"I Can Hear the Bells"

As the year passes away like a pestering guest we thought might never leave, we at last rejoice to find in the beckoning year a unblemished face, a virgin year untainted by the disappointments and despair which have so often haunted us. Now, we raise our glasses of whatever-it-was in the bottle, toasting them all away, and say with a hopeful air, "Maybe this year will be better than the last" (from Counting Crows' song "A Long December").

Have you ever wondered why so many people stuff the phrase "and a happy New Year" in with "Have a Merry Christmas"? Why can't we just take one holiday at a time? The truth is, we simply want to get it over with, much like the year. In fact, we are enthused, so excited, so ecstatic to have this bloody year over with, and the ringing of the bells signifies that at last, the time's irritating thorn is being extracted from our ribs. So I say, "Ring out, wild bells" (from Alfred Lord Tennyson's "Ring Out, Wild Bells") which "[bring] this cursed world closer to its end" (from Charles Dickens Nicholas Nickelby), on this night I will look forward in hope to the approaching future rather than dwell in past regret and disappointed dreams of the untouchable, immutable past.

May all of you do the same. Have a happy New Year full of friendship, resolve, patience, and peace of mind.

Dweebs, Geeks, and Weirdos

Maybe you know people like this. Maybe you live with people like this. Maybe you are people like this. You know the kind of people I'm talking about. The ones who do things that, you're certain, 90% or more of the population would recognize as uncool, unacceptable, or otherwise unthinkable.

We often see quirky and diverse individuals, glowing radiantly in all of their perceived social faux pas, sometimes clad in army fatigues, or trenchcoats, or black mesh, the woman with shaved heads and the men with braided hair hanging past their shoulder blades. They wander like migrating elk around the malls and sidewalks as if they were trying to fool us into thinking they are what we refer to as normal. But they're not fooling anyone. We know what they are. Don't we?

That's right.

They're weird.

But guess what?

Ain't no such thang (Note: I just snapped my fingers when I wrote that. I don't know why; I just did).

Sure, they may not blend in like the rest of us homogenized humans. But who doesn't?

I'll tell you who doesn't. I'll tell you who the weird ones are.

People who kill, steal, rape, and vandalize: they're the weird ones. People who buy National Geographic magazines because they feel strangely titillated when they look at the high resolution photographs of naked native women with sagging mammary organs: they're the weird ones. People in college who still talk about high school days like they actually matter: they're the weird ones. People who liked the Seinfeld series finale: they're the weird ones. People who cheer for the New York Yankees and the Los Angeles Lakers and the Oakland Raiders: they're the weird ones. People who wear meat dresses to award ceremonies: they're the weird ones. People who refer to themselves in the third person: they're the weird ones ("Hey, Jerry needs a banana split, and Jerry wants two cherries on top. If Jerry doesn't get two cherries, Jerry is going to be very, very, VERY, angry. Believe me, you won't like Jerry when he's angry. So, don't be a fairy, Harry, and give Jerry two cherries").

But what about the one guy I saw the other day who looked like he wanted to be an army-strong, free-loving hippie? Believe it or not, he's not a weirdo; he's just confused.

And the guy who plays Scrabble by himself? Not weird; just really intelligent.

The lady who scours the parking lot for pennies? Not weird, either; she's thrifty.

Personally, I think we are often too quick to label others as weird, odd, peculiar, or abnormal. Just because you come home one day to find your roommate sitting on the couch in a dress ["It's a kilt, sicko!" (from film How the Grinch Stole Christmas)], does not make him weird. He may be the only man you know who does it, but that does not justify categorizing him as a weirdo. No single individual (I'm making a general statement right now, which will most definitely not apply to every situation) is capable of categorizing his fellow human beings as weirdos, except in the cases which I have outlined above, of course. Otherwise, just realize that they're different than you are in some ways, just as you are different from them. In that, they are the same as you, and you are the same as them. Ultimately, we are all normal because we are all abnormal, and vice-versa, and "I am he as you are he and we are all together" (Beatles's song "I Am a Walrus"). "Datta. Dayadhvam. Damyata. Shantih  shantih  shantih" (from T.S. Eliot's "The Waste Land").

[Note: Datta signifies "give", dayadvham "sympathize", and damyata "control"; shantih, repeated three times at the end of Eliot's poem, serves, in my opinion, to emphasize the meaning "The Peace which passes understanding"; these are words taken from the ancient Indian Upanishads]

Book Review: Cry, the Beloved Country

Oh, wait. Give me second to get a stick of gum before I start writing. Ah. There we go. Okay, now I'm ready. Just so you know, I think and write better when I chew gum, especially this--what is this?--um, passionberry twist sugar-free Trident gum. With Xylitol. (Let's not forget that; it's very important). It's not my favorite flavor, but it definitely worth masticating (For those of you who don't know, it is not a sin to masticate. Remember that).

But that is hardly the point of this post. I did not intend to write about passionberry twist sugar-free Trident gum (No, they are not paying me every time I write that). Of course not. Actually, tonight I have finished (about ten minutes ago actually) the book Cry, the Beloved Country by Alan Paton.

Now, before beginning this book review, I must say that it has been certainly one of the most satisfying reads I have had in a while. Not because the other books I have read are sub-standard (of course they aren't) but this one happens to rise above them in its beauty of prose and depth of character and feeling.

Plot: A Zulu priest in South Africa travels from his suffering hometown in the country to the city of Johannesburg to find his wayward son. He finds out his son is guilty of killing a white man in a home invasion/robbery. The boy's two accomplices sell him out, but the son, instead of denying the charges, confesses as part of his attempt at repentance. He is found guilty of murder and sentenced to death. His father finds the girl who is carrying the son's child and takes her back to the country with him away from the evils of the city.

The themes of forgiveness and inter-racial understanding are presented and amplified through the actions of the priest and the father of the white man killed by the son. Together, they work to improve the country they live in, even as many people and social issues attempt to degrade it and pull it apart. For love of the people of South Africa, these two overcome their differences and demonstrate that strife between social classes and races is no match for the power of love and respect.

Conclusion: Paton's use of language and plot development, as well as his interweaving of important issues into the story, make this book a must-read for anyone, but especially for those interested in finding out more regarding the historical inter-racial trouble in South Africa. In addition, the juxtaposition of strife and peace in the story provide a beautiful contrast which clearly demonstrates that life is more than what happens to you; it also about what you do when life happens. And that is a principle which transcends race, ethnicity, gender, religion, space, and time.

"Just a Little Change"

Though I cannot speak for anyone but myself, I feel it is probably safe to say that many people in the world are looking for a purpose, a purpose wherein they are able to make a difference. If you are in the business of asking people what they want to do when they grow up, most of the time they'll say, "I want to help people" or "I want to make a difference." When President Obama was running for the presidency in 2008, his entire campaign was based on the idea of change.

The question then, I think, is not do we want to make a difference; of course it isn't. We want to feel like our lives have not been lived without some consequence for the better. We want "to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life" by "putting to rout all that is not life" and "[living] deliberately" (from Henry David Thoreau's Walden) through positive action and change. The question, rather, is how do we intend to do it? It's easy enough to say you want to change the world; it's quite another to do it. So, once again, how do you intend to bring about this change, this difference, in the society we live in today?

Let me be laconic.

Words.

I know there are many out there who say that actions speak louder than words, and I think they're right in most cases. However, that does not mean that we allow our voices to atrophy through lack of use just because it does not have the volume that actions do. If you have something to say that can improve yourself, the people around you, or the world in general, you have to say it. Don't wait until you can think of an action to amplify your thought; just let out the message and someone will hear it. Think how the world would be if the people who uttered the following words had sewed his or her lips shut and never said a thing.

"I have a dream." ~Martin Luther King

"...all men are created equal."~Thomas Jefferson

"What's up, doc?"~Bugs Bunny

"All I wanted was to get home from work."~Rosa Parks

"That's all folks!"~Johnny Carson

"You'll have plenty of time to live in a van down by the river when you're...living in a van down by the river."~Chris Farley

"If you're a young Mafia gangster out on your first date, I bet it's real embarassing if someone tries to kill you."~Jack Handy

"One small step for man...one giant leap for mankind."~Neal Armstrong

"Now I want you to remember that no b------ ever won a war by dying for his country. He won it by making the other poor b------ die for his country."~General George S. Patton

"Just beat it!"~Michael Jackson

"I invented the piano-key necktie!"~Will Ferrell in Zoolander

"I give her a hundred! A hundred!"~Will Ferrell in Bewitched

"I'm a cotton-headed ninny-muggins."~Will Ferrell in Elf

"Baby, baby, baby, oh, baby, baby, baby."~Justin Bieber

"Give me your tired, your poor."~The Statue of Liberty

"They may take our lives, but they'll never take our freedom!"~Mel Gibson in Braveheart

"Strange things are afoot at the Circle-K."~Keanu Reeves in Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure

"That's what she said." Steve Carell in The Office

"We are the champions."~Freddy Mercury

"Can't we all just get along?"~Rodney King

"As a karate expert I will not talk about anyone up here because our children can't afford to live anywhere. Nowhere. There's nowhere to go. And once again: why? You said it: 'Cuz the rent is too d--- high."~Jimmy McMillan during the 2010 New York Governor debate

"It depends on what the meaning of word is is."~Bill Clinton

"One of the things I have used on The Google is to pull up maps."~George W. Bush

"Frankly, my dear, I don't give a d---."~Clark Gable on Gone with the Wind

"I pity the fool!"~Mr. T.

"Don't stop believin'."~Steve Perry

"Therefore all things whatsoever ye would that men should do to you, do ye even so unto them."~Jesus Christ

So, where would the world be if none of these people had opened their mouths and spoken? Who knows? Allowing the society which encompasses you to hear your voice and judge your words can be rather intimidating; nevertheless, everyone has a message, whether it is profound or superfluous, and the only way to see if you can make a difference in the world is to let your message out.

Debunking the Myths of Yuletide

Christmas is veritably encompassed in mystery and mythology, its traditions encased by a variegated shroud of fantasy and fiction. Essentially, this begs the question: what then concerning the Christmas season is true and what is not?

From our youth, our parents have told us that Christmas is the celebration of Jesus' birthday, yet we know that he was actually born sometime in April. The 25th of December actually originated as a pagan holiday and was adopted by the Christians in order to attract proselytes, or something to that effect. But this not the only Christmas mystery which merits debunking. Here are some others.

Three wise men visited the Christ child: The Christmas story often includes the visitation of the three wise men from the East who came bearing gifts of frankincense, myrrh, and gold. The Bible makes the type of presents delivered extremely clear, and consequently many have tried to solve this algebraically: 3 presents = 3 wise men. But how do we know for sure that there were only three wise men? Why could there not have been more? Perhaps there were six or nine or more who came. But there were only three presents given, you argue, angry to have someone disturbing so traditional a paradigm. But perhaps there were not three presents; perhaps there were three types or categories of presents. If that is indeed the case, it stands to reason that the wise men could have brought duplicate presents or variations within each category.

Wise Man #1: "Well, guys, I bought a new Scentsy warmer and a bar of that special-smelling wax to put on it. The saleswoman called it FrankinScentsy."

Wise Man #2: "You know, I bought that one too. My wife works for them, you know, and she recommended it. Smells really nice."

Wise Man #1: "Why didn't you buy him a box of myrrh?"

Wise Man #2: "Wise Man #3 told me he was getting that."

Wise Man #4: "I just decided on a simple gold chain for the Child."

Wise Man #5: "Well, I'm giving him my collection of gold coins. And, Wise Man #4, I would try something a little fancier than that gold chain; it looks a lot like A-Team memorabilia."

Wise Man #4: "Maybe you're right, Wise Man #4. I'll get him a set of five gold rings, just like that one song says."

Wise Man #3: "Wow, this myrrh is strong. I hope he likes it, though. It came in a combo pack with a miniature incense burner."

It is more blessed to give than to receive: 'Tis an old saying. Lots of people, famous and infamous, have said it. However, the two actually function as a coordinate pair. While giving presents is certainly a nice thing to do, receiving presents gives those around us the opportunity to express their affection and love. Therefore, just as it is service to give a gift at Christmas, so too is it service to allow our fellowmen to receive the blessings of God and kharma for their generosity toward us. Simply put, it is just as blessed to give as to receive.

Santa Claus comes at midnight: I stayed up until 2:00 a.m. on Christmas Eve watching "Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom"; Santa never showed up. However, in the morning, it was evident that he had come at some time during the night. This leads me to believe that not only does Santa come only when children are in bed and asleep but he also has Christmas Eve surveillance teams tracking the children. Truly, George Orwell might as well have written this as the last line of 1984: "He loved Santa Claus."

Naughty children get lumps of coal: Wrong. Naughty children get just as many toys as the good children, if not more so, generally because their parents are caught in a cycle of buying the children's good behavior, which leads to expectations of receiving things, which leads to disappointment and bad behavior when expectation is not met, which must again be resolved with further bribery. If more lumps of coal were distributed, perhaps the naughty children might realize the error of their ways and return to the light. Simple fact: the less coal is given, the more it will likely be needed.

Rudolph is the always the leader in Santa's troupe of flying reindeer: Actually, that only happened one time. After that Christmas was over, Rudolph became so conceited that he was the only reindeer around with a built-in fog light that Santa made him the main course at the next elf barbecue, had his head stuffed, and mounted it on top of a giant candy cane. Consequently, "Rudolph with [his] nose so bright" became the town's first traffic light (he couldn't do anything but give the yield signal, but he still went down in history. Like Columbus you know).

Admiration Does Not Have to Be Secret

This morning at church, I received a supremely pleasant compliment from a woman with whom I had never spoken with more than once. She introduced herself, not knowing that I knew who she was, and told me that she admired me for something she had noticed about me. The declaration of her admiration for me in this thing was entirely unexpected, but it filled me with--I will not call it pride--a sort of additional awareness of internal well-being in knowing that I had done something or acted in such a way as to merit somebody's admiration. It made me think momentarily: why aren't more people more open about communicating their regard and respect for the people who have had an effect on them personally?

Now, it may be that delivering a compliment of this magnitude may make you feel awkward. Perhaps such a straight-forward declaration brings to mind the image of a spectacled bald man with sweaty armpits and a high squeaky voice saying things like "my dear little Margie, I'd make the world a ruby for your finger and say 'I love you, I love you, I love you'" (from Rodgers and Hammerstein's State Fair), or "you are my sunshine, / my only sunshine, / you make me happy when skies are gray." Such awkward encounters with such awkward individuals are better avoided than pursued. But these types of confessions, namely the making known of a certain level of respect and esteem for another, need not be confined solely to the geeky and the socially inept who are unable to look the intended in the eyes without breaking into hives. Everyone could, and everyone should, openly convey from time to time, without feeling awkward about it, their admiration for another.

The declaration of respect for another is a compliment of great significance which can be paid by one human being to another. It may even be seen as an act of service. Many people go about their routines every day, serving those with whom they come in contact and never receiving any recognition for their deeds. Though neither praise nor laud is sought by these people, do you not suppose that hearing "I admire you for such-and-such a thing" or "I respect you because you are such-and-such a way" could serve as a boost to their motivation to continue as they have, as though affirming that their path in life had been of some use to someone somewhere at sometime? Service and good deeds carry within themselves an innate recompense, it is true. However, it is nice to hear, every once in a while, that someone appreciates what you have done, even if such praise or admiration is unsolicited or unexpected. Some people will never know the magnitude of their influence on society and the individuals it harbors unless said individuals openly and unreservedly declare their gratitude and acknowledgement of that influence; whether that influence be small or large, it deserves recognition by those changed by it.

Christmas Poetry

Brown-and-White Christmas

“We don’t have our Christmas ‘til the cows have theirs.”

That’s what Dad always said.

On Christmas Eve, we’d finish the milking,

Clean up the barn,

Feed the stock.

Oats and alfalfa, corn and cottonseed,

Molasses and minerals: a family tradition.

My brother, cutting twine off bales of hay,

I, tossing the feed into the manger,

Dad, carrying buckets of grain,

The Jerseys cows, eager to partake.

Sometimes with a rock, sometimes with my frozen hands,

I had to smash the ice in the water troughs,

Allowing the cows to drink;

It hurt,

Even bloodied my knuckles.

Sneezing,

We broke bales of yellow straw,

Laying them out in the frozen corrals and sheds,

Bedding the cows down on Christmas night.

They, always curious and always cautious,

Like shepherds approaching an infant’s crib,

Sniffed the dusty piles and tossed it around;

They shrugged off suspicion and finally laid down.

We saw to all the calves, 

Placing heat lamps in their pens,

And straw bales

To swaddle their hutches

To block the cold;

They whined, of course, to be scratched,

They sucked on my fingers, wanting more to eat,

Looking at me with their brown eyes

Shining like stars, sparkling like tinsel;

And moist noses nuzzling my hand said

“Thank you for my warm bed. Now, where’s my bottle?”

When we finished caring for our brown-and-whites babies,

We shuffled back to the house, Dad, me, and my siblings;

Frozen in our black rubber boots, shivering in our woolen socks.

Mom thawed us out with cocoa and chowder.

Holiday Tradition: Clam Chowder

My family has been making clam chowder for our Christmas Eve supper for a long time. My mom used to make it, then my sister did. This year, I decided it was my turn to take a shot at it.

Clam Chowder

4 strips of thick sliced bacon, diced
1/4 medium-sized onion, mined finely
1 stalk of celery, minced finely
1 tsp. garlic powder
1 1/2 tsp. lemon juice
1 cube of butter
about 1 cup of flour
1 1/2 cups of half and half
2 6.5 oz. cans of chopped clams in clam juice
7 medium-sized potatoes, peeled, cubed, and boiled
2 sprigs of fresh thyme leaves
1 tsp. parsley leaves
1/4 tsp. ground sage
1/4 tsp. ground rosemary
1 tsp. orange zest
Salt and pepper

In a large soup kettle, fry the bacon, onion, and celery on medium heat. When the bacon is done, add the butter, garlic powder, thyme leaves, and lemon juice. When the butter melts completely, add approximately one cup of flour. Stir into the butter, then add the milk, the clams, and the clam juice. When it begins to thicken, turn the heat down to low. Add the boiled potatoes, parsley, sage, rosemary, and orange zest. Continuing stirring on low heat. Add salt and pepper to taste. Serve with rolls.

Do I have anything clever to add to my recipe today? Hmm. No, I don't think so. I will only wish you all a Merry Christmas and hope your holiday is full of giving and receiving, committment and contemplation, and a greater understanding of the reason for the season. Happy holidays!

A White Sport Coat...and Something about Reincarnation?

Have you ever had a cashier at the grocery store who is a death fanatic? One who perhaps senses deep within her Wiccan heart that you are somehow a kindred spirit? Perhaps, instead of saying, "Paper or plastic"? (which these days refers more to the method of payment rather than the type of bag your groceries are going in), this black-haired (with blonde roots), mesh-wearing harpy with charcoal lipstick and nightshade fingernail polish from the neighborhood coven asks in all seriousness, "Cremation or burial?"; "Viewing or no viewing?"; or, if you're lucky, "Pine or maple?" Which, of course, she follows up with "I wants to make your flesh creep" (from Charles Dickens' The Old Curiosity Shop). Oh horror, do those kind of people actually exist? you ask, trembling. Perish the thought. Of course, they exist (would I make something like that up?), just not at your grocery store apparently. But I hear they're coming to a store near you. Bwah-hah-hah!

However, I am not going to dwell on that subject; I'll leave that to the practicing Druids, the sociologists, and the Twilight fans. No, my friends, no death today, "my love has gone away" (from Herman's Hermits "No Milk Today"; sorry, I just couldn't resist adding that). Not going there. But haven't you already gone there? you ask. Fine, I've gone there, but now I'm leaving there. Satisfied? Yes, you say. You always satisfy us (That's what she...never mind).

Actually, instead of talking about that grisly subject (ugh), I was thinking about the Buddhist concept of reincarnation recently. Yes, reincarnation. Not death. Not even life after death. More like life after death after life after death after life after death after life and so on.

I once posed the question to some of my roommates: If you could be reincarnated, in what form would you come back? Despite the fact that I am not Buddhist and I believe in resurrection, I think the question, or rather the answer to this question, conveys a certain amount of insight into the personality of the person answering (And if you happen to be offended by the question, well, that says something about you as well).

Well, you say, curious once again, since you did bring it up, what would you choose to be, if you had the choice?

Hmm. I'm not sure I can say just one.

Top 5?

I think I can handle that.

Top 5 Things to Become in Another Life

Sean Connery: Lousy actor, but what a voice.

Elephant: Elephants live a long time, they're bigger than everyone else, and when you're elephant, you don't have to care what you look like; nobody is going to make any remarks about the whatever-it-is you have stuck in your teeth. Why? Because you're an elephant. Also, if you happen to get lost, nice old women take you into their homes and give you all the money you need to buy whatever you want. Until of course the elephant king dies from a poisonous mushroom, and you became the next king because of your fancy clothes and civilized (see Jean de Brunhoff's Babar).

Mouse: I know, rodents are disgusting. I will not dispute this. But on the other hand, if you're mad because you couldn't be an elephant, why not choose to be something that can scare an elephant? And if you happen to find one who can fly, well, you'll make lots of money managing his career (see Disney film Dumbo).

Mr. T: You may not get much work after your TV show gets canceled (except for World of Warcraft advertisements in which you talk about your knight-elf mohawk that's turning all of the other characters into knight-elf mohawks by hitting them with knight-elf mohawk grenades), but, man, you'd get a lot of bling.

Roadrunner: Life would never get boring as a roadrunner. All you do is say "Beep! Beep!", stick your tongue out, and make the coyote blow himself up with his ACME dynamite, run off a cliff in his ACME rocket shoes, or drop his ACME anvil on his head. Not to mention, you have no guilt because no matter what the coyote does, you know he isn't going to die. Life could not be more fulfilling.

"Play that Funky Music"

Have you ever thought about compiling a soundtrack of your life? Some people have a theme song for themselves, but what about putting a whole string of them together on the same CD. Maybe you could have a song that represented a year or a period of time in your life. Maybe they would represent significant people, places, or events in your life. You can't put on songs just because you like them. No, no, no. Rascal Flatts' "Bless the Broken Road" is out for you people. You may like that song, but unless you have actually had a broken road at some point in your life, you cannot have that song on your life album.

Now, if you were to compile this album, which songs would be on your album, do you think? Led Zeppelin's "Kashmir"? Pink Floyd's "Another Hole in the Wall"? Lady Gaga's "Bad Romance"? Bert and Ernie's "Rubber Ducky"? Peter, Paul, and Mary's "Puff, the Magic Dragon"? More importantly, what would this soundtrack say about you? One would obviously have to be extremely careful about which tracks are put on the album; poorly chosen song choices will give the wrong idea about yourself.

So here are some things to consider when putting together your soundtrack.

If you put too much Justin Bieber, Lady Gaga, 50 Cent, Eminem, or Chris Brown on your album, not only will people think you are a freak but it will obvious that your taste in music, as well as your opinion of yourself, is sadly lacking.

If you add AC/DC songs like "Big Balls" and "She Shook Me All Night Long", everyone will think you are a liar.

Finally, if your album includes:

"Girl" by the Beatles
"Girls" by the Beastie Boys
"California Girls" by the Beach Boys
"Girls, Girls, Girls" by Elvis Presley
"My Girl" by the Temptations
"Young Girl" by Gary Puckett and the Union Gap
"White Girl" by USDA
"Jessie's Girl" by Rick Springfield
"China Girl" by David Bowie
"Orphan Girl" by Gillian Welch
"Uptown Girl" by Billy Joel
"Fat Bottom Girl" by Queen
"Some Girls Are Bigger than Others" by Smiths

You are no doubt either 1) a horny teenage boy, 2) the managing coordinator for an organization involving the work efforts of ladies of the evening, or 3) obsessed with songs that have the word "girl" in the title. My advice: branch out.

Better than the Movie: Book Reviews of The Secret Garden and Sarah, Plain and Tall

I'm not sure I have ever heard anyone say that he or she preferred a movie more than the novel, short story, or play on which that particular film is based or from which it is adapted. I am certain there are some people out there who have said such a thing outside of my presence, so I will not insist that such a declaration is impossible to make. I will, however, say that such a statement, namely that a film is better than its literary inspiration, is usually unlikely. Movies are mere copies of an original, and if Michael Keaton taught us anything about making copies (whoa, did I just heard Rob Schneider's Copy Machine Guy?), it is that a copy is never " well, as sharp as the original." "Hey Steve, did ya bring me any pizza, Steve?" (from film Multiplicity).

I have recently read two books which have reinforced my opinion that a book is generally (I won't say always; too paranoid of being disproved, you see) better than the cinematic adaptation. One is The Secret Garden by Frances Hodgson Burnett and the other is Sarah, Plain and Tall by Patricia MacLachlan.


The Secret Garden

Thinking back, I remember watching a particular 1987 Hallmark film adaptation of this novel, starring Colin Firth, Derek Jacobi, and Michael Hordern, to name a few of the better known actors who graced that film with their presence. I believe there was a remake done by Warner Brothers in 1993 starring a fairly non-prolific cast of actors, but I have not seen it, nor do I intend to. Consequently, I will only dedicate those few words to it. The movie with which I will compare the novel will be the Hallmark film I mentioned previously.

Now, before I begin to compare anything or explain the reasoning for my preference, I should like to state that I enjoyed the movie for many years, having nothing to compare it to because I only recently read the book. Therefore, judging the movie on its own merits, I think it was quite well done. It is only now that I have read the book that I see the film as a somewhat inferior, though admirable, attempt at recreating Burnett's original story.

The film begins with Mary Lennox, who has just returned to Misslethwaite Manor after WWII. She leans back against a tree and begins to contemplate the many memories she has of the garden and the house and the people who lived there. These memories, of course, make up the rest of movie, or at least most of it. The very end of the film takes place when the old caretaker, Ben Witherstaff, wakes her out of her retrospective state and lets her into the garden. The book on the other hand makes no mention of this older Mary Lennox, nor of a romance between her and Colin Craven, the little crippled boy whom Mary helped to walk early on in their childhood. The book begins with the spoiled Mary in India, watching as the the people around her, as well as her negligent parents, are killed in an outbreak of plague, and ends with the reconciliation of Colin Craven to his father. No romance is mentioned, nor is it necessary. In that respect, the book manages to keep our attention on the innocence and blossoming potential of youth, rather than distracting us with romantic notions between the characters.

The book also contains a better, more mystical treatment of the maid Martha Sowerby's brother Dickon and her mother, Susan. Their role in the journey of Mary and Colin toward self-actualization is much more pronounced in the novel, while in the film, the good qualities of Dickon and Susan Sowerby, as well as their influence on Mary and Colin is, in many ways, almost non-existent.

Realistically, I think both productions have their place, and while I, as you already know, find the book to be superior in the ways I have previously mentioned, I also think that both the book and the movie are both worthy of attention.

Sarah, Plain and Tall

The film production of this book, starring Glenn Close and Christopher Walken, was made by Hallmark back in 1991. The story follows the story of a woman named Sarah who, in response to matrimonial advertisement, leaves her beloved Maine with all of its wonders for the prairies of the Midwest to live with a widower and his two children. Sarah learns to love all of them, but eventually she must decide if she would rather be with them or back in Maine.

Because the book is extremely short (under 70 pages of large print), the makers of the film were obviously forced to elaborate or exaggerate or invent certain details. Also, the focus of the film centers on the two adults, Sarah and Jacob (the widower), instead of the children, whom Patricia MacLachlan obvious intended to have as the center of the story. Such an obvious change, though characteristic of Hallmark movies it seems, does two things for the film, which I believe makes it inferior to the book: 1) Once again, the story becomes a romance between two adults, instead of the story of one child who is still grieving over the loss of her mother and her little brother (who was a baby when his mother passed away) as he deals with the fear of losing the closest thing to a mother he has ever known. MacLachlan highlights these intricacies of sentiment in the story, while the movie, though not completely skipping over them, brushes them away somewhat indifferently at times.

Once again, both are worth the time it takes to view and read. However, I must once again announce that the book wins out, as it usually does.

"What's in a Name?"

How do you think sloppy joes got their name? Are they named after a person? If so, who was Sloppy Joe and what did he do to deserve the honor of having this particular dish named after him? If you have ever wondered about this at some point in your life, wonder no more. I believe I stumbled across the answer this very day. Yes, I had an epiphany.

This morning I began a furious dash to complete a certain number of tasks, some of which were doing laundry, making bread, making dinner, working on my novel, etc. I completed a fourth revision of my second chapter before one o' clock, so I was feeling pretty good about my to-do list. Unfortunately, making bread and dinner and doing laundry ended up being chores which I did simultaneously. I decided to make hamburgers with homemade barbecue sauce for dinner; I figured that would be easier than anything else. When I finally got around to cooking the burgers, I realized too late that I should not have added the barbecue sauce beforehand because the meat was now soggy and the patties were falling apart in the skillet (That's what happens when you do so many things at once that you aren't thinking about any one thing clearly enough). Consequently, I threw the rest of the patties into my electric skillet, chopped them up, and dumped in the rest of my homemade barbecue sauce.

Yes, I made sloppy joes instead of burgers. They were just as good as the burgers would have been; they were simply in a different state than I had planned on. Not so patty-like as they might have otherwise been.

So, here is my epiphany. Sloppy Joe was more than likely a man who tried to multi-task and was unfortunately unable to make a burger that would stay in one piece. Consequently, he decided it would be easier to just throw all of the meat in the pot with the sauce and chop it up rather than try to make individual hamburgers. Thus, we now have that wonderful dish which graces our every potluck: sloppy joes.

But I have to ask: does he really deserve to have it named after him? He probably was not the first person to mess up hamburgers, and obviously he wasn't the last one, either. He was just one of many people who failed miserably in their futile attempts to have a fancy-schmancy hamburger bathed in glorious barbecue sauce. Personally, for those who believe in heaven, I happen to think that Sloppy Joe is probably up there cringing everytime someone makes that dish because it somehow commemorates his botched batch of barbecued burgers.

So I say, let's forget about Sloppy Joe's mess-up. He doesn't deserve to have his failure brought to our minds with such frequency. We all fail at some things--some more than others--but none of us want to be reminded of our shortcomings. I think from now on every pot of ground beef swimming in barbecue sauce, rather than bear the name of Sloppy Joe, should be named after the person who, let's face it, can't cut it as a burger-flipper. I will gladly take responsibility for my own failure in the kitchen today and we'll call this particular batch the name they rightfully deserve: sloppy Jeffs.

Sloppy Jeffs

3 lbs. ground beef

Sauce:

3 cups ketchup
1/2 cup honey
1/4 cup of red wine vinegar
2 Tbsp. lime juice
2 Tbsp. lemon juice
2 drops of liquid smoke
1/4 rum extract
2 Tbsp. sweet and spicy mustard
1/2 tsp. of each of the following spices: paprika, cayenne pepper, black pepper, turmeric, celery salt, seasoning salt. thyme, ground rosemary, ginger, garlic

Whisk together the ingredients. Chop up the meat in the electric skillet at 250 degrees until browned. Add sauce. Let it simmer for 30 minutes. Wait, is that...am I...already done explaining how to make this? Sheesh, that's simple. Well, since I have now finished, I'll add a recipe for the salad I made tonight.

 Jeff's Chef Salad

1 head of romaine lettuce, chopped
1/4 cup of chopped sweet red pepper
Half a can of sliced black olives
3 oz. of pepper jack cheese, grated
3 hard boiled eggs, sliced

Combine ingredients in a bowl. Add salt and pepper. Enjoy. I said, enjoy it. No, you will not talk to me that way. I don't care if you don't like red peppers. All I ask is that you enjoy it. Is that so hard? I didn't think so! So why can't you just enjoy it?! But in all seriousness, it's actually really good, so I hope you do enjoy it.

Okay, where was I? Oh yeah, I remember. It's your pot of gloppy ground beef in a barbecue swamp, so put your own name on it and stop embarassing Sloppy Joe. I think it will be a greater homage to Sloppy Joe if we quit resurrecting his notorious memory at every church social we attend and take responsibility for the mess we ourselves have made, purposely or otherwise.

"Earwax!"

Today is Sunday, and, as many of you know by now, that means recounting what the little children in my Primary classes said or did today.

Experience #1:

Boy #1 (on the verge of tears): But I don't want to sit by [Girl #1]. I want to sit by [Girl #2]

Me: Do you want to trade places with me? You can sit by [Boy #2].

Boy #1 (further distraught by this suggestion): I don't want to sit by [Boy #2]. I want to sit by [Girl #1].

Girl #2/Four-Year-Old Diva (moving her head side to side): Well, she doesn't want to sit by you!


For the second hour of Primary, I was moved from sitting with the Sunbeams to team-teaching in the CTR 4 class.

Experience #2:

Near the end of classtime, one of the boys in the class came up to me, stuck his shoe in my lap (with his foot still in it, of course), and asked, "Can you tie my shoe?" This is the same boy who had spent almost the entire class period cracking jokes and laughing at himself. The same boy who had spent ten minutes of class looking for the cocoa brown crayon in the crayon case, not because he wanted to color with it but only because he liked looking for it and saying the words "cocoa brown" over and over. The same boy who earlier in the class had stuck a crayon in his ear, turned to me, and yelled as loud as he could, "Earwax!" And giggled.

I replied that indeed I could tie his shoes if he could stop wiggling. He tried hard to oblige my request, but the poor fella was standing on one leg while I attempted to tie a double knot in his shoe laces. Naturally, when he lost his balance completely, he figured that doing a swan-dive into the carpet would be the best way to hit the ground. I tried to catch him before he re-arranged his freckled face, but not before...

RIIIPPPP!

Yes. That is exactly what happened. I caught the boy in flight in one quick motion and simultaneously ripped the crotch of my pants in the process. Needless to say, I kept my legs fairly close together and put my hands in my lap for the rest of the class period.

Experience #3:

The end of class finally came. The children finished their coloring around 11:54 and all went to stand by the door. The other teacher told everyone (they were all being a bit noisy) that they ought to go sit in their chairs until their parents came to pick them up. The wee'uns returned to their seats, halfway reverently. The teacher then suggested they all play the Quiet Game (Note: When I was little, we called it Quaker Meeting, but sometime during the 1990s the Quakers sued the state for denominational discrimination and got the name of game changed to the Quiet Game).

At various junctures, the other teacher and I would try to trick the little boys and girls into talking, but they resisted with firm resolve. You might have thought we were on Easter Island with the prevalence of stone faces in that classroom. Finally, I asked one of the boys a yes-or-no question.

He shook his head.

I nodded my head.

He nodded his head. Then he said, "Mm-hmm."

I smiled and said, "Woops."

He said, with a tiny smile, "Dang."

The teacher and I chuckled.

The boy put his face in his hands.

And wept.

The two of us tried to convince him that we were at fault and should not have tried to trick him into speaking, thus causing him to lose the game.

He wept.

We told him he was back in the game.

He wept.

We told him to be happy for his mom when she came to get him.

He wept.

His mom came. The boy, still weeping, explained the situation about losing the Quiet Game, adding that he had been particularly good today and had answered many of the questions before the other children had. His mom told him that he was wonderful and that he would just have to practice the game at home. He brightened up and left smiling, probably feeling pretty good about himself.

But I will never play the Quiet Game again.

Professional College Football

Tonight I attended the Humanitarian Bowl between Fresno State and Northern Illinois. I admit, it was not the greatest matchup in the world, but honestly I knew that going in. Neither school finished the regular season ranked; neither school even won their division. In fact, that's the reason they both ended up in Boise for a low-end bowl game on the blue turf. But college football is college football, so I was determined to go and partake of the bowl-game environment, even though the weather was not exactly ideal.

However, even though these teams finished their lackluster seasons without conference championships, at least the bowl system gives both squads the opportunity to showcase something that no professional sport still retains in its entirety, despite the efforts of the BCS system and pay-to-play pacts proffered by greedy parents to demean and degrade the game of college football: team pride. Real, honest-to-goodness pride. The kind that the Ochocinco's and the TO's of the NFL have buried under a pile of self-seeking megalomania. They kind that they forgot about when they started picking up a multimillion dollar check and endorsement deals. They kind of team pride they push to the side because they're so busy with their MTV shows, their Twitter updates, and every single opportunity they can find to shoot their mouths off, pull cellphones and pens from their socks, or take a fan's popcorn after a touchdown.

Some people, during this whole Cam Newton charade, have suggested that we should start to pay our college players. What an excellent solution. Make this sort of chicanery go away by legalizing agentry and the exchange of funds between schools and players. Perfect. That's like legalizing marijuana just so we can make the number of drug possession arrests decrease. Pay our players indeed. Don't they already receive scholarships to play at elite schools, as well as receiving an education there? (Granted, they do major in things like communications and underwater basket-weaving so they actually have time to practice, but my point remains). What else do they need? As if colleges are not enough of a business already; do we really want to start trafficking in people again? I thought we abolished all of that.

The ultimate consequence of a decision would only result in the further tarnishing of that which still draws us to college football, the reason I will stay through most of a game, in rain and wind and snow, between two teams from out of town who are only playing for nothing but pride (seeing as how the Humanitarian Bowl does not provide a huge payout like the more prolific bowl games do, they really do receive a pittance afterwards). Pride is what gives two teams from mid-major conferences with nothing left to play for something to play for. There is no narcissism, no egotism, megalomania; it's just just one team against another, playing to prove that on this day, they, a collective of players, a group of like-minded individuals, put their bodies on the line in behalf of their program and their school. Afterwards, they'll walk off with their bruises, their turf burn, and their sprains at the wrong side of a 40-17 loss. Regardless, they were here and represented their school with dignity. And that is something that the Owens's and the Ochocinco's and the Newton's know nothing about.

Home for the Holidays

I want to make up a holiday. I repeat, I want to make up a holiday.

But you can't do that, you argue. You don't have the authority to make a holiday.

Why not?

Because only a government or some sort of council or reigning body can create a holiday.

But they can only make national or ecclesiaistical holidays; I want to make a universal one. At the very least, I'll make a private one. But I'd like to try for the universal one first.

Well, what kind of holiday would it be? Not that you'll ever get the chance to make one, of course. But hypothetically speaking...

I think it should be something classy. Something nobody else would think of.

For example?

How about Pizza Day?

Hmm. For Americans, and college students in particular, Pizza Day happens about three times a week anyway. Unofficially, of course.

Well, if I can't do that, what about Pie Day?

We already have one those.

We do?

Yep; it happens every March 14th. Some people call it Pie Day, but the more erudite call it Pi Day. We don't observe it as faithfully as we ought to, but we'll have to have an extra big celebration in 2015.

Why?

Because on that day we'll be able to take pi out to nine decimal places. So, on 3/14/15 when the clock strikes exactly 9:26:53, we'll all jump in the air, throw chocolate mousse pies at each other, and sing "Cherry Pie" by Warrant, "American Pie" by Don Maclean, and that one Afroman song. How does it go? "My room is still messed up and I know why (why man?) / Because I got pie/ because I got pie/ because I got pie."

Okay, now we've established that Pie Day is taken, as are preparations for the big Pie Day blowout in four years. I think we should...wait. I've got it. Genius!

What is it?

Talk With a Different Accent Day. How fun would that be?

Sounds fun enough. Is it anything like Talk Like A Pirate Day?

Well, sort of, I guess. But instead of everyone talking like Blackbeard, they can talk like whomever they want. Think of all of those Koreans who want to talk like the guy on the Starburst commercial ("You're a walking contradiction, Jimmy! You're Scotch-Korean!"); they'll finally be able to have a holiday just for that sort of tomfoolery. And it will be on the 17th of December from now ad infinitum. So all of you who are now reading, feel free to assume a different accent for the next 55 minutes.

No one will go for that kind of a holiday. It'll never catch on. You're wasting your time.

Oh, am I? Well, dinna you think that, laddie.  We'll just see aboot it, won't we? It will na' be a remembered day when I prove you wrong, my friend, but it'll certain be a prood one for me. FREEDOM!

RUS?

Did you know that Instant Messenger, totally, has its own, like, language? And in order to be completely fluent in that language one must know, like, a gazillion different abbreviations? Like, for example, IDK means I Don't Know, IDC means I Don't Care, and IIABDFI means If It Ain't Broke, Don't Fix It. Like, it seems like the entire technological universe has suddenly shifted to this IM jargon, and those who don't know what the letters, like, stand for have to SU, :-), and DWI. Oh, d---. I meant to say Deal With It, not Drive While Intoxicated. My bad.

Actually, that's another obstacle I have run into with this abbreviated speech. I never know what not to abbreviate. For example, I wanted say Do You Mind? and I could not remember if it ought to be abbreviated. But I went ahead because I was in a hurry (Note: The unwritten rule is, and I'm sure there's an acronym for this, when you're late, abbreviate). Unfortunately, I picked the wrong phrase to shorten and ended up asking a deep personal question. Eek! TMI (Too Much Information). IHA! (I Hate Acronyms!)

The prevalence of mistakes while learning IM, as is often the case with learning other languages, often have interesting, unexpected, results. Once, I abbreviated I Think So, thinking that surely it would be correct. Such an frequently used phrase had to have an acronym.

Nope.

What I actually referred to, rather than a state of uncertain certainty, was an instance of intercourse via text message. Woops. I'll never make that mistake again. The frequency with which these mistakes happen reminds me of some of the verbal mishaps I had when I first began to learn Italian a few years ago. One time, I told an acquaintance that I had sex directly after my baptism when I was eight years old (Note: I was trying to scappato, but instead I said scopato, and that made all the difference). Another time, I tried to explain that I grew up on a farm, and I had big muscles because I used to wrestle cows. Only instead of "wrestle" I used the word for "nurse." You know, like a baby nurses its mother. Gee. That sure was...unexpected. Especially when everyone stared at me. One of the girls who was there teased me forever afterward by making a gesture like she was sucking on a make-believe cow's teat whenever she saw me. Even in church. Yikes.

Now, making mistakes, even the ones having to do with adult relations, is a natural part of the language learning process, but with digital lingo I'm not sure it's worth wading through the effort and embarassment involved in the process. In fact, I'm fairly certain it isn't.

Moreover, the long-term effect of using IM may, and probably will, prove detrimental to our society's ability to express itself in more than mere cliches, time-saving phrases, and acronyms. Imagine: what if John Milton had relied upon this techno-speak rather than the rich vernacular of the English language? That's right; Paradise Lost would have been published as PL, and it probably would have ended, not with the sweetness with which it appears now, but with Adam and Eve texting back and forth on their new Android phones in this manner:

(Note: I have also translated their messages for your convenience)

A: E, WDYT? (Eve, what do you think?)

E: IDK. WDYT, A? (I don't know. What do you think, Adam?)

A: IOH. & U? (I'm outta here. What about you?)

E: Ditto. (Same here.)

A: E? (Eve?)

E: huh? (What?)

A: :-) (smiley face)

E: ;-) (winking face)

A: wuz4dina? (What's for dinner?)

E: AP. (Apple pie.)

A: SLAP. (Sounds like a plan.)

E: A? (Adam?)

A: huh? (What?)

E: ILU. (I love you.)

A: ILU2, E. LUMTP. (I love you, too, Eve. Love you more than pie.)

As far as I'm concerned, I think I'll stick with this:

"They hand in hand with wandring steps and slow, / through Eden took thir solitarie way" (from John Milton's Paradise Lost).

Ultimately, I have to think that this shift to acronymic communication will eventually leave us UCWAP (Up a Creek Without A Paddle), IYKWIMAITYD (If You Know What I Mean And I Think You Do). I really shouldn't have to spell it out for you though. Are we so committed to this idea of time-saving that we are willing to sacrifice the beautiful complexities of our language in exchange for...

Oh, shoot, I have to go.

ADBB. TTYL. (All Done, Bye-Bye. Talk To You Later)

I Meant to Do That!

Have you ever noticed the lengths some people will go to keep their dignity intact if they have an accident? Bad things happen to everyone, and they generally happen with no warning at all, so the victim is often forced to react quickly in order to preserve any shred of self-respect still remaining.

When I was going to school in Rexburg, the winter months often meant icy and slippery sidewalks; in fact, it was not uncommon to see people dropping left and right like fusebox-checking slutty girls in a horror picture (I would have said dropping like flies, but you know how I am with cliches. Ugh). The commonality of these types of occurences took away the novelty quickly, but the homogeneity of reactions by the crash-and-burn student body contributed to the loss of the initial romance.

For example, imagine a student walking to class at 8:00 a.m. on a snowy, miserable day, the sun shining "cheerless over hills of gray" (from John Greenleaf Whittier's "Snowbound"). The student approaches another student of the opposite sex and exchanges mutual elevator glances with him or her, briefly perusing the mobile merchandise, as it were. Suddenly, the boy, distracted by the girl's good looks, "so soft, so calm, yet eloquent" (from Lord Byron's "She Walks in Beauty like the Night"), slips and falls on his...you know what. Embarassed, he looks up at the girl, who is trying desperately to push a smile away, and says to her, nervously giggling (yes, boys giggle too, especially when they're embarassed), "Hehe. I did that on purpose. Hehe."

Really? That's the best you can come up with? You're saying you stepped on an icy bit of sidewalk, fell to the pavement like a newborn calf, broke your computer, bruised your left cheek, sprained your right knee, pulled your groin, and split the backside of your boot-cut Levis, exposing your Mickey Mouse boxer-briefs to the entire world deliberately? And you claim that because you don't want to look dumb? Well, you've certainly accomplished that, my friend. You have accomplished exactly that (Note: Just a word of advice, if you do happen to fall on an icy sidewalk in the middle of winter in the presence of an angelic-looking woman, it's better to pretend that you hit your head and knocked yourself silly on the sidewalk. That way, she'll be looking at your make-believe lump rather than laughing at your Disney-themed rump). Yes, people will do or say just about anything to keep their pride in one piece, even if it, unbeknownst to them, actually has the opposite effect.

All I can say to this is....

I understand completely.

Unfortunately, people ought to learn to be creative when it comes to covering up a disaster. Here's an idea.

One day in a university class, I was sliding about the computer lab on a desk chair. I was the manager of a class project, so I felt that sliding about the room in comfort and ease befitted fully the dignity of my then-current position. Ha. As I prepared to take off from my computer to the other side of the room, I set my feet and pushed off. Unfortunately, when I did, the underside of my shoe snagged on the carpet and ripped the the sole of my sneaker halfway off. Yes, there I was in the middle of class with one good shoe and another that was flapping like Old Glory in a winter breeze.

Well, needless to say, I had to quickly stifle a curse word (teachers don't like it when the students curse, even if they have a good reason), but I was obviously a trifle embarassed by my sudden misfortune. Thankfully, class finished just a few minutes later. I tried to walk with the sole the way it was, but it dragged on the ground like the flipper of a tranquilized seal. It was not going to work, so I took off the shoe (Thank goodness, I had put on new socks that day; they didn't even have holes in them).

Of course, a few of my friends in the class realized that I must have felt the awkwardness of the situation, that is, walking home with only one shoe on my foot. Well, diddle-diddle-dumpling, one of the girls offered me a ride home so that I wouldn't have to walk, which kindly gesture I quickly accepted. Of course, we had to walk to the library's computer help area to have her computer checked for viruses before we could go to her car. As I started my walk of shame toward the library, I began seeing people I knew, and I realized that they could see me, too. Me and my one good shoe. Consequently, I started to fake a limp so that they would stop their smirking.

That's right. I limped. All the way to the library and out to the girl's car, which actually proved to be farther away than my apartment. In the other direction.

Now, you're probably thinking, Why on earth would you do something like that? Well, if people had to see me walking across campus lopsided, I just preferred having them think, "Oh, that poor guy probably hurt himself," instead of "What an idiot! He's like Tom Hanks in that one movie about the man with one red shoe. What's that movie called again?" Uh, The Man with One Red Shoe? "No, I don't think that's the one."

Really I am of the opinion that  the phrase "I meant to do that" is overused by the klutzy and injury-prone. It's really not funny anymore, and it does practically nothing to assuage embarassment; in fact, it may make you look more like a fool than you already do. So, if you do have some bad luck, be creative about how you react to it. It may improve the situation; it may not. Ultimately however, your story will be a lot more fun to tell and hear after the embarassment has worn off.

You Played Your What for Him?

I don't usually enjoy Christmas music. Some people can't wait to start playing Christmas songs. I can. I can wait a very long time. My sister would listen to them the entire year if someone would let her (Thank goodness no one lets her). Not only are they overplayed (107.9 FM started playing it at the beginning of November) but hearing all of the renditions of the same old Christmas songs (not to mention annoying versions of new Christmas songs; that one about the little boy and the Christmas shoes gives me the heebie-jeebies) makes me dread Christmas before it even arrives (I realize that makes me sound like a Grinch of sorts, but after hearing "The Twelve Days of Christmas" sung by assorted choirs, Muppets, and rednecks over and over, I start to believe that Mt. Crumpit's chiefest citizen had an extremely valid point).

Christmas songs tend also, because of the frequency with which they are played on the radio, to became firmly fixed in one's mind, sort of like "Pokerface" by Lady Gaga or that song on that d--- "Santa Paws" movie. Consequently, I find myself singing Christmas carols from time to time and realize that I often don't remember the correct words. In fact, just the other day Bing Crosby came on my car radio with "The Little Drummer Boy"; I began to absent-mindedly sing along (I say absent-mindedly because I was busy paying attention to the road in front of me, as usual). When I came to a certain line, I couldn't remember if it was "I played my best for him" or "I played my drum for him"; unfortunately, I sang both together and it came out "I played my bum for him."

Oddly enough, I was somewhat embarassed by my blunder, even though no one was in the car with me (Isn't it interesting how an experience doesn't even need an audience to merit flushed cheeks and hurried looks over the shoulder to make sure no one saw or heard what happened?). As if I hadn't already made the song bad enough already when I was little, when I and my siblings (at least some of them) thought the refrain said "ba-rump-a-bum-bum," I had to go and do something like that. Naturally, I suddenly felt like I should be keeping time with the ox.

"What's Up, Doc?"

I'm not exactly sure why doctors speak the way they do. When giving a physical, prescribing a drug, or delivering a diagnosis, they insist on using words which have absolutely no meaning to people outside of the medical profession, five-dollar words like intracranial sesquipedalian hematoma. These are people who have endured years of medical school; they must know that they're dealing with individuals who think humerus is another word for funny, weenus is something your brother used to call you in elementary school, and a sphincter is an old statue in Egypt (Of course, they know enough to realize that if you have an infarction in public, you are socially obligated to claim it; however, doctors should not expect much more than that from a layman). So why do they continue to persist in teasing us with their unintelligible prognoses?

I have had a couple of encounters in the past with doctors whom I could not understand because of their strict adherence to medical terminology. When I was nine I had a bladder infection. It was extremely painful (much like the violinist's rendition of Pachelbel's Canon in D at the Christmas concert I attended tonight. You know, hearing that poorly played instrument made me realize that Vincent van Gogh probably cut off his own ear because he attended a high school concert. Some people say he was nuts because he cut an ear off, but actually he was nuts because he didn't cut off both of them during the violin solo). Unfortunately, when the doctor was asking questions, I had to figure out from the context that he was talking about my nether regions. At one point, I looked at my mom for a translation, but she just looked away uncomfortably (When I finally did figure out what the h--- he was talking about, it suddenly became even more awkward to have my mom sitting there, almost as awkward as listening to that group of teenage white boys at the concert tonight who sang "Mary Had A Baby, Oh, My Lord." Ha. "Oh, My Lord" is right; I couldn't have said it better myself if I had beenone of  the white boys trying to sing it in front of an auditorium of people dressed in denim overalls, wife-beaters, and cowboy boots).

Then, when I was 18, I had a physical because was about to leave the country for a couple of years. The doctor checked...everything and gave me a clean bill of health. When I got to the car, I read the photocopied file the doctor had given me: "Has a giant nevus on his chest."

Naturally, I was infuriated. I felt betrayed because the doctor had dailed to let me know that I had something wrong with me. Not to mention, a nevus sounded like an awful thing to have. Well, I eventually calmed down enough to realize that the doctor was actually referring to a large birthmark I have had on my chest since I was born; I simply had never heard it referred to in that way before.

Miscommunications rule our lives and generally because most of us prefer to say what we want to say exactly the way we want to say it. Perhaps, we ought to give more thought to who is listening. After all, we are as responsible for the hearer as we are for the speaker.

Game On!

One of my favorite games, if not my most favorite [Note: Most favorite as a lexical construction does not actually exist in correct usage but only as a colloquial slang expression intended to demonstrate the high regard held by an individual for a certain favorite thing. I use it here for that very purpose. I don't care what Brian Regan says about grape and cherry sno-cones, cherry cannot be more favorite than grape; that's like saying infinity plus one to indicate the enormity of a thing. Absolutes shun comparative and superlative forms] because it involves rapid-fire culinary creativity, not to mention it allows the players to indulge some of their (dare I say it?) diabolic proclivities, is the, what I like to call, the...well, I guess I haven't really called it anything yet. Hmm. I ought to call it something. Something cool. Something intriguing. Something like...The Food Game.

Okay, that's ridiculous. And it doesn't really say anything about what the game involves. Except food, of course. And the food isn't even real. You just think about it.

What about the Force-Your-Opponent-to-Salivate-beyond-Anything-He-or-She-Has-Ever-Salivated-before-Game?

Too descriptive and hard to remember.

Fine. Create-a-Cafeteria?

Getting warmer.

A through Dessert?

Getting colder. It should not be this hard. Keep thinking.

Why not Drool School?

Sounds like something written on the side of building or on a basketball backboard with yellow spray paint.

Meal Plan Magic?

Hmm. It smacks of Macdonald's advertising department, but I think it will do for the time being.

On to the rules of the game:

Now, the first time I played this game I was on a bus headed for Palermo from Trapani in Sicily. My friend and I went to a stalemate on that occasion, but I have played it many times since then, and I have generally emerged with the green wreath of laurels adorning my diminishing locks. Figuratively speaking, of course. Vae Victus.

The game is best played between two individuals. However, if a group of individuals wish to play together, the formation of a tournament bracket system might be in order to facilitate the whims of the entire mob.

Now, each player is given a turn of three minutes. In that time, each player must plan a full-course meal from start to finish. That includes an appetizer, a main course, a salad, a fruit, a side dish, and a dessert (Note: If you happen to play this game in Italy or with Italians or in the presence of Italians, you will also need to come up with a mandatory pasta plate in between the appetizer and the main course).

If one player is unable to finish in the allotted time, he or she loses. If they are both successful, they will each advance to round two. The same process will be followed, but all the dishes must be different and only two minutes will be allotted. The third round, if both finish in time, will be one minute long. If one cannot finish in time, he or she loses. If both fail, the one who planned the most courses in that round wins the game. If they both fail, the audience is allowed to vote on the overall quality of the courses throughout the game and whoever has the most votes wins. If both are successful, they must play a fourth round of 45 seconds. Each subsequent round will be reduced by 15 seconds. If one begins to drool because of the other one's culinary ideas, he or she automatically loses. If one pleads for the other to stop because he or she cannot endure the thought of all that delicious sustenance, he or she loses.

I will now provide an example of how to play this game.

Okay, go!

Player #1:

Appetizer: Fried melanzana (eggplant)
Pasta: Pasta a fagioli (pasta with beans)
Main course: Chicken cordon bleu with caciocavallo (provolone) and capocollo
Salad: Green salad with arugula, lettuce, fresh basil, Roma tomatoes, cucumber, lemon juice, salt and pepper
Fruit: Oranges
Side dish: French fries
Dessert: Coconut gelato

DING! That was very good. Let's see if Player #2 can do any better.

Player #2:

Appetizer: Artichokes, pearl onions, and mushrooms, preserved in olive oil
Pasta: Spaghettini with fresh plum tomatoes, chopped fresh basilico, and parmeggiano Reggiano
Main course: Pork chops, glazed with apple cider
Salad: Tomatoes and onions, with olive oil, mozzarella fresca, fresh basilico, and salt and pepper
Fruit: Apples
Side dish: Frittata with parmeggiano and...BEEP!

I'm sorry, but the time is up and you have lost. Player #1 is our champion.

But he started drooling! I saw it!

Anyway, it might lead to fist fights and chronic obesity, but Meal Plan Magic (egads, what a name) is a wonderful game to play at parties (specifically Food Network parties, in which you and all of your friends can get together and watch Everyday Italian with Giada de Laurentiis. I have parties like this frequently, but I'm the only one I invite. If I have Giada, I don't need anyone else). Also, if you and your spouse and your children want to create meal plan for the week, by all means this game is the perfect way to work it out. Come on. You can do it. Just carry a hanky to wipe your soggy chin and you can make communication fun again.

That is Collect!

Some people collect old glass; some collect bottle caps; some collect baseball or basketball or football or Pokemon or professional wrestling trading cards. Some collect coins or stamps or both. And if you happen to be my grandmother, you collect just about, well, let's simply say it's a whole of anything and everything, most of which amounts to half of nothing, for thirty or forty years, until you lose all recollection of what you have collected and stored away in all that time. I myself have collected many things in the last two decades or so, including a little bit of most of the aforementioned items, books, stamps, coins, trading cards. At the time, I felt it was quite a fun and interesting endeavor, but most of the those collections have been eventually and systematically categorized, discontinued, and stored away in a box or ten somewhere in the attic. Except for my books, of course (That is the only collection of mine which is currently being augmented).

Now, what is it about the simple pastime, namely collecting things, which seems to pervade so much our, and many other, societies? Why do people feel the need to gather bits and pieces of whatsoever-it-be, even to the point of willingly, perhaps even passionately, rummaging through other people's old stuff like the men from American Pickers merely to satisfy some sort of odd urge to find a pin-sized unicorn in a Salvation Army haystack? In my book-buying excursions at sundry times, I have been and usually am forced to compete with these sorts on a frequent basis. Some might even label me as one of them. I have observed these thrift store vultures picking the cheap gray metal shelves over, piece by piece, weighing each tidbit of junk to ascertain whether or not it might yet retain some sort of value, or if it ought to be returned to its comfortable nest among the neighboring junk heaps. Most often, it is the latter which occurs. Nevertheless, once in a while, they find something so unexpected, so precious, so wallet-friendly as to cause in them an undeniable need to possess the object, which they grab like greedy children and hold to their swelling bosoms as though they had found the very Christ child in a thrift store manger while, rather than a new star shining in the heavens overhead, the blinking lights of an untidy billboard proclaim a blowout sale on a newly donated collection of porcelain dolls.

But they do not worship the thing itself. Oh, no, the whole endeavor does not have at its core the object itself as the objective of the search. Rather, it is the search itself which draws them on. It is the collecting, not the collection, which keeps them going. The intrinsic thrill of searching and finding holds in itself the reward of the process, while possessing a thing has little or none.

Ultimately, everyone is looking for something. But coins and stamps and old Coca-Cola bottles have nothing on answers to the questions raised by a life spent searching for meaning. And meaning is only one of a few things in life which contains within itself a vast reward in searching, in finding, and in possessing.

"You've Got to Fight for Your Right to Party"

Have you ever been invited to a party that you knew would be predominately populated by individuals who were older, more mature, and more married, and apparently more fertile than you are? (Note: I'm not saying I'm not fertile; I just haven't taken the opportunity to proliferate as other people have, that's all). Tonight, I attended a party my sister put on for all of her friends and some of her family members.

The food was quite delicious; I ate much more than ought to--as usual--taking seconds on the cheese ball and the artichoke dip--both kinds--and sat by myself "so primly propped" (from John Crowe Ransom's "Bells for John Whiteside's Daughter") for much of the evening while the other adults conversed among themselves about, um, adult things (Note: Not those kind of adult things!). The only parts of the conversation which presented me with opportunities for interjection were the literary and political portions. The literary portion, which included the explanation of current writing projects and publishing endeavors on my part, as well as the particular books I have been reading, was particularly engaging and interesting and delightful (Note: My sister took the opportunity to express her widely unpopular views of Of Mice and Men and John Steinbeck during this part of the evening). After all, literature "is my country / and I speak to it of itself / and sing of it with my own voice / since certainly it is mine" (from Amy Lowell's "Lilacs").

Unfortunately, the two plates of food I had ravenously consumed revisited me innumerable times in the form of gastrointestinal pressure during the course of the party--again, as usual--and, I finding no outlet for my discomfort with all of those other people around, added somewhat to the general dampening of my partying spirit.

However, all of these things aside, any opportunity to pass the time with my family is well worth it to me, so for that very reason the party was a success as far as I am concerned (not to mention that my gift, a children's book, was one of only two presents which were highly sought after during the white elephant gift exchange). All of those other things I mentioned are hardly worth mentioning. So why did you mention them? you ask curiously. Well, I mention them because I believe they are very common sorts of feelings among reluctant party-goers, to which group I myself belong and have for many years. In fact, I imagine that many people dread such gatherings because they anticipate such awkward and uncomfortable encounters therein, often due to the lack of familiarity among the invitees, to such an extent that there might as well be a sign over the front door which reads "Lasciate ogni speranza, voi ch'entrate!" (Abandon all hope, ye who enter here!) (from Dante Alighieri's La Divina Commedia). Perhaps, the next time someone invites you to a party, you should, instead of a brightly colored billboard announcing the entrance to Hell, in Lutherian fashio nail your own piece of parchment to the door and say, "but now lead on / in me is no delay" (from John Milton's Paradise Lost). If awkwardness and bouts of gas amount to the ultimate price of an evening well spent, I say pay the price willingly and shut your mouth about the rest.

Book review: Love in the Time of Cholera

I think during one of my previous posts, I happened to mention that I was reading Love in the Time of Cholera. Some of you may be wondering how that is coming along. Truthfully, I have not yet finished the book. It's quite long and extremely descriptive. However, I think I can give a fairly good rundown of the plot thus far, and my recommendation regarding that book in relation to the general populace of people who read this blog.

The book takes place in South America, I believe. The majority of the book has been a flashback in the loves of two elderly people who were once in love. She, Fermina Daza, chooses to marry someone else for fame and wealth; her admirer, Florentino Ariza, busies himself having illicit relations for the next fifty-five years in 622 illicit relationships. Then, Fermina Daza husband, Dr. Juvenal Urbino, takes a rather nasty spill on account of a parrot in a tree and dies tragically. Florentino Ariza comes to the funeral to announce once again his unparalleled love for the widow.

Now, from the standpoint of a writer, I have to say I can see why Gabriel Garcia Marquez won a Nobel Prize for Literature. The man is a genius. His prose is profound and rich and vivid. For that alone, I would say the book is worth reading.

But...

There's a lot of love-making in the book and, I repeat, Marquez is quite vivid in his description. Granted, the book originates in a different culture than our own, and one must take that into consideration. However, it happens frequently so you must also take that into consideration. Also, the book does not move quickly, especially during the first section of the novel in which the author takes at least 30-odd pages to lead up to the death of Fermina's husband. So far, there have been 2 F-words, as well.

Overall, the book explores the depths of the human psyche when engaged in a complex relationship. If you are able to deal with the frequent sex, then I would say read it. However, the book is certainly adult-oriented in many of its themes, so be careful. That being said, the book deserves all of the critical acclaim it has received. But what do I know? I've only read to page 212.

'Tis the Season

(Note: The following post has been based primarily on the cynical realism and humor of Mark Twain, one of my favorite American authors only to reiterate what I personally believe)

Ah! Smell that fresh-cut pine, the hanging holly berries, the pungent christmas cookies, the hot cider, the nutmeg-laced egg nog! It's almost as aromatic as a blanket of patchwork lies.

Lies? you gasp. What an awful thing to say! You say that Christmas is the season for lying?

Uh-huh. So, deck your halls with boughs of folly, fie-lie-lie-lie-lie-lie-lie-lie-lie.

That's a serious accusation, mister. You either better back it up quick or take it back. Or else.

Or else? Or else what?

Or else.

This is my blog. I can write what I please. Well, mostly.

Start talking.

Well, since I certainly do not intend to retract my statement, I guess I ought to explain. But before I proceed, perhaps I ought to begin by defining the term lie.

Merriam-Webster's Collegiate Dictionary, 10th edition (and I quote): 1) To make an untrue statement with intent to deceive; 2) to create a false or misleading impression; 3) an assertion of something known or believed by the speaker to be untrue with intent to deceive; 4) an untrue or inaccurate statement that may or may not be believed true by the speaker; 5) something that misleads or deceives.

Synonyms: prevaricate, equivocate, palter, fib

Translation: If you say or do something with intent to deceive or mislead whoever sees or hears you, whether or not such a statement or behavior is actually deliberate, you are a big, fat liar.

So what does that have to do with anything? you query. I don't do that.

You most certainly do. Especially during this time of the year.

Christmas is based upon surprises and secrets, which are often kept in place by the tangled webs we delight in weaving (see Sir Walter Scott's "Marmion"). Our inability to remain 100% honest during this time of year makes our deceit as much a part of Christmas as the red and gold balls on the blue spruce in the corner of the living room.

What deceit are you talking about, you lunatic? you sputter defiantly.

Look, you can fight it all you want, but if you realized how much you prevaricate, equivocate, palter, and fib at Christmas it would make you go cross-eyed (Note: If you are already cross-eyed, it might straighten them out). I'm sure it makes you uncomfortable, but so what? It is not a matter of question (see Robert Bolt's A Man for All Seasons) but a matter of fact. We are all of us liars, and just because you claim otherwise does not reconfigure the substance of reality.

For example, if your child asks if Santa is the one who brings presents, what do you say? Yes.

If he or she finds a present he ought not see yet and says, "Is this for me?", what do you say? Um, no; now put it back where you found it.

What are you getting me for Christmas? I don't know, you say (though you have already bought him the set of trains he wanted).

Or try this: My dad whispered something to my mom the other day. He said, "When I got there, the place was trashed." I, overhearing, sort of figured it had something to do with a book I wanted for Christmas and that fact that he had been unable to find it (Note: My mom later confirmed this). I asked what exactly was trashed. He lamely said, "Oh, the warehouse was trashed when I got there this morning." I gave him my super-special Liar-Liar-Pants-on-Fire look and went back to my cooking.

A few days before, my mom asked me if I knew anything about my dad going Christmas shopping with my sister. Not only did I say no but I actually knew that it was not Christmas shopping at all; he was orchestrating another sister's surprise visit from Texas. I knew about it all the time and deliberately lied about anything I knew in order to preserve the surprise.

Let's just accept it. We lie. We prevaricate. We equivocate. We palter. And yes, we fib. A lot. Now, instead of feeling guilty or continuing this absurd denial of the facts, we really just ought to come to terms with our dishonesty. I realize that the term liar has such a negative connotation that we scorn to allow ourselves to carry that nomenclature or be associated in any way with such nefarious company as the brimstone-destined group of people known as liars and deceivers, also known as football coaches and politicians (did I just say that?). But associate with them we do, deliberately or not, and probably with the best of them. Of course, we attempt to soften the sharp sting of such words by substituting other Downy-soft terms such as white lies and fibs, among other things. But the way I, Merriam-Webster, and Mark Twain (see his essay "On the Decay of the Art of Lying") see it, they all add up to the same thing: lies, lies, and more lies.

Stop trying to brush away the facts. I am a liar. You are a liar. Yes, and probably very good at it too. The only difference between us is the fact that I have come to grips with the idea, while you must constantly defend your threatened honor.

Remember: if you are a judicious liar or a liar for the right reasons, you should be grateful for that ability. Yes, and I'm sure those closest to you benefit greatly from your lying ways. Don't persist in being uncomfortable with your newly realized (though not recently developed) set of skills. Celebrate your dishonest-when-needs-be approach to life. Surprises and secrets often have wonderful outcomes at Christmas time. Telling a lie might eventually make someone's day. In fact, you should have seen my mom's face when she saw her grandkids come in her bedroom at 8:30 p.m. She wept openly. She even hugged my father without coercion (I lost three dollars to my sister over that; I bet that my mom wouldn't do it). And it was all due to a Texas-sized stack of whoppers.

So, you say that ends justify means? you ask, pointedly. It's okay to be a liar?


Perhaps.


God bless us, everyone (from Charles Dickens' A Christmas Carol).

The Greatest Show on Earth

Yes, I know. It's completely unfair. But they're really cute, those kids, and, let's face it, you really...aren't. How rude! you exclaim with vehemence. That is not nice, Mister! You're right; you're so right. I apologize. How about this instead: they're just really cute, and you, well, you might be cute, but you aren't as cute as they are. Probably due to your age, I'd imagine. Does that work? So you're saying I'm old now? you growl. No, you just aren't a kid anymore; that's all I said. There comes a time in everyone's life when the Apostle Paul, law of nature, and the social contract order you to put away "childish things." Children, as long as they are children, are allowed to do many things that adults are not allowed to do. Why, just this afternoon my nephew lay down on the floor of a store and began singing, out loud, a whole medley of made-up songs he had devised based upon the pictures and colors in the songbook he was holding (Note: One of the songs had to do with "all of the men and women and boys and girls and pianos God created").

But had you or I done the same thing, not only would every other customer in the store immediately have shunned us and emitted faint--or not so faint--whispers of "koo-koo" or references to dull shovels, dim lightbulbs, or incomplete bunches of bananas under their breath but you or I might have been escorted from the store for disturbing the ever-so-sacred peace of the other patrons. The fact that everyone, including the employees, laughed at the little boy's one-of-a-kind, never-before-heard melodies is a testament to the amount of things that children can get away with because they are deemed innocent, cute, or otherwise too young to know any better.

It's not fair, you say. I should be allowed to do anything a child is allowed to do. That rule is obviously based on age discrimination. (By the way, age discrimination is also how seniors are given discounts and Social Security benefits; it's extremely pervasive in our society). It's a double-standard, and we can't have that.

So what are you going to do about it? Act like a kid? Some parents allow their children to run around in their birthday suits after they take a bath. Some children even talk to their animals, bugs, trees, toilets, celestial bodies, and invisible friends (Note: My little sister doesn't go anywhere without her little invisible friend, whom she congratulates and commiserates with constantly). And some are simply content to try to force the plastic circle through the triangle hole in their plastic box, expecting that one of those times it will magically fit (Note: Albert Einstein called that insanity, but if you're under the age of ten it just means you're kid). But if you attempt these sorts of activities after or even during adolescence, you will either go to a mental hospital, a rest home, a nudist colony, or prison. We simply cannot have adults around who refuse to act like adults.

But it's not fair, you repeat. My invisible friends are people, too. Shouldn't I be allowed to talk to them whenever I want? Yes, you are most certainly permitted to speak to your unseen amigos.

In a padded room, that is. It'll be jist you an' them in a rubber cell, and you kin talk an' reminisce an' do whativer ya darn well wanna do. Okey-dokey? Heck, the staff'll probably even let ya run around naked if'n you wanna. How's that sound, pardner?

But...but I don't want people to think I'm crazy. I just don't want people telling me to act.

Well, you are crazy if you think you can be an adult and still act like a kid. We think those things are cute when kids do them because that is how kids are supposed to act. They are exploring the world, both internally and externally, and these things are a result of that exploration and development. But we can't just have grown people plunking themselves down in the middle of a store and singing about the babies in treetops; boats being rowed merrily, merrily, merrily downstream; or wheels on buses going round and round. It isn't our place. We shouldn't try to steal their spotlight by acting like them. We might as well act like monkeys, picking fleas off of our neighbors back and launching poo at anyone we happen to encounter as act like children. Neither one suits us. So deal with it: kids will be kids. The audience must not participate, only enjoy the show. And what a show it is.

Smells Like Team Spirit...Or Is that Lasagna?

Monday is a busy day at our house, and today was no different. Actually, I take that back; it was different because it was somehow busier than an average Monday. Not only did I volunteer to pick my little sister up from school, but I also took her Christmas shopping, took our stuff back to the library, went to the bank, and bought a few grocery items for dinner (I made lasagna, garlic bread, and chef's salad today; everything was quite good. By the way, I just tore my rotator cuff a second ago; I guess I'm not flexible enough to pat myself on the back effectively. Oh, well. Practice makes perfect).

On top of all that, I ended up taking my sister to her cheerleading practice as well. Always a delightful time. Not that I don't enjoy watching my sister doing her cheer drills; believe me, I do. I sincerely do. Also, I like to take her to cheer because she's always extremely happy and cheerful and grateful to me afterwards, and nothing makes you feel quite as good as knowing someone is beholden to you....that is, I mean, doing something nice for someone. The only problem is that I go and sit and wait for an hour to an hour and a quarter and try to read. Unfortunately, at the same time I am wading through the complexities of the relationship between Fermina Daza and Florentino Ariza, not to mention a parrot who is responsible for the death of Fermina Daza's defunct hubby, (Note: I am reading Love in the Time of Cholera for those of you who wanted to know where all that came from. Actually, even if you weren't wondering or already knew which book it was, you still get to know that I am reading Love in the Time of Cholera), I, a solitary, somewhat subdued, bearded individual with non-matching chromosomes, am surrounded by a group of loud cheer moms and their vapid conversations (or perhaps they were vapid moms with cheer conversations). Either way, their loud remarks to one another constantly distracted me from my book, causing me to read and re-read quite a few pages of my novel. As if it isn't long enough already. I almost missed the fact that Lorenzo Daza took a revolver with him when he went to meet Florentino, and that was hardly a subtle sort of detail.

In fact, to my detriment, one of the moms talked for 10-15 minutes alone about how her husband insists that their new dog sleep with them at night, that her husband bathes with it at times, that he takes its side over hers in an argument, and that he suggested the two of them take turns sleeping on the couch until it gets used to sleeping in their bed.

On the bright side, my sister has improved in her tumbling recently. She can now do a modified round-off and land on her backside with a fair amount of ease and grace. I think we will be working this week on doing a somersault. Unfortunately, I accidentally put my beanie in her backpack, and now it smells like her gym shoes. Lovely.

But what about that lasagna? you ask. Aren't you going to share your lasagna recipe with us? Why should I? I've never shared that recipe with anyone; at least, I've never written the recipe down for anyone before. I let people watch me make it, and they can pick whatever things they can.

Why don't you want to share it, though? you plead. Is it not that good?

Of course, it is, people. That's the whole point. It's absolutely "frabjous" (from Lewis Carroll's Behind the Looking Glass). But that only makes it more desirable to withhold; if I gave the recipe out, it would become more common, people would envy me less, and I absolutely can't have that. No, no, you shan't have my recipe, recipe-hawks. Perhaps on my deathbed, I will entrust the secret to my firstborn with my dying breath, but to no one else. And if I die childless, the secret goes with me. Deal with it.

Is it really as big a deal as that?

No. It isn't.

It's just fun.

Fun?

Yes. Fun. Fun to see people want to know what you know. Fun to see them riddled with jealous feelings  because they don't. Fun to have people ask you to make something that you make better than anyone else they know. That's F-U-N. Fun

You're a monster.

I know. But I am an enviable monster. Mmm. This is delicious.