodas cold and the freezer top was taped closed with black tape fashioned in a checkerboard pattern.

An old coal burning stove sat in the middle of the basement as did an ancient “sun lamp” that was impossible to tip over as it must have weighed 300 pounds.

A sump pump, partially hidden by a board, scared the bejeezus out of us. It would come on with a groan and then screech and creek until by some magic it would stop and we could remove our hands from our ears and breathe normally.

There was a round table and chairs set up where we’d play word games on the paper or just sit and drink our root beers as if we were at some chichi bistro.

There were spiders, always, no matter what season. But grandma would warn us not to harm them.

She would recite a poem in French that basically said something like this: if you kill a spider in the morning, you will have bad luck; if you kill a spider in the afternoon, you will have bad luck; if you kill a spider in the evening, you will have bad luck; if you kill a spider at night, you will have bad luck.

It sounded beautiful in French as did the Hail Mary she’d mumble every time a rumble of thunder could be heard…phonetically I recall: Je voo saloo Marie plenty grahs.

Cookies during a thunderstorm always tasted divine.

We'd fight over who was going to hold Grandma's hands if there were more than two of us visiting that day.

Her vulnerability touched the heart of her youngest grandchild and we reveled in the chance to help her; to make it "all better" for her as she always did for us.

If the truth be known, one of our greatest joys was being with Grandma in her basement during a thunderstorm.

It's rare a child gets such a sense of power and responsibility; and it's a wonderful feeling.

I know, I was there in that basement.

Thursday, April 06, 2006

I Love my La La

Peg got me thinking about “feminine” things over at her place. By the way, do drop by to read Peg’s latest: Alternative names for vaginal discharge.

Okay, it doesn’t sound like it would elicit a rollicking good conversation but I know I’m having so much fun coining words for that substance.

The whole conversation at Peg’s has me thinking about shame and women’s genitalia and why men are thrilled to walk around with their parts hanging in the breeze while many women are not.

Often it takes a loving partner to praise a woman’s vagina and extol its virtues before a woman is really comfortable with her “secret spot”.

Men seem to adore their penises, hands down. Women seem less able to love their “private parts” with that same wild abandonment -- and I know in my case, a lot of my wary feelings about “down there” stem from the words my mother used, and other women used for vagina, including the ones in quotation marks above.

Growing up, I was told this “part” was my la la. (Actually a rather pretty word.) But the warnings about my la la seemed unending.

Don’t put the soap directly on your la la.
Did you dry your la la?
Be careful walking on that picket fence, if you ever fell you’d split open your la la. (Ouch)
What are you doing? Stop touching your la la.
Never ever put anything inside your la la.
Once, a little girl put marbles in her la la and had to go to the hospital to get them removed.

(Sometimes I wonder why I don’t have sexual hang ups!)

Even slang for vaginas seems to go to either a bad place or a funny place…and the vagina/fish connection is not only foul, it’s just not true.

Think about it. What words were you taught for your genitalia. Did these words make you proud, ashamed or confused? This question is directed to men too.

Also, if any man dares to respond to this post (somehow I think that Nilbo might...) - what were the words you were taught as a child and how did those words shape your feelings about your genitalia?

Wednesday, April 05, 2006

The Cable Man is Coming!

Do you ever do this?

I know the cable guy is coming, so I start wild cleaning, as if he is going to open up my linen closet, peer in my fridge, and even check to see how neat my underwear drawer is.

Somehow, the fact that a stranger is going to enter in my house, fuels this need to rearrange objets d’art, vacuum under the cushions of the sofa, organize my spices and clean up the cabinets under the bathroom sink.

When he comes, I want to throw open doors, drawers and cabinets and exclaim: Look, look how neat and tidy I am Mr. Cableman.

How silly of me.

I guess I just don’t want him telling his fellow cable guys that he went to a home that was such a mess he couldn’t wait to get out of there.

I want him to think a nice family lives here: A family who not only watches television, but lives a good, clean life. A family whose beds are not just changed weekly, but whose beds are fussed over, lace edges on sheets pulled even, pillows fluffed to perfection, and furniture that is dust-free and clutter free. I want him to admire my bedroom – how cozy it looks; how it smells like lavender; how the crisp white curtains flutter in the breeze.

When he politely asks if he can use the bathroom (they always do for some reason) I want the room to sparkle and smell like fresh lemons and freesia. I want the towels to look so pristine and plump that he longs to shower in my bathroom above all others, just to use my towels.

I want him to go home at night and tell his wife he peed in an impeccably clean toilet today.

Why do I care so much about what the cable man might think?

After all, he will go into the basement and the jig will be up. He’ll see the mess that resides just one level lower than the main, sparkly-clean living area and probably presume I sweep dirt under the rug. If he’s wise, he’ll have a Haz Mat suit he can slip on before he enters the creature-crawling catacombs we call “the basement”.

My dirty little secret will be out.

The basement is a wreck and I have no intentions of cleaning it.

Tuesday, April 04, 2006

One Moment in Time

In case you missed this:

On Wednesday, at two minutes and three seconds after 1:00 in the morning, the time and date will be 01:02:03 04/05/06.

Monday, April 03, 2006

I Want to Eat… What for Dinner?

It’s afternoon and I should be thinking about what I’m making for dinner tonight. But I can’t think of a single thing I feel like eating. Does this ever happen to you?

Italian? Nah

Asian? Nah

Mexican? Nah

Comfort food? Nah

Fusion? Nah

Nothing, nothing appeals to me at all.

Something fried? Boiled? Broiled? Braised? Sautéed? Steamed? Roasted?

Oh I know what I feel like…a big bowl of Portuguese "Pork and Clams."

I have neither ingredient, so I’m back to the drawing board.

What are you having for dinner tonight?

And, do you call the evening meal dinner or supper?

When I was a kid my mother called lunch dinner and what I call dinner supper.

(And to the person who came to Tchotchkes wondering why their poop turned black after taking Pepto Bismal, I don't know the answer, I just know that it happens.)

{ Food talk and poop talk in the same post, ick}