Happy, Happy! Joy, Joy!

My brother, John, is here in the handsomely grinning flesh.  All the way from centrally-located Merced, California.  Courtesy of a 1:30AM wake-up on Thursday; a rather dreary commute to the airport; two connecting flights (one of which was 15-minutes late due to headwinds; one of which dutifully waited for the last passenger on the manifest to board and be seated); and a 2:27PM landing in sunny and pleasingly mild Nashville, Tennessee.

I couldn't be happier.

Yes, that would be me snapping a shot of my OTHER love in the airport restroom
while awaiting the arrival of Brother John . . . 

Well, to be truthful, if I exerted a bit of thought on the matter, there probably exists a short list of possibilities which would shove me on into nirvana, but eating whatever tender morsel my palate so desires without consequences; sowing countless sunflower seeds with my best pal, Julia Roberts, on her New Mexico property while talking shop about the brilliant screenplay I've written for her next box office smash; crisscrossing the skies at the controls of my very own environmentally-friendly jet plane over parts of Canada and these here United States to drop in on my friends and loved ones whenever the desire strikes my loving and loyal heart;, and world peace . . . these perfectly lovely and lofty goals won't soon be gracing my doorstep with their iPad's and single backpack in tow.

So, to reiterate: I couldn't be happier!

Ashley jumping in her for her first Uncle John hug o' the visit.

My brother hails from a long line of master 'situational observationists' with accompanying opinions (again -- the spell check claims these are NOT words and, again, I'm coining them for my own selfish purposes).  In my husband's family, they call such folk 'professors.'  I might have occasion to be labeled as such though I'm ever so certain that my observations are brilliantly accurate (oh, how tough can it be to disengage my tongue from my cheek . . . or my humble from that pie . . . or my size 9 1/2's from between clenched teeth?).  We often enjoy lighthearted, though quite earnest, back-and-forth verbal swordplay under these auspices.  I just can't get enough!

We retrieved Sarah from UTC to spend a long weekend with us!

Here's a perfect example.  Last night, after a gluttonous evening meal of home-prepared tempura veggies, shrimp and meats, John bellied up to the kitchen island and stood there, silently observing the leggy white sprawl of young dog soaking up the cool of the ceramic-tiled floor.  After a long second, in which a charming male version of the Mona Lisa mystery smile appeared on his dimple-cheeked face, John emphatically stated that we didn't name Hank the Wonder Pup aptly enough.

The profile of a 'lucky dog!'

    "Well!  Just you wait a cotton-pickin' second, bub!" I thought rather loudly, "This is MY dog, little brother, get your own if you need to name something!"  The nerve!  The sheer boldness!  He'd been around maybe one full day and thought himself worthy enough to even suggest an alternate moniker for Hankie-Pankie?!  I was working up the juice to spit out a snappy retort because I'm pretty darned sure that 'Hank' is the very JUST RIGHT name for my full-on, handsomely masculine, early-rising, mistress-loyal, completely beloved, canine companion.  And then Brother John completed the thought I had so rudely interrupted inside my defensive-sister brain, "It should be LUCKY or JACKPOT, LOTTO or LOTTERY or some such, because the moment he happened across you was the best day of his life.  He is set.  Forever!"  That stopped me short.  Perhaps Brother John had earned his doctorate over the past year and thus, graduated from his professorship?  I mean, how could I thrust or parry against his assertion?  When you're right . . . YOU'RE RIGHT.  But if any of you even breathe a word of this to him, I'll vehemently deny it and state for the record that my blog account was hacked!

Mom, Brother John, Me . . . and You-Know-Who!

And about that tempura dinner?  John's idea.  His affection for food, and his desire to remain fit and healthy without denying himself pleasurable flavor options, rivals mine.  Though I shopped for, and chopped up, the various ingredients to be bathed in brown rice batter and baptized by boiling canola oil, it was the team of John and Jimmy -- good ol' reliable J&J -- who dipped and fried and drained and served to the ravenous awaiting crowd.  Zucchini, asparagus, mushrooms, green beans; chunks of beef, chicken sausage, pink shrimp.  And pickles in homage to our Southern location.  Ohhhh, yeahhhhh, so say I, with equal portions of delight and disgust!  My cutie of a husband asked beforehand if we owned a Fry Daddy.  I answered in the negative.  But we DID have a fry daddy, didn't we?  TWO fry daddies, in fact!

The tasty end results of the J&J dinner partnership.

And I swear . . . SWEAR like a sailor just home from two years in seas far, far, far-r-r-r-r away, if Hank (wow! what a great name! so apt!) the Wonder Pup does not cease and desist in this renewed habit of jumping on the counter and pulling down his 'hunt' for his chewing and gnawing pleasure (he ALMOST destroyed the Starbucks Free Drink certificate this morning), he might find himself starring in the next J&J tempura fest!

Three of the four Valdez Bunch men.