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ONLY ONCE IN A BLUE MOON do I offer up something on this blog for six days in a row! Must be the Blue Moon that's spurring me on. Since he's making his extra appearance in full regalia tonight, I do so hope that those pesky snow clouds step aside and let me catch a glimpse!




That's it! That's all for today. I'll be posting no more this year.
In fact, I'm done for the decade. But...

we've all got a door ahead. Get yourself ready, Dear Reader. At midnight we all walk through it!


HAPPY NEW YEAR!!









...
(Please don't shut the door behind you.
There's always the chance I'll be a little late.)
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I'M POSTING TODAY NOT BECAUSE I REALLY HAVE ANYTHING NOTEWORTHY TO SAY, BUT BECAUSE I want to make note that today is the penultimate day of the year. Of course it's also the penultimate day of the decade. Hopefully you'll notice that I've used the word penultimate twice (and now a third time--but not for the penultimate time in this posting). It was my sister Shishe who taught me this word, and it's one of her favorites. (She didn't tell me that fact, I just happen to know.) The word fascinates me simply because I ponder needing a word for "next-to-last." Whomever it was that felt we should have a four-syllable word to describe what could clearly be explained in three syllables might have better assigned the word to mean: next-to-next-to last. Just a thought, as I write my penultimate (okay, now--this is my penultimate use of the word) posting of the year; which, of course, also makes it my penultimate posting of the decade.


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LITTLE VIP GETS SPEAKING ROLE! This is an early news scoop. I'm not sure why Entertainment Weekly or People magazine hasn't picked up on it yet! However, I was sure you'd wish to be one of the first to know, Dear Reader, as this is definitely an important advancement in the Little VIP's acting career.

He didn't have a lot of lines to memorize and rehearse, as his speaking part is short and sweet. (Ah, yes, over-the-top sweet, in my opinion!) In this little film he's playing the part of a seven-week old baby. Notice how he uses mouth movements and arm gestures to play the role so convincingly. And then delivers his lines with perfect timing!



He's been making such strides as an actor that I've got another little series about to open in which he stars, once again as the sole character . (As the producer-director, I felt that bringing in other actors, when he is such a scene-stealing guy, would detract from the main action.) These upcoming pictures are suspense movies, and they'll be coming out early next year. You won't want to miss them.

In the meantime, I do have one more short film ready for release right now that I'll let you be the first to review. This one's titled My Right Hand (not to be confused with My Left Foot, which stars another Lewis.) As the title action is subtle, you'll have to be attentive.



P.S. You may wish to make your popcorn before viewing. You may, in fact, wish to eat it before viewing, as well, unless you've won an Olympic prize for speed-eating of popcorn (i.e. this movie's short!)





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TONIGHT I THOUGHT I'D BAKE SOME COOKIES. I hadn't baked more than one puny batch of cookies during this whole Christmas season, interestingly enough (or I suppose I could say pathetically enough, or sadly enough, or everything-else-I-had-to-do-was enough!) Those Oatmeal Chocolate-chip Cookies I'd made didn't even stick around long enough to make everyone's acquaintance.


So when several members of the family were here playing games tonight, I suddenly took the notion to make more of those cookies. Did I have the recipe I'd used? (Yes, right there online where I'd found it the first time). Did I have all the ingredients? (Yes, yes. I checked.)

This would be a fifteen-minute job (excluding baking time, of course, during which it's exceedingly easy to double-task. Or even if one doesn't wish to double-task, one can put tasking alongside playing and accomplish both. Come to think of it, just suppose one somewhat enjoys the baking of cookies, and plays games with one's family while the cookies sit in the oven; one might actually call that double-playing. [Just rambling on--I'm not really trying to steal any baseball phrases (or bases, for that matter). What I was aiming to do was bake some more of those yummy Oatmeal Chocolate-Chip Cookies.])

I got out my hand mixer and two bowls. Put a stick of butter in the one bowl and added the sugars--1/2 cup brown, 1/4 cup white. Then I beat that up well and added one egg (laid by a hen this very morning, no thanks at all to the roosters) and a teaspoon of vanilla extract. In the other bowl I put 3/4 cup flour, 1/4 teaspoon baking soda and 1/4 teaspoon salt and stirred it together.

Following which, I stirred the floury mixture into the buttery, sugary, eggy mixture. All one has to do after that is add a cup and a half of oatmeal (should be the quick-cooking kind) and 1/2 cup of chocolate chips (calls for bittersweet--I'd say whatsoever kind you have or want will do.) It was all so simple. I added a small handful of raisins, too, and emptied the bag of chocolate chips, rather than simply eating the extra few. (From my experience--which is possibly, even likely, more limited than yours--I'd say there's a lot of leeway in cookie baking, especially when it comes to add-ins.)

I've got a nifty cookie scoop which makes short work (or possibly play) of getting the little rounded blobs of cookie dough onto the sheets. Twelve minutes later I pulled the first sheet of baked cookies from the 325-degree oven and let them cool on the sheet for five minutes. Actually, I only let eleven of them cool on the sheet for five minutes. I couldn't resist the urge to sample.

(Insert a long pause here)

And now what do I say? Dear, dear, didn't I all too recently divulge my cooking carelessness when it came to mixing up a Sweet Potato Pie? I'm certain that your cookies will be chewy and delicious, should you choose to make this recipe. But me and my loosey-goosey ways! There was clearly something quite wrong with my cookies, though they looked just perfectly fine. It was the oatmeal that I blamed--it was so hard, not soft and baked. It could be chewed, but only in the way raw oatmeal can be chewed. Not in any kind of pleasurable way. And yet--I just knew I'd read the word QUICK beneath that Quaker Oatmeal man!



I fetched the jar from the cupboard. And then I discovered that that friendly Oatmeal man was a Barley man tonight!
(Do you know, Dear Reader, how they're almost identical twins?!)

Now I've got two and half-dozen Raw Barley Chocolate-Chip Cookies. No one else will eat them, but I will. They may not be much of a joy to eat, seeing how stuffed they are with uncooked barley; but someone's got to do it.



If I eat them two at a time, would that be double-tasking?






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CHRISTMAS SEASON OLIO cont'd.

There are yet more meals to be made. There are still more dishes to be washed. But as for playing with the baby, alas, he has left the country! Yes, the little VIP is an international star! He'll be spending time with some of his other adoring fans for the rest of the Christmas Season. You can bet I've already gotten plenty of photos of him to enhance this olio portfolio, however.












Small warning: Expect less elaboration of photos in this installation. I easily get into trouble--yada, yada, yada--running out of time before I run out of words. When studying the photos, rest assured that anyone looking to be less than two months of age is the Little VIP. All others you can reasonably expect to be his kith and kin. (If they look old enough to be his grandparents, I suggest you just assume that they are.*)

---------------------------------------------------------------Grapefruit Standing at the Ready













--------Eating the Brunch--Eating the Grapefruit







Playing with the Baby

-----------------------------------------------------------------Unwrapping
Mothering the Baby














-----------------O, Christmas pickles, O Christmas pickles...







*Hmmm
















*************************










Merry Christmas (Season) to all,
and to all a good night!





( Thus ended Christmas Day.
Thus also ends this Christmas Season Olio)
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CHRISTMAS SEASON OLIO



Ah, the frenzy approaching Christmas Day...and then, just like that, the big day fades into December 26. But of course, the Christmas Season is not finished and done. The house is still pulsing with family. The rooms are filled with abundant evidence that yesterday was the most celebrated day of the year. Although not quite so frenetic, the activity continues --the celebrating, the eating of meals, the playing of games, the eating of desserts, the washing of dishes, the playing with the baby, the eating of chocolates, the laughing and talking, the eating of sweets, the gaining of weight (yes, facts must be faced, after all--holiday or no holiday).

I've overindulged, I'll admit it. And there's nothing to be done for it now (the brisk little walk yesterday redeemed such a paltry handful of calories). What's more, even my camera is bursting at the seams. It's crying "memory full, memory full," desperate for me to unload a few photos. So here you have it, Dear Reader, my eclectic mix of Christmas Season photos:



During the Christmas Season, the mail (which in this age of electronic communication has dwindled to junk and invoices) arrives bearing gifts! One impressive card came addressed to yours truly only and bore the signature of the President of the United States himself. (There, there, calm down, it was only a reproduction of his scrawl. But the card truly did come from 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, so you may be scratching your head, Dear Reader, and wondering how I rate [I briefly pondered this myself.]) Before you find yourself pouting at the omission of your name from the President's list, you should refresh your memory at this other olio posting.

On a clear night somewhere near mid-Christmas Season, I attended a Christmas concert accompanied by the fine bass singer with whom I live and a group of our friends. The choir, the soloist, the harpist, organist, pianist, brass ensemble, conductor--they presented us with music quite sublime. Don't judge my estimation, Dear Listener, by the little clip I've got for you. Perhaps when the choir moved into the aisles and the audience was invited to join the refrain (to which my fine bass singer did not refrain), my tiny camera was simply overwhelmed.




Snow arrived in the Christmas Season a second time, and this was more than just the playful stuff that briefly adorned our Christmas tree. It earnestly fell from the sky hour after hour and blanketed fields and highways on the very day I dreamed of finishing up all my shopping. I talked myself into driving as far as the road. But, Reader Dear, I live on a  very steep hill. I lost my nerve.











However--surprise, surprise--the man who parks his truck in my driveway offered to give me a ride to the store!

Too bad, the driver of the truck could not ensure this was the final Christmas shopping trip for me. (He doesn't wear a red suit and climb down chimneys, after all.)




Christmas Morning Quiche.














Christmas Eve Pizza.




Okay, I'd like to continue, but I've got dishes to wash. And another meal to prepare.

Oh...and a baby to be played with. Yes! A baby to be played with! Now, hmm...which should I do first?











(Back tomorrow with Olio Cont'd)



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ALL THE TALK ABOUT TIME CRUNCH...I'll bet you didn't expect to see me back here before, oh, some time in January. But here I am, on this lovely Christmas Eve day, and I can honstly say that I'm ready for this holiday! I'm done with Christmas preparations. I've got an Upside-Down Pear Chocolate Cake baking in the oven, and it didn't turn me upside down to get it there!





Yesterday I carted off the last of the cards to the post office, wrapped up the wrapping up, and finished the finishing touches to things in general (meaning, Dear Reader, that I cleaned). So, to my way of thinking, I'm basking in my own, tiny, unexpected Christmas miracle.



I'm wishing one for you, too, Dear Reader, whatever the size*!
Have a Merry Christmas Eve!


*You know perfectly well I'm speaking of the size of the miracle. But if I must say it--your size also matters not one whit!

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SING A SONG OF SIXPENCE, A POCKET FULL OF RYE, four and twenty blackbirds baked in a pie. Except, whoops, it wasn't really blackbirds...although they did (prior to the baking) sport black feathers. And there were only two, not twenty-four of them. Come to think of it, it wasn't exactly a pie, either---the entree of the evening was Rooster over Waffles.


The queen, for far too long, had been stamping her foot and declaring, "Off with their heads!!"
For far too long, the king had been paying no mind. And then one day-- hmm, yes, today!-- two roosters from the king's chicken yard cock-a-doodled their last farewell and succumbed to the axe. The king was playing the role of executioner, and later he followed that up by performing as chef. The queen was quite pleased by the banquet the king had arranged, and by the tasty dish set before the banqueters.

When the guests--all the king's horses and all the king's men, many of the king's children, his grandson, his mother and an aunt--had partaken of the meal and taken their leave, the queen inquired of the king:


"Now is that the end of the roosters?"
"No," said the king, "there are three more in the chicken yard."
"Three more?!" gasped the queen, incredulous.

"Uh, no," replied the king. "There are four....
I mean.... five. Yes, five more roosters."





Upon hearing this, the queen fainted and fell to the floor. A short while later, along came a rooster and snipped off her nose!

(Preceding tale not-so-loosely based upon actual events, conversations and characters.
Apologies to the brothers Grimm, or Aesop, or whoever the heck wrote that nursery rhyme.)


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HEY, PSST, THINK YOU COULD GET YOUR HANDS ON SOME EXTRA TIME you'd be willing to scalp? I know we're not really allowed any more than the twenty-four seven we've each been allotted; but twenty-five seven or-- oh, heavenly thought--twenty-four eight! would be so very useful right now.

Could you see yourself giving up an hour or two of snoozing for a little extra cash? Those of us who have already severely skimped on slumber and still find ourselves scrambling about would pay handsomely for a few spare hours, I'm sure. Think about it--if you're an excellent time manager, you could tidy up your days just a tad more; tweak a few activities where you've been known to chide yourself for dawdling; eliminate that long morning stretch or those leisurely moments of day-dreaming as you stare out the window and contemplate the perfectly lovely cloud formations and the fact that now since the leaves have gone and left the trees bare, all the nests that were built in the lofty branches are quite visible, and pondering where all the little creatures who used to reside there are spending their Christmas holidays... (oops, I do forget myself--excellent time managers do no such thing!)


It's just that I don't do well with deadlines. Christmas is riding in on a sleigh and I can hear the bells jangling in the distance! (Sorry for the confusing metaphor--I'm not referring to the fat man driving his reindeer--mine is a horse-drawn sleigh, as in sleigh bells ring, are you listenin'? And I'd have to say, no. No, I'm not actually listening. I've got my hands clapped over my ears. But I hear the sound anyway, and it's rapidly approaching!)

So if you've got any time I could beg, borrow or buy (good Kris Kringle and all the elves, I wouldn't steal!) I can't tell you how much I'd appreciate it! Well, yeah, I suppose I could, but it would just take me ever so long...and... I haven't got the time!


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EVERY SO OFTEN A LITTLE RED CREATURE emblazoned with black polka-dots puts out the buzz that my kitchen is the in place to be; it's where it's at, the latest hang-out spot.

There's a mad dash to get here--the place fills up fast. Ladybugs from all around fly in just as soon as their schedules allow. They congregate on my kitchen ceiling near the light fixture, explore the nearby windowsills and walls, often taking side trips to such far-flung places as the upstairs bathroom or the remote corners of the living room.

However, most of these forays and expeditions are done alone--no pairing up for the excursion, no going as a group, as in, "Hey, why don't you and I and Dotty check out a corner of the upstairs hallway ceiling some day this week? I hear it's even more bland and white and lacking anything of interest than the kitchen ceiling!"

It impresses me as being a sad situation, coming all the way to this vacation spot and having no social interaction! Surely, something like half of these tiny critters are lord ladybugs...and have they no interest in the lady ladybugs? So this evening, when I noticed a ladybug roaming around on my lovely plant from Louis, I took matters into my own hands.




I named him Lord Domino.

Sauntering around on the
windowpane nearby was another ladybug, which I easily coaxed into taking a short trip aboard my finger.













Of course I had my motives, and much to her surprise (and perhaps chagrin) this ladybug ended up sharing the leaf with Lord Domino.













I would have to say...in spite of my good intentions, things did not go well. There was an awkward moment in which I imagined Lord Domino mumbling something about spotting her earlier, ha, ha, no pun intended...and she (it appeared) blushed quite charmingly. But then she backed away and hurried off rather rapidly. She's playing hard to get! I thought. Go after her! I told Lord Domino, but he just sat, I supppose a little stunned.



She seemed agitated--what to do, what to do?--scurrying down one branch and up another. Perhaps she needed some encouragement. Why hadn't I thought to set the mood?! I leaned down close and started softly singing, "Some Enchanted Evening...You may see a stranger, a handsomely speckled stranger..." (yes, I did ad lib a bit).




She turned immediately and made a beeline back to the leaf where Lord Domino was probably pondering the whole surprising turn of events.

But (Dear Reader, I warned you of an unhappy ending) alas, just as she reached the leaf and peeked over the edge, the full effect of what, inevitably, he must have felt as her rejection of him had taken hold. He had turned away, preparing for take-off . Uh, oh, I think she was crestfallen. He wasn't waiting around for her! He hadn't really been interested!

And that's just the way the story ends. He flew away!



I finished cleaning up the kitchen sink, keeping an eye on Lady ladybug, and humming "Que Sera, Sera...whatever will be, will be..." But I felt a pang of disappointment, and thought how there's probably a lot I don't know about the socialization of ladybugs. Later I saw Lady ladybug hurrying up the windowsill, likely hoping to forget the whole sorry event.




...
Epilogue: Very unexpectedly, Lord Domino has joined me on the keyboard here as I prepare to post this post (tomorrow morning). Perhaps he has some interest in re-writing the ending?







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JUST IN CASE YOU, DEAR READER, HAVE GOT A pie crust in your refrigerator that you took from your freezer more than a week ago because you needed the space for Thanksgiving leftovers which sat in the refrigerator too long for you to feel comfortable eating, and you weren't even sure that you should feed them to the cat, and henceforth consigned them to the freezer, where the guilt of letting perfectly good food go to waste will always freeze into oblivion... then...uh...what was I going to say?...Oh, yeah, then I suggest you get right to it and whip up a Sweet Potato Pie, because you know that crust is going to go bad in the back of the fridge atop the half-empty jar of capers you forgot you had, the year-old pickle relish, open jar of salsa and...well, never mind what else you might have in there...you'll have to throw it out, cause there's no longer room in the freezer.

Yes, that's what I'd suggest. It's as easy as pie, really. You can stop and pick up some of those good ole sweets on your way home from just about anywhere, provided you pass a supermarket. Pop them in the oven to bake along with just about anything, as long as it takes the better part of an hour. It's a simple matter to peel them right from the oven, just so you remember to lightly oil them ahead of the baking. Following that, if you haven't got the recipe handwritten for you in a looseleaf notebook your mother gave you fourteen years ago, you can have mine. No, no..(just the recipe!)... you can't have the notebook, Silly.


3 eggs, beaten
3/4 cup sugar
2 Tab. melted margarine
1 Tab cornstarch
1 1/2 cups milk
1 1/2 cups warm sweet potatoes
1 teas. lemon flavoring
1/2 teas. nutmeg
1 teas. cinnamon

Add sugar and margarine to beaten eggs. Put sweet potatoes through food mill and add milk and cornstarch. Combine all ingredients. Put in unbaked pie crust and bake at 400 (degrees) for 10 minutes then 350 (degrees) until set and browned.

(Approx. 25 min.)





Based on my latest use of this recipe--which, as luck would have it, was merely an hour ago--I feel I should offer these few suggestions to ensure an excellent gustatory experience for you after pulling the pie from the oven:

1. Please remember to measure out the sweet potatoes once they've been through the mill. It's best not to dump them willy-nilly into the bowl without a thought to how much mashed sweet potato you've got. If you think of measuring just after you've added the eggs and corn starch and sugar, and filled the bowl with milk, that is not a good time. You may wish to give a big sigh and hope for the best. I do not advise it, but I have no better suggestion...which is precisely why I caution you to keep your wits about you.



2. I suggest you not use the date sugar you may have purchased, on a whim, many months ago, in spite of the injunction on the bag: Use anywhere regular refined sugar is called for. Even if your slight qualms cause you to dump in a little of the white stuff later, it won't give you that good old regular refined taste.


3. And, perhaps most earnestly, I pray of thee, with oven-mitted hands, please do yourself a favor and don't neglect to add the melted butter. Should you make such an inexcusable error, you won't have the date sugar on which to blame the uninspired taste. In fact, it's possible you'd be perplexed for quite a while--after you'd tasted the pie and asked yourself whyever I'd give you such an insipid recipe. Uh, huh--you'd have to blame it on me, not knowing how downright delectable this pie should be.

You might sample it again because you'd think surely it should taste better than barely okay. You'd clean up the dishes, perhaps. Then, before you put your notebook away (notebook computer, of course) you'd possibly read over the recipe again. That's when you might have this to say: What a complete and utter nincompoop, I didn't add the butter!*



...
*(And I don't wish to have those words repeated. I want that pie to be so good you barely restrain yourself from eating half of it at very first taste, and then next morning you decide it makes the perfect breakfast. Yep, I want it to be so good you thank your lucky stars you read my post today. Although, hmm...it is only pie, after all--not chocolate truffle cheesecake, or double chocolate brownies, or chewy chocolate chip cookies, or...dear me, just add the butter--and don't expect too much, okay?!)


.

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OKAY, SAID MY WOODSMAN YESTERDAY, WE CAN GO FOR THE TREE at three o'clock tomorrow.

And I said, "Not a moment later! It gets dark so early, and it could be snowing!"


(The weather forecast was heavily hinting at the possibility).

At one o'clock today, my woodsman called me from his office and asked me if I was still planning on going for a tree, considering the snow and rain mixture falling from the sky. He's always taken the tiniest bit of a bah-humbuggy attitude about this whole yule-tree fetching process. Or let's just say he's not so enamored of tramping all over the entire tree farm, finding a perfectly shaped tree of the perfect height and perfect width with a perfectly straight tip-top branch and the greenest and thickest needles and no odd gaps in the branches. Oh, good grief, I'm not that persnickity about the tree. But, yes, I told him yes, we should get it today. You know that the tree farm is only open weekends.

So off we went at just a few moments past three o'clock, and now the precipitation was all lovely snow. By the time we arrived at the tree farm, it had lavishly decorated the trees, covering up flaws and making them all seem enchantingly beautiful. But the friendly man who had raised these trees, lovingly pruned and shaped them and joyfully offered them to customers each year had passed away just months ago. His widow was leaving the house as we arrived and told us this. "The farm is closed," she said sorrowfully. "I trimmed a few of the trees, but my heart just wasn't in it."

But then she added, "You're welcome to go ahead and look. If you find one you like, you can leave the money on the porch."

Well, I knew that if my woodsman walked down to look the trees over, we wouldn't be leaving there without one. And especially now that I thought of the trees as slightly orphaned, I was sure that I, too, could find one I'd be willing to take along home.



And in record time that woodsman was crying, "Timber!" Or perhaps he was saying, "Will you grab that side of the tree and pull it toward you, so it falls that way?"


Considering how his woodsmanly duties are performed not much more than one time per year, he did a fantastic job wielding that saw.

And then the dragging and loading went rather well, as well.







And before you know it, we had ourselves a Christmas tree standing freshly and greenly in our living room. Although, you weren't here to hear the woodsman say, "What?!! If I bring it inside now, you're going to have a real mess on your hands! This thing is wet! And I'm going to have to trim off a lot of the lower branches!"


So in reality it was several hours later when the tree was actually hoisted upright into the stand...fresh and green, but not so perfectly shaped. And that's when someone was heard to say, "Hmm...how did I miss seeing that the top branch veers off at such an odd angle? Uh, keep turning the tree--look at that great big gap in the branches. I think there's only one good side!"

Well, it's a lovely tree! The snow may have covered up its flaws, but it also speeded up the Christmas-tree garnering process (pleasing the woodsman), and it gave the whole expedition a very Christmasy touch (pleasing me immensely). In fact...I think it may be true...it seems a bit strange, but, hmm...yes, I believe the snow may have covered up some of the flaws of the woodsman and me, too. How enchanting is that?

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BEFORE I CAN TOSS THE Halloween-style pumpkin from the porch or purge the refrigerator of Thanksgiving's turkey leftovers, the wild frenzy to get ready for Christmas has begun. I went out under today's depressed and weeping gray skies to gather greenery for Christmas arrangements, since I'd promised to bring two table centerpieces to a meal being served at church this evening.






"What have we here?" I asked of my summery-looking yellow flowers and the pink honeysuckle, "Do I sense a bit of foot-dragging, some reluctance to admit your spotlight in the sun is rapidly fading? Don't you know, the times--or, well, the seasons, the holidays--they are a changin'!"






In spite of my slightly harsh words of reality, I felt just a wee bit disloyal as I gathered the boxwood and bayberry, the appropriately-red-and-green-dressed azalea sprigs...and remembered all the times I'd urged the little yellow flowers on to greatness.











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OH, THAT MAGNIFICENTLY MESMERIZING MOON,
So fantastically full and fair and flush with radiance.


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THANKSGIVING DAY.

Isn't it all about being Thankful.


And keeping Traditions.

And being Thankful

for the Traditions.

And being Thankful for the People who are
being Thankful...




















For the Traditions.
As well as the New Additions.


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IT ADDS A NICE TOUCH TO GET ONE'S THANKSGIVING TURKEY in a serendipitous manner. Yesterday I was wishing for a turkey raised without lots of interventions--hormones, antibiotics, chemicals flagrantly sprayed--but despaired of finding such a fowl in time, seeing as how I'd ho-hummed my way through the month without doing any research into the matter.

Then last night I happened to call a friend to make sure she wasn't going to be alone on Thanksgiving Day. Not only did she regale me with the tale of how it developed she'd be hosting the meal for a tidy group of her own, but when I mentioned my procrastination in procuring a bird to serve to mine, she passed along a valuable tip. "There's a place not far from here where they sell 'natural' chickens," she said. "They might have turkeys." Then she gave me rough directions for getting there--on roads I did not know.

Thus my first order of the day this morning was chasing after a fowl--what I hoped wouldn't be a wild goose.









And what do you know, turns out that I did see geese, but they weren't wild. They were plump and domestic and populating the farm with the sign that proclaimed: "Uncommonly Good Meat!"

The corners of my mouth went up.




"Yes, we've got turkeys!" the young man said, and I was thinking he must be a brother to Lady Luck.

"What size did you order?"
Hmm, right then I noticed his eyes didn't look so much like hers.

"Oh, dear. I didn't place an order," I said. "I just heard of this place last night." I noticed his nose was more nicely shaped. Why, he didn't really look like her at all! I held my breath.

"Well, we've got about three that aren't ordered," he said. "They're going fast!" And then he smiled--my goodness, the splitting image of Lady L's smile!


Naturally, I myself was smiling as I headed home with my ever so natural turkey.


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