Guten Hunds and French Toast

Here I am in Germany.  The US Army base in Wiesbaden to be exact.  Want even MORE exactitude?  I'm sitting up to the kitchen bar in my daughter's and red-headed-son's apartment . . . and she's perched right next to me!!!  Practically looking over my shoulder as I rat-a-tat-tat on her petite MacBook Pro.  Moments earlier, her husband whipped up the perfect double shot soy cappuccino pour moi -- the loveliest of companions to the four artisanal Belgian chocolates I also savored. Sarah marvels at the size of my stomach.  How I could possibly consume, and completely enjoy, a quad of handmade sweet treats on the heels of the terrific Thai meal of sizable proportions through which we wended our way in the neighboring town of Mainz?  It's a talent, I suppose.  Mind over matter, girl.  My brain cells generate nerve messages which are delivered to my tummy, alerting them to special travel preparations.

It truly is . . . MIND over matter.  I make up my MIND that certain things which normally follow a certain daily order will not MATTER for the purposes of the trip.  Like frequenting a sweet shop several times a day or drinking more than my standard two cups of java a day.  (Still not keen on gastrointestinal irregularities, however.  Gotta draw the line somewhere!)  When I travel to spots known for sights and sounds and people and food, I feel it is only right to push myself to the utmost to enjoy such local pleasures in my own inimitable style.  If you've read my blog over the past couple of years, you'll know this about me.  Just check out my travels with my sisterhood of the traveling cupcakes, the Earth Divas!  A few pounds added to the ol' pontoon (we all came up with nicknames for the areas of our bodies where extra calories tend to congregate during vacation: Derek - inner tube; Jimmy - a kegger; Sarah won't deviate from the truth, referring to it simply as F-A-T) will burn off within a couple of weeks back home, spent keeping up with Hankie Mutt and the deaf Baby Piranha -- not to mention that my suburban reality does not consist of daily trips to quaint regions with boulangeries, patisseries and chocolatiers at every corner, nor shops harboring great wheels of cheeses, hard, soft, and stinky, from various regions of Europe at insanely reasonable prices!

[Oh, I think we've stumbled upon a new nickname that I find rather endearing.  Sarah giggled at something I did -- probably making what my family calls "the ugly face" (my lips tend to purse and my eyes squint, both drawing a bit downward and causing my chin to pock up) whilst my brain spins -- and called me The Mother Of All Pearls.  Classic.  And clever.  My girl.]

I feel like I should close my eyes and envision this epic journey overseas . . . and then drop my pointy finger onto a spot and wherever it lands, beginning, middle, or end, just start telling a story.  So, here goes pin-the-tail-on-the-excursion!

Well, there are dogs.  Everywhere.  Here in Germany.  Over in France, both in Strasbourg and Paris.  And not one of them barked, growled, slobbered, lifted a leg or acted out in any other various and sundry inappropriate or overly doglike manners.  They walked.  On short leashes.  Next to or in front of  or just behind their owners.  Through crowded streets ripe with the scent of breads, meats and sweets; and town squares rife with the odors of babies bottoms, European underarms and French perfumes; and bridges over generously flowing rivers where waterfowl, alive and expired, floated on by.  When owners stopped to chat about their hunds, there was the traditional nose-to-hindend sniffing (between dogs, mind you), but less overt than what my own hound does with me in my kitchen!  Less invasion and more "how do you do?"  At dusk while we lingered on the patio of a brasserie our first night in France, we watched an old dog wander cordially along the cobblestone street in front of us, seemingly with no owner, until the matronly woman materialized on the other end of the block.  MY dogs would have been knocking over the quaint tables supporting the  remains of our spatzle, beer and 'coupes glaces' soporific supper.

Just to get my fix of dog hiney scratching, I dropped several coins in the hands of a young woman seated at a busy corner in Strasbourg, covertly begging for cigarette change: I'm pretty sure I enjoyed the experience every bit as much as the hulking yellow animal pressing his haunch against my short nails.  There's the handsome Rhodesian ridgeback I met this morning -- a magnificent male with "the ability to make handsome babies" (as his kindly and uber-wealthy owner informed me), who really is nothing more than "a horny bastard with an excuse to breed" (as his charming and quite frank mistress interjected while looking with an amused knowing eye at her husband as he walked on by with his prized animal).  "Aren't they ALL?" I mused aloud, casting a wider net on multiple species.  The neighbor across the hall here on base has a four-legged sausage doggie with a coat which continually casts hairs with every jump and rub; he likes to do both simultaneously . . . he's an American dog, of course.  Sarah cooed over a poodle at a rest stop somewhere in the French countryside of the Champagne region.  A genuine Parisian gentlewoman offered up her petite pooch for the petting just a block short of the incredible bakery we happened upon minutes afterward.  And there's at least three other incidents of receiving support for my canine habit.  Need I remind you that the trip's not over yet?

The other ubiquitous element shared by both countries is bicyclists.  And the narrower and more people-laden the streets, the more bikes there are.  The more daring the maneuvers in the face of seeming death-by-auto.  Ladies in stylish black dresses and trench coats, sporting smart flats in the latest fashions, move easily across intersections, behind buses and deftly veer into lanes marked specifically for their two-wheeled transport.  One woman with a glorious display of red hair in fullness past her shoulders remains indelibly imprinted upon my collection of mental snapshots.  I may have captured her digitally but with over 1,000 images on the Canon PowerShot to date, finding her may take some effort.  There were bicycles with baskets; bicycles with fenders; bicycles with mustachioed older men; bicycles conveying the genteel and the starving artist; bicycles sporting small motors at rental kiosks; bicycles both sleek and cumbersome; and even one bicycle with a faux fur seat cover, carrying a log of dark German sausage that could feed a small village.  We toyed with the idea of traversing as tourists on some version of these bicycles but decided we lacked the laissez-faire attitude necessary to remain alive beyond the first hour.  During a driving episode in Strasbourg our first night, right at the start of the dinner hour (a stressful affair for my son-in-law who bore the responsibility of ferrying us all about) my husband expressed some qualms about sharing the road with the seemingly clueless riders of the street cycles.  One maiden in particular kept waffling between our lane and hers, causing my husband to inform Derek, "Try not to hit that one or she'll be French toast!"  We had ourselves a hearty belly laugh which carried us through the next three repetitive miles of searching for a parking garage with space for our Ford Focus.

Derek and Sarah purchased a bicycle rack for their car while we were out and about yesterday.  Next weekend, they will join the reckless ranks of the European bicyclists.  I just hope they wear helmets. And mind their manners.  Even just a wee bit.  I'm sure they will.  The rules of the road, whether via four-wheels with gasoline engine or two-wheels ala bipedal, simply differ from those to which I adhere.  Definitely more entertaining and adrenaline-producing. Most likely, if I remained here for longer than a few months, it would become as old hat to me as it is for the citizenry.  MAYBE.

That's all she wrote.  For now.  Enjoy the pictures.  We'll tour the Louvre and talk food and shopping on the next go-round.  Until then, 'tschuss' (pronounced 'choose/chews,' emphasis on 'ewe'-sound in the middle).  That's the German equivalent of 'Ciao, see you later.'  Jimmy, or Mister Gloria (heh heh), says it with the most humorous of accents . . . and in a slightly girly voice.  We can't get enough of it!

P.S.  The pigeons could carry away a small dog!

P.P.S.  Motorcycles are an entirely DIFFERENT kettle of fish when it comes to two-wheels of a faster, crazier, wilder kind!

 

Check . . . check . . .

I just completed my third or fourth distraction circuit of the day.  Distraction from what? From cleaning up the mess that is my checkbook; a mess which, since Christmas, has grown at a rate more alarming than the disheveled condition of my teen son's bedroom.  (I break out in goose pimples just THINKING about THAT living space!)  I'm one of those who prefers seeing the black-and-red of my household spending on paper - scribbled into those little lined registers tucked in the wallet behind checks bedecked with patterns of birds or polka dots or whatever one finds imprinted on bargain checks bought at various online sites in multiple boxes so as to save even more money.

And before we continue . . . YES . . . I realize that three months and a smattering of days have elapsed since last I visited my blog.  Unfortunately, I'm not paid to write, and that ol' regular gig I have, called 'domestic life,' revved into high gear and kicked the stuffing out of my schedule, my rest and my health to some extent.  That deaf pup which was at the core of my last entry definitely ranks up there in all of that!

So, back to the subject at hand.  Mainly, describing just what the heck a distraction circuit is.  Obviously, an escape or break from the monotony of the agonizing task at hand.  Resting my eyes as they strain between the statement and the registers.  Relaxing my left hand of its death grip on my favorite pink pen (the one I bought at Office Depot while in the company of my baby brother after his release from prison - I've lost the thing twice, and it has returned to me both times, much to my relief).  Suspending my irritation at the lack of discipline I've shown in this area lately.  Every couple of hours, this domestic accountant needs to swim up through the sea of numbers and business names and gulp a few deep breaths of rainy day air.  It's rather a hypnotic, not to mention slightly nauseating, exercise.  AND there's a great reason - aside from practicality - to balance the checkbook on a monthly basis as opposed to the practically semi-annual bind in which I now find myself: having to choke down in one extended visual gulp the amounts paid to doctors, the vet, Wal Mart, gas stations, grocery stores, ATT U-Verse AND cellular, Petsmart and the various sports clubs just vexes to the point of a near death experience!  

My most recent circuit involved three smaller breaks wrapped up into a half hour space.  I pulled away from my desk.  (I'm in my study which is now painted in the garden green and deep plum I chose months ago; and lined with book shelves sporting knick-knacks and memorabilia, rocks and pictures, and books, books and more books.)  Headed downstairs to distract the rainy day dogs with chews which Hank devours with his enormous choppers while Gracie takes forever with her small mouth and newly emerging adult teeth.  Snapped a few shots of the various song birds at the feeder, their feathers darkened by the rain, beaks smacking into the seed with gusto.  Returned upstairs to roll out my back on the big blue exercise ball.  Sat back down to the pages of statements.  Searched and found a few errors which worked IN my favor as opposed to against me . . . a rarity . . . how stressed WAS I to enter an $8 amount at Starbucks as $80?  SCORE!

Before very long, my tummy told me it wanted popcorn; I said I would pop a nice batch of Orville's air corn later.  But I did venture back downstairs to scan the contents of the fridge.  I had myself a half slice of bacon left over from breakfast, along with a half a banana, which got me to thinking about the sandwiches Elvis Presley used to eat, which THEN led me to recall a poster I saw online of Elvis and a gaggle of girls in bathing suits -- the swim shorts he had on were evidently predecessors of the Speedo as far as snugness and lack of length at the bottom.  Because he was in that bent knee, half-swagger, half-dance pose that he's known for, the whole scene just looked kind of wrong to me.  Kinda ewww.  I brushed that mental fluff away and headed back up the stairs for a quick set of eighty-four mason twists for my abs and an extended child's pose yoga move to de-tense the ol' body.  I think I balanced for an entire fifteen minutes before I decided I'd like to blog for a bit.  Started that.  Then, my friend texted to ask if I felt like going out for 'binks and nacks' (drinks and snacks as her son used to say instead of 'drinks and snacks').  For the second weekend in a row, I had to decline her offer.  For the second weekend in a row, she tried to gently coerce me to reconsider.  For the second weekend in a row, I reminded her of how much I hate going out to restaurants and bars but that I wasn't trying to avoid her but merely needed to play catch-up before our trip to Germany next Thursday.  Then we moved into a discussion about cowboy boots and before I finally left that conversation to return to the blog, I ended up BACK downstairs to let the dogs out, check the size of my daughter's boots . . . oh, and grab one of those Drumstick Ice Cream cone-things I bought for my husband.  He better hurry up and snag one because that's all that's left in the box.

Well, that's all I got.  Okay.  Not true.  But it's all I can give for now.  The checkbook beckons.  The deaf pup is yammering away at the back door with that ear-piercing, slightly electronic, sound-barrier-breaking bark that we all hear just fine, thank you very much, little Gracie Helen.

I GOTTA GO!


 

Gracie Helen, Meet The World

So, though my memory strains through the days like a sieve on crack, I have managed to remember a rather significant development at the end of 2012 . . . probably because it's presently peeing on my tiled kitchen floor and waking me up several times a night.  Yes.  The woman who has tried to downsize her life in an attempt to spend more time at her desk added a -- you guessed it -- urinating baby robot!

No.  Not really.  That's ridiculous.  Well, almost ridiculous.  I could turn a robot off.  What I have, what's crashed hard on a folded green blanket against the kitchen wall near the pantry door, has NO on/off switch.  It plays passionately; eats ravenously; and sleeps like a fluffy rock.  Need a hint?  Here goes.

It's NOT a car accessory . . . 

It's NOT an arctic fox . . . 

It's NOT a cross-eyed piglet . . . 

It's a PUPPY!!!


A very SPECIAL puppy.

Yes, I realize that all of us dog lovers believe that our pooches are special much the way parents, of which I am also one, believe their kids are the cutest, prettiest, the most '-est' in EVERYTHING.  I mean, after nine-months of gestation, and the bills to show for delivery, we HAVE to believe that just to get our money's worth and account for the stretch marks!

But this oddly adorable ball of lamb's-wool fur IS special.  In two major ways.  One: she is the firstborn of of ten pups born to my little sister's dog, Bella.  Via FaceTime, I watched as this white piglet of a pup oozed its way into my sister's hands.  I cried as my sister rubbed and cooed life into the wee white-and-pink piglet, thinking of a great many heartbreaking and heartwarming things in those minutes.  Later, my son would watch with me as other pups were delivered.  I could see how his boy-man face softened as he took in all of that puppy cuteness.  And I began to cave without fully identifying what I said next as such behavior, "Wouldn't it be neat if we could take that firstborn female and raise her with Hank?  We could name her Gracie in memory of Grace.  You could help train her; she could be your dog; ride in the truck with you in the summer.  But we can't.  I promised dad.  NO MORE DOGS!  And our lives are busy.  They're expensive . . . "      But the seed had already been planted.  In both of us.  Before two days had passed, I was convinced that Hank needed a friend, my son needed his own dog and a tie to his sweet cousin, and it wouldn't be that much of a drain on my time.  

Yeah-h--h--h--h-h-h-h . . . 

I did talk my softhearted husband into taking on the puppy.  He was getting into his car, on the way to work, when I ran out and made my presentation, apologizing first and then rushing into my explanation of why our SON needed this animal to heal.  "You know," my honey sighed, only slightly exasperated, "Just tug on my heartstrings a li-i-ttle bit more and I'll probably say yes."

The plan was for Zachary to bring the pup home during his return trip from Colorado in December. Simple as that.  She'd be 8 weeks old and ready to leave her mama without any problem.  We'd train her with Hank.  My son even declared that HIS dog would be better trained and better behaved than MY dog.  "Fine with me," I laughed.

And then, in that super fantastic way that all of our pets seem to throw surprises into our laps, my sister called with bad news.  While advertising to find good homes for Bella's brood, she received an e-mail from an Aussie owner who'd read about the lineage of the puppies and had seen the photos of each baby.  Did my sister know that when two merle-patterned Aussie's breed, the white ones that are produced -- double merles as they are known -- are usually fully, or partially, deaf and/or blind?  My sister hadn't known that.  Neither had her vet or the owner who had sold her Ghillie, the father.  She felt sick.   "I never would have bred them had I known.  We thought they would make beautiful babies and then they could go to great owners!" She told me that she understood if Zachary and I wanted to back out of our plan.  No way! was my firm reply.  

My husband had different feelings, "What do you want with a deaf and blind dog?" he asked with frustration as he envisioned the difficult challenges and workload ahead.  And probably the possible vet bills for a special-needs pup.  It's no secret that our cats and Panda and Hank have cost us a bundle of bills over the years.  "Um-m, the SAME thing I wanted with a hearing and sighted dog!" was my heated reply.  It's still a dog.  People still raise them.  The Internet is full of videos and informative websites and blogs dedicated to training and caring for these special pets.  The animals don't know any difference.  They were born as they were born.  Breeders used to euthanize the 'defective' puppies back in the day.  Now, they are delightful additions to households where owners are willing to put in a little more work and love for limitless positive results and tons of affection from a precious little thing. 

With all of that said, I'd like to officially introduce you to to our newest family member:  Miss Gracie Helen.  Yes.  Helen with a nod to Helen Keller.  Laugh if you must!  I respect Helen Keller and all she gave to the world of the blind and hearing-impaired.  You could play a trombone in the same room as Gracie and she wouldn't even know it.  She's profoundly deaf.  Her eyes, as can be noted in the photographs, have their own problems though she can see for now.  Her pupils are 'dropped' and irregularly shaped, one in a 'starburst' pattern.  It seems that her peripheral vision is not as sharp as it could be and because her pupils are lower in her eye, she most often walks around with her head lowered, unless she's sitting and following me around the room with lifted eyes.  So, above her eyes the vision field is also affected.  Her vocalizations are the loudest of any dog I've owned.  They aren't maturing as Hank's have.  She can't hear herself.  Her tones and sounds are different if you listen with a discerning ear.  (If you've ever been around deaf people, like my brother's girlfriend who lives on the deaf ward at the Patton State Hospital in California, they are NOT quiet and their sounds are distinctive.  When they sign, they often emphasize with vocal enhancements.  The body is wired to produce sound if it can!)  

Deaf dogs also tend to play too rough as they aren't hearing the alerting sounds of pain and warning that their playmates give during wrestling.  Hank is a big tough dog; this is working in our favor though I often have to break them up because of Gracie!  Her training consists of signs, which dogs are great with anyway as body language plays hugely into their perspective on the world, and we will soon incorporate a vibration collar for more advanced training: like correcting how she plays with other dogs and children and teaching her to return to us when out of sight.  Last week, I ordered Doggles, which are goggles for dogs: her eyes are sensitive to the sun and require protection.  Doggles come in an array of sizes and colors.  Gracie's are pink.  For now.  Her sense of smell is highly acute.  She can be sound asleep and the scent of Hank's food in his dish as I bring it in from the garage will wake her instantly.  When my daughter breaks out the cat food on the kitchen island, Gracie goes ballistic trying to jump up and reach it.  She's also sensitive to vibration, including things like breezes when the back door opens and closes.

My sister kept Jax, Gracie's brother, and he has similar problems, though with a bit of hearing and worse vision.  She's training faster than am I, so I take her hints and notes and run with them!  Her fiance discovered that blinking outside lights on and off works to let deaf dogs know it's time to come in when it's dark outside.  It's really rather interesting and fun, learning the unique ways of raising such animals as this.  

Hank's happiness over having a playmate can't be adequately measured.  He's gentle with her.  Patient with her sharp nipping teeth.  Calm in the face of her strange squealing when she works herself into a lather.  I couldn't be prouder of his response to Gracie.  I had hoped for an instant bond, a quick liking, a protective packmate mentality.  And he has delivered in spades.  Though Gracie definitely sees me as her human love, I think it's safe to say that it's going to be the Hankie & Gracie Show from here on out.  And THAT makes this doggie mama very, very happy.  For both of them.  

Evidently, Aussies noses can start out pink, as Gracie's did, but the developing black pigment will eventually fill in the nose.  Some dogs halt in mid-cycle but thus far, Gracie's color has continued to encroach steadily upon the pink.  A similar situation is going on with her lips.  Fascinating!

Here's a link if you are interested in exploring the phenomenon of  White Aussies more deeply.

Deaf Dogs Rock is a fantastic website dedicated to the world of deaf dogs.  They have a Facebook page, too.  Check it out.  I'm impressed.  It's a great use of the web!

Thanks . . . And Giving

I'm sitting here at my snazzy glass-topped desk, the 70's-style lamp behind me casting a warm pool of light right where I need it, a mug of homemade cafe mocha within inches of my left hand, and I can't recall what I did for Thanksgiving.  The reason I'm wondering stems from the sheer drop in blog entries which began in November and just plain plummeted in December.  I know I turned 43 somewhere around there.  And my friend's husband died after a protracted battle with cancer, leaving us all in an emotional lurch right when seasonal celebrations are supposed to kick off.  (But he sure left us with stories to tell!  I have NO problem recollecting him!)

PHIL RECEIVING MEDS COURTESY OF HIS SISTER.

PHIL PREPARING THE LAST MEAL WE WOULD ENJOY WITH HIM.
I MAY HAVE TO HOLD ONTO THOSE GLORIOUS POUNDS IN HOMAGE!

Oh-h-h-h . . . hm-m-m-m . . . OH . . . my baby sister came to town!  Along with her fiance and two of her then three Aussie-mix dogs (she now has four).  That's where it all went fuzzy, my days and nights, my actions and reactions.

Time became a fluid thing, quicksilver-like, and moods were appropriately mercurial but in a most lovingly precious and valid way.  An intense week of cramming in joy and relationship-reclamation and serious subject matter.  And I now remember that birthdays, both of us, were celebrated with gourmet bakery cakes which made the trip from Pueblo to Murfreesboro before finally stopping at their final destinations: our stomachs!  I'm not sorry to report that nary a crumb escaped.  It's a gift us Sweigard kids have.  Or maybe it's the Hultgren blood from my ma.  Not sure.  But we don't waste a good sweet.   We possess self-control but it is restless below the surface of our consuming affection for most excellent food.  But I digress.

So-o, where was I?  Oh, yes.  Turkey Day.  The bird from Trader Joe's in Nashville ranked up there as the best we've had in probably 10 years.  And for the first time in about 10 years, my family celebrated a holiday with my little sister in our midst.  What a tremendous full-circle moment after a decade of turmoil, heartbreak and an arduous road to healing!  The simplest of tasks, from slicing and dicing for the stuffing at the kitchen island to bending our necks over the same laptop to peer at humorous Facebook posts by common friends took on a significance which far outstripped the everyday-ness of the actions themselves.  But even her presence could not totally save me from myself: I overdid it, as usual, and was so worn out by the end of the evening that I passed out on the couch while waiting to play a family board game.  A game, mind you, that I BEGGED everyone to play all afternoon!  Consequently, my slumbering form remained on said furniture for most of the night AND the turkey broth that I had elicited from the carcass of the tasty bird was left out on the stove until morning, thus rendering it unable to be salvaged.  This minor hiccup in my post-holiday menu bent my nose a few degrees but I survived.

CHOP! CHOP!

As for our shared birthday celebration, my eldest child took it upon herself to present her auntie and mother with mutually expensive gifts in the form of Coach purses!  Mine came with a double-warning from both my sibling AND my spouse to accept what was bestowed upon me without complaint as to cost and necessity; I was further ordered to make the purse switch complete before the end of the month.  I did.  And for a solid month after that, I stressed about where to set the gold-and-plum fashion accessory everywhere I went.  House, car, shopping cart, public restrooms without door hooks or toilet housing.  Ugh.  My previous purses came with price tags from Kohl's or Ross' or TJMaxx.  They consisted of a wipe-able exterior and an interior full of pockets and compartments and zippers.  Never did they sport an actual label that was instantly recognizable to others around me, though I've received numerous compliments on my purse bargains over the years.  In fact, until recently (like the past week or two) I couldn't conjure up the correct maker of my posh gift.  Coco Chanel?  Gucci?  It's all Greek/French/Italian to me!  But it IS a pretty thing, my glorified checkbook-and-mini-lotion-holder, and my daughter is inordinately pleased to see it dangling from my forearm each time I leave and enter the house.  I figure it'll last as long as it lasts.  No more.  No less.  After all, I would expect such a quality fashion house as Coach to tailor a product that is smart enough to double as handsome AND utilitarian since they've managed to last this long in the highly dog-eat-dog-model-eat-nothing world of what's classic and en vogue.

THE BAG!

(There!  That fancy bag just garnered more of a write-up in this blog than most objects in my house.  If that doesn't convey my appreciation for the gift, and affection for the daughter, then it's beyond my power.)

ROB, MODELING MY SISTER'S COACH BAG.

I asked my husband if he could recall what we did for Thanksgiving, only to find his memory as fuzzy as mine.  To me, that signals that we are far too busy and require a bit of slowing down in order to more completely ENJOY these big days . . . because I'm fairly certain that this is what makes our coveted holidays coveted.  Don't YOU agree?  I wonder how many other folks out there who celebrated the holiday have trouble recalling it?  It may be an epidemic.  I sure hope not.

What I yearn for is less hurry-hurry and more memories like the one where my brother, Kevin, sat at the kids table with us younger siblings and cousins (he was more young man at the time and we were definitely young sprouts) at our Grandma Opal's house one year.  He made the kid table THE place to be as he entertained us with his quirkiness.  One quote in particular still lives on in epic status, when he began extolling the loving virtues of a Thanksgiving perennial favorite, "Pumpkin pie is SO-O-O romantic!"  We were all in stitches over this and perpetuated the sentiment with varying degrees of exaggerated Pepe Le Pew'ness late into the evening.  To this day, I can't look at a pumpkin pie without thinking of Kevin.  THAT is sheer perfection: the way a holiday ought to be, both in the moment and in the future.  It should be reams-worth of these kinds of stories that we store in our memory banks as opposed to the often unforgiving retellings of heated moments between stressed-out revelers during their lowest-common-denominator moments.  Though to be truthful, the Easter that a certain aunt on my husband's side (who shall remain nameless, lest the mere whisper of a name bring the dragon out of slumber) burst into tears when she discovered that her nephew had chopped the celery too coarse for her dressing - she was late, I mean REALLY late, arriving and the dressing waited on her for finishing, and hoards of family were devouring Grandma Rita's rolls, so said nephew took matters into his own hands to stave off a meal mutiny.  This certain aunt tossed out ALL of the offending celery and diced a new batch to her exacting specifications.  And, yes, men, women and children all waited for her to finish making the dressing and baking the dressing.

EVIDENTLY, I MANAGED TO NOT TAKE PICTURES OF OUR ACTUAL THANKSGIVING DAY! SO, HERE'S A BIRTHDAY SHOT OF ME COOING OVER MY FUN TIDBITS FROM MY SISTER'S GIFT TO ME.

So though it's mid-January and many of us are busy trying to shed a bit of Thanksgiving and Christmas from our thighs and midsections, do me a favor, would you?  Jog your memory and come up with that ONE stellar story from your celebrations that deserves to be retold in each year yet to come.  And . . . start telling it.

(Note: My perfect recipe for cranberry sauce, wherein the entire berry is used but pureed with the help of an immersion blender to avoid the chunks and such that many dislike, also contributes to the perfection of Thanksgiving.  It works well in Greek yogurt with flax for breakfasts in the following days.  Great for bladder health, also, as cranberries contain compounds - proanthocyanidins - which keep infection-causing bacteria from adhering to the bladder wall.)