Mrs. Blau and the Sting-Ray

This month marks the 50th anniversary of the Sting-Ray bicycle by Schwinn. I'm sure some of you had one in the 70's. I did.

Often featuring a smaller front wheel, bright metallic colors, a “banana” seat and signature "butterfly" handlebars, my bike lacked only the tall chrome bar in back called a "sissy bar.”  

How I loved that bike. 

I wish I’d never spent my hard-earned after school dollars to replace it with the fad of the razor thin English racer in my later teens. I may have felt cool  wobbling around, hunched over the handlebars (Who needs racing handlebars tooling about on the Belt Parkway bike path, anyway?) but I missed the sturdy and, yet, snappy ride of my very first two-wheeler.

Mine was similar but lacked
the adornments. I would have loved that flowered seat.

We got it used for 11 dollars and it just happened to be pink. With a few tired plastic streamers on the handlebars, it rode great and its sleek form was undiminished by the span of years between when it gleamed in a showroom and the day my smiling mother wheeled it home for me. And, since it was low to the ground, it was perfect for learning to ride a two-wheeler.

No offense, kid but training wheels
are stupid.

                                                

Soon after its arrival, I rose on a steamy summer-vacation morning determined to learn to ride it. 

Training wheels (for babies!) were out of the question and I had no one to hold the back and run along behind like on the Brady Bunch so my plan of action consisted of simply getting up every time I fell over, propelling myself along until it "took."

The only acceptable
training wheels I've seen yet.

I did this for hours, scattering pedestrians on the busy street and nearly running down Mrs. Blau who lived three doors over.  

An older woman, she was much younger than I thought at the time, probably in her late 50's. Often spotted leaning on the stone wall by her front gate, she always had a smile for me and enjoyed chatting with my mother.  As had so many in my neighborhood, Mrs. Blau had survived Auschwitz but was nearly flattened by a determined ten year old trying to ride a bike.

Learn I did, later that same day and will never, ever forget the sensation when I realized I was no longer toppling over, battering my shins on the pedals as I fell but that I’d finally caught the wind and was flying down the street. My two long braids airborne in the breeze of victory, it remains a benchmark moment and was one of my first experiences with perseverance actually turning to triumph.

A few weeks later, when it felt like the bike was part of my anatomy and I could barely remember not being able to ride, Mrs. Blau approached me shyly and asked if she might try out my new bike. 

I was stunned. Did grown-ups do such things? But I followed her to the paved driveway between her house and my row of brownstones and handed the pink Sting-Ray over. I watched as she arranged her house dress over her knees and climbed aboard. Before either of us was quite ready, she was off—riding up and down the alley, bumping over the uneven asphalt and, at one glorious moment, lifting both feet off the pedals and, making glee-ful eye-contact with me, shouting "Wheeeeeeeeeee!"  

I knew where Mrs. Blau had been. Growing up in my neighborhood, home to as many Holocaust survivors as Tel Aviv, even young kids knew what the blue numbers on the arms of shop keepers and friends' parents meant. Neither her past nor today's moments of joy joy were lost on my young heart.The irony of Mrs. Blau’s simple pleasure was interpreted childishly but sincerely by my ten year old sensibilities.

Now, remembering Mrs. Blau on the Sting-Ray -- the late afternoon sun tilting down on both of us that summer day in a Brooklyn that exists only in memory, I wish I'd kept that bike forever.

Once upon a time.

You Cannot Juice a Fluffernutter Sandwich

So help me God, since I've started juicing again, the brain farts are fewer...and less foggy.

There I was, lying in bed. Suddenly I desperately needed to know the name of the guy who played Jessie Pinkman on Breaking Bad and, there it was: Aaron Paul. Trivial, yes...but trivia is my oxygen...and the reason that, in the past, I have been able to beat your ass at, well, Trivial Pursuit. 

How many of you
remember her?

Lately, it's been problematic. What was the name of the original actress who played Gladys Kravitz on Bewitched...the name of the kid* in first grade who wanted to borrow my copy of "Blueberries for Sal?" And what, in the name of all that's holy, did I come into Shoprite  to buy???

I loved this book.

Before the juicing or, more accurately, when a handful of Cheetos was my personal breakfast of champions -- as opposed to a pretty swirl of spinach, beets, ginger and a small organic lemon (the tang of citrus helps lessen the impression that one is guzzling a meadow) -- there was a grand, and rapid loss of mental acuity...and I ain't kidding, people.

I barely could remember who I was much less the names of your children when I ran into you in the very same Shoprite whose aisles I wandered in confusion.

I represent the certainty that if you eat Cheetos, you become a Cheeto...a slothful orange slug. Something that Dr.Oz longs to eradicate with a stomp of his enormous shoe (ever notice how huge that man's feet are?)....something that the current (this week's) object of my derision -- hipsters! -- would turn from in disgust, their lensless glasses fogging up until, that is, they decide that Cheetos actually are the hot, new trend. They're probably vegan since there are absolutely no natural ingredients used to extrude them.

Why, yes, ladies. I do have gignantic feet.

Cheetos, of course, merely represent my periodic poor eating. It might be a half sleeve of Oreos...and they might not be breakfast as much as a perceived "treat" after a tough, long or stupid day. Luckily I retain enough sense to remember how much better I feel when a handful of almonds or a hard boiled egg and banana are consumed, fueling productive thoughts instead of the desire to watch the (secretly mean) Wayne Brady be passively aggressive to a whole new generation of people dressed as playing cards on "Lets Make a Deal."

I am mean because I hate
making deals with idiots.

So, off to Trader Joe's I went, returning with several shopping bags full of leafy greens and colorful fruits.

Supplement that with some organic garlic and a few tablespoons of Chia seeds and, hopefully, I will no longer need to ask strangers in the supermarket -- in fake jocularity -- why I am there ("I am just so forgetful lately! Isn't that hilarious?")

 

My mother did not teach me to eat badly. In fact, that woman, unbeknownst to us at the time, was a true visionary. 

She wore Birkenstocks before they were mainstream and demanded white American from the deli man, citing formaldehyde as one of the ingredients in artificially colored cheeses.

She added tofu to stews and sauces before anyone knew what it was and, to my horror, removed every vestige of non-whole grain bread from the enamel breadboxes of my youth, rendering me the sole diner at the Shallow Junior High lunch table who could not make (and "flick") tiny little balls of their Wonder Bread sandwiches. At the time, none of these things pleased me.

...not in my house it didn't.

It is possible that the desire for Cheetos is a result of a junk food deprived youth. Not that I didn't get fun stuff, too...there were salty lunch meats (until Mommy read about nitrates and nitrates) and instead of Fluffernutter sandwiches -- which I desired with the fire of a thousand suns -- there was home baking, so delicious that I dream about it to this day. 

Truth be told, I still want
one of these.

Pizza was exempt from any rules. This was smart on my mother's part because I would have left home sooner than be cut off from the single most wonderful and delicious thing ever invented.

That woman was so ahead of the damn curve that she used to mix skim milk equally with whole, thus creating her own version of a reduced fat milk. I, literally, thought she was psychotic at the time. Then a few years later, "Light and Lively" reduced fat milk hit the shelves and her status as legend was cemented.

The other day I was in CVS when the local high school had recently been dismissed and watched a group of rowdy teens lining up to buy their snacks. Their choices consisted exclusively of glowing neon-colored beverages, chips and other assorted junk. I had to turn away...partially out of desire to grab and inhale their candy without even unwrapping it but partly from disgust at those very same choices.

I couldn't help but wonder what great ideas and clever thoughts they would not have as a result of the brain-stultifying crap they were about to consume.

My nutritionally precocious and well-informed mother would have certainly had a juicer. She would have been stuffing wheat grass and ginseng root into it every morning and I think of her as I prepare my morning's array of fresh veggies for their journey through the gnashing teeth of my Breville Juiceman.

I dedicate today (and everyday's) good eating to her.


Cheeto anyone?

* The boy who wanted my "Blueberries for Sal" was Montgomery Evans.

My Grouchiest Post Ever

I have no official statistics to prove this...just extra pounds of emotional eating on my ass and a deathly, waxy pallor but I think the past winter had to have been one of the grayest I have experienced in a long time.

I never used to mind the darker, colder months until I began experiencing blue moods during the short days of winter. Now in my fifties, I find that I struggle during hibernation--envious of members of the animal kingdom snugly dozing in their dens and caves while I am forced to face the bright lights of the supermarket or the cheerful smiles of the girls at the dry cleaner.

Spring is but a few days old and the grayness continues. Punctuated by a few mornings of bright sun, the clouds roll in by midday and my mood, temporarily burgeoned, crashes into shards by the time Dr. Phil comes on.

Between his array of dysfunctional, traumatized zombies and Dr. Oz, at four, warning me about my imminent death based on a "choose one from column A and two from column B" menu of bad lifestyle choices, by the time Seth comes home, I am usually hiding in a closet with some cheese and Gregorian chants on my iPod.

Fooled ya....I don't have an iPod. I have no need for one since I am somewhat ear bud phobic and would rather suck on Buzzy's tail than spend five minutes uploading, downloading, backloading or offroading my songs onto a little white thing that looks like an electronic suppository.

But back to the weather....

...discussing the merits of
artisanal cheese.

As an unashamed devotee of Grey's Anatomy, I learned that I could not survive the Pacific Northwest. But, between all the damn fake rain on that show, I did come to understand the evolution of hipsters from a sociological standpoint...so all those hours of inert TV viewing cannot be called a waste.

I now believe that their stupid fashion choices arose from the depressing color of the sky out there (yeah, I know you can enjoy a culturally stimulating urban environment while being only five minutes away from nature and I do not care) and skinny jeans are clearly a manifestation of the need to self-punish.

So are those big glasses, crocheted hats and the need for latte after latte since they must over-caffeinate significantly to so much as unfurl their hemp yoga mats every morning.

Leather wristband+ skinny
jeans=oy vey.

I am making the crass and, likely, incorrect assumption that the hipster movement stemmed from out there but based on my own morning's ennui, I will not be doing the proper research on the migratory patterns of the hipster-erectus.

What I do know about hipsters is that they are killing my very own hometown of Brooklyn, New York by making previously unpleasant neighborhoods fashionable and vibrant. Mind your own business, hipsters, why dontcha?

Drank too much coffee and could not
get skinny jeans down in time....oops.

Okay, so far in this post, I have crapped on the weather, iPods, the Pacific Northwest and hipsters. My work here is done... for now. Have a great day despite the continued lack of sunshine.

There Will be Blood

I am not oblivious to how mundane my blog posts can be. The reason for this is, obviously, that my life, itself, is very mundane but -- keeping in mind that we inhabit a world fraught with chaos and tragedy -- I thankfully embrace the mundane and hope to never become acquainted with its more challenging siblings on the wheel of life. In this spirit, I present yet another journey into the mundane…with a slight twist, of course.

Today's episode involves a blister pack of four small tubes of hand cream. 

I enjoy keeping such tubes at various strategic locations throughout my home...beside my bed, by the computer, on the kitchen window sill and in the car so I can frequently slather up to stave off the discomfort of what I refer to as "winter hand.” Armed with a free one day pass and the inability to resist the lure of a new retail environment, I put my legendary devotion to Costco aside and purchased this hand cream at the new BJs in the area.

It's catnip to me.

Once home, after wrestling the giant pack of paper towels into the garage and body-slamming the enormous bag of frozen blueberries into the freezer, I happily envisioned how soft my hands would soon be and began the process of attempting to open the blister pack so I could cream up as well as distribute the tubes to their appointed stations.

I know my way around blister packs. 

Pretty sure I could break in without any tools, I attempted to shove a finger between the cardboard and the plastic but this packaging immediately revealed that it had been designed by a sadist. I soon understood that I needed something sharper than my finger. 

The small kitchen knife I chose did me no good since when, after several tries which evolved from restrained manipulation to wild hacking, I realized that a slip would surely sever an artery somewhere in my body.  Moving on to a pair of scissors, I was also becoming very angry--unable to comprehend the reasoning behind such resistant packaging. It was only hand cream, not uranium. Who were they trying to keep out?

My scissors (surprise!) were pretty dull and it took many tries to pierce the tough plastic shell. The cardboard was also amazingly strong and, as I became more exhausted and my attempts were getting more and more careless, the tip of the scissor suddenly slipped and  -- in a neat "v" --  plunged into my right knuckle.

Completely ignoring the certainty that I needed stitches, recalling that I’d recently had a tetanus shot and entertaining thoughts of litigious vengeance, I continued to stab away at the blister pack until I finally gouged an opening into the plastic which was now getting slippery from blood. 

Once in, I decided it was time to try to stop the bleeding but the wound was pretty deep so, regardless of several paper towel (thank goodness there were so many rolls now in the garage) tourniquets, it continued to bleed off and on for several hours. 

When Seth got home, I greeted him with my hand in the air as I employed gravity instead of modern medicine only to have him say, “What now?” as this is my typical post hand injury pose. It’s no secret in the family that I am a danger to myself but since I was still conscious, he knew it wasn’t that bad.

The irony is that I didn't even want Aquaphor (way too greasy)! I wanted Eucerin (nice and creamy) but must have been confused by the bright lights and ambient Muzak (lots of Motown) of the brand new store. I am now stuck with four tubes of the wrong hand cream, a painful cut and hands that are still very chapped. But, mundanity be damned, I now can suggest a fool-proof way to transport uranium to the US government should the need arise.

Hide and Seek

Cleo says: "I
don't care."

Have you heard that an archeologist in Greece recently found the bones of Cleopatra's murdered half sister?

I had no idea they were missing but am very happy for him.

Unfortunately, while he was making a name for himself in Greece, I could find neither a bottle opener nor a pencil sharpener back here at home.

I had to resort to what my great aunt Margaret used to do for me when I was very little and needed my pencil sharpened.

If only.

C'mon, you remember. We all had a great aunt who did this...with a weird little knife pulled from a pocket she would savagely carve away the wood around the point thus creating a hideous atrocity that no longer looked like a pencil, much less had a usable or sharp point.

Only cavemen would have used that pencil, yet Margaret would hand it to me and then go back to washing clothes on a washboard in the sink.

The poor pencil, mangled by Margaret's knife, had been transformed into a freak and would eventually languish -- a relic of madness -- in the bottom of the kitchen junk drawer never to be heard from again.

Disfiguring a pencil was easier than opening my Mike's Hard Lemonade (flavor of berry) later that same day.

I tried the edge of a spoon, then the edge of the counter, and then a butter knife. I tried yelling at the cap but that got me nowhere and even tried my teeth, immediately grasping the certainty that thousands of dollars of dental work awaited if I didn't stop.

The best flavor, no?

I never got the Mike's open and it sits, abandoned and skunky, on the coffee table by the TV.

Wouldn't you agree that there are certain items that, no matter how many one hoards, can never be found when needed?

These include scissors, nail clippers, flash lights and those awful lighter thingies that will only work if you twirl a wheel with one finger while reciting a page from the Bhagavad Gita (in the original sanskrit) in addition to simultaneously squeezing a button as well as your own sphincter muscle....on a Wednesday...at noon.

Designed by Satan

Somewhere in this house, if I live long enough, I will find roughly 25 pairs of scissors, 75 flashlights, dozens of pencil sharpeners, several lighter thingies and over one million nail clippers.

None of us can find a nail clipper.

By then I won't be trusted to handle a scissor, won't remember what a flashlight is for, will have forgotten how to write, will have no need to light a grill because my only sustenance is Ensure sipped  through a bendy straw and will not give a damn about keeping my fingernails tidy since the day we find all these items will be the day the men in white will be coming to truss me up and take me to the home.

Thank goodness this has a flip top.

And the Mike's Hard Lemonade (flavor of berry) will still be unopened on the table by the TV.

Aunt Margaret could not do this.

The Oscars 2013: Yep, it Really was that Bad.

I never knew how much I dislike Seth MacFarlane until I endured last night's marathon 85th Academy Awards.

This face is
begging for a good slap...

Admittedly, I own a huge cardboard cut-out of one of his many original cartoon characters, Stewie, from "Family Guy" but stopped watching the show when Lois, the mom had sex with Brian, the dog. This proved too much for even me.

As for Seth, himself, MacFarlane's weirdly flat affect, despite an acceptable singing voice, lends itself more to the one dimensional universe of voice-overs as opposed to hosting a high-profile show anticipated and watched by so many.

Ewwwwww.

His endless barbed jokes, aimed at the things like race, weight, and domestic violence fell flat a) because they simply were not funny at all and b) he lacks the credentials to poke fun at A-list Hollywood because, despite his successes, he's not an A-lister, himself.

He was unable to make me laugh even though, as is my personal Oscar night tradtion, I was hopped up on Chinese food and sugar and ready to be amused. 

Willing to give him a chance, he quickly lost me during the worst opening of an Academy Awards show in memory. He also proved, that, despite the century between Abe Lincoln's actual assassination and today, it's always too soon for a joke about a murdered president. 

I love watching the Academy Awards and have a long history of making it a special night with, originally, my movie-loving mama and then whichever of my sons I could successfully bribe so it's all the more disturbing when an evening is as awful as it was last night.

Richard Gere, The Joker, Queen Latifah

Movies aside, I am always gleeful to report o the plastic surgery and cosmetic procedures which are often unveiled on the Oscars' stage. Last night was no exception: Poor Renee Zellweger was the most memorable. Clearly unable to accept a shift from her already extended ingenue status to the more mature segment of her career, she won for the evening's most unfortunate face.

Of course I know there are fewer roles for the aging actress but there comes a moment when it must be self-acknowledged. Renee, once a lovely woman, has descended into botox madness to become a shiny faced robot who can display absolutely no emotion. Last night, she appeared to be suffering from some sort of mental paralysis as well. During an award presentation, Richard Gere was both feeling her up and preventing her from falling, face first, to the floor.

There comes
a time in the career of
all beautiful women...

Catherine Zeta Jones, while eternally gorgeous, has had some recent tweaking based on my personal criteria: if you no longer look like yourself, you have been messed with. There also comes an age when women need to refrain from wearing bustiers and fishnets in public.

For those who are about to attack me, I readily admit that I reached that age about one hundred years ago yesterday and get winded while chopping onions for soup so I don't begrudge even her out-of synch lip-synching while reviving the most boring number from the musical "Chicago."

Shirley Bassey, for those of you who do not remember her smoldering recording of "Goldfinger back in the 60's, not only looked -- though definitely botoxed-out -- and sounded good while Barbra Streisand (the best surprise of the evening) appeared to have come directly from the plastic surgeon's recovery chambers.

Babsie, looking
"different."

Having recently seen her, there were definitely renovations around the under-chin area. Her fashion choice of a choker-style necklace hid the bolts in her neck and called attention to her age-inappropriate tightness. I forgive Barbra (and Cher) just about anything and was very happy to see -- and hear -- her.

What does
R-Pat see in this zombie?

What the apparently dead and disheveled Kristin Stewart lacked in energy, the anorexic and dangerously over-stimulated Kristin Chenoweth made up for in both her manic red carpet appearance as well as her song for the "losers" at the show's finale.

Anne in her apron.

Ann Hathaway dressed in a satin apron with oddly placed darts sickened me to the point where I had to hold my egg roll to my temples when, cradling her (deserved) award, she cooed, "It came true." It was a rehearsed vomit-inducing moment that almost negated her fabulous performance In Les Miserables.

The most graceful
fall ever.

As far as young actresses are concerned, I was very impressed by Jennifer Lawrence's graceful recovery from her fall as she attempted to take the stage to receive her best actress prize.

One of my own great fears is falling in public and, if that had been me, I would rolled back down the stairs and continued rolling until I crashed through the doors of the theater, out into the Hollywood twilight, never to be seen again as my momentum carried me to distant lands.

As for other highlights of the evening, there was Daniel Day Lewis' traditionally humble acceptance of his third (and record-breaking) award for best actor, Meryl Streep's matriarchal dignity and Helen Hunt's expression as the camera revealed her unabashed disgust during Seth MacFarlane's unbearable opening act. I felt your pain, Helen...and you were great in "The Sessions."

You know it's a terrible night when the abrasive and creepy Quentin Tarantino comes across, comparatively, as good-natured and likable.

My only hope is that the talented Melissa McCarthy and the post-baby Adele cornered that smartass MacFarlane in the alley behind the theater and taught him a painful lesson about about making a fat joke at the Academy Awards.

This photo is not relevant but it's just so pretty.

It Will Take You Two Minutes to Read This

Things simply do not take as long as you think they do....

Case in point: My most despised household chore, bar none, is emptying the dishwasher.

ARGHHHHHHHHHH!!!!

I'm not really sure why this is. It's a relatively innocuous event--mundane and stultifying but not more so than pulling clothes out of a dryer, de-mildewing tiles in the shower or, even, filling the dishwasher yet it fills me with ennui and despair intense enough to cause me to ignore it for days.

I am famous, within certain (very small) circles for hand washing dishes just to avoid unloading what's already in there.

Maybe it's because it involves bending. I've never been a fan of bending. Or reaching, for that matter and unloading the dishwasher involves lots of bending and reaching...also nesting crockery, handling flatware, opening and closing cabinet doors. In other words, it's a unbearable nightmare.

When Charlie still lived here, it was his job, poor thing. Once he escaped left, I would beg Seth to do it but even I cannot justify asking a man who drives the hours he does and works as hard as he does to take over a simple kitchen chore.

The good news is that after forcing myself to do it this morning, I timed it and it only took 4 minutes. I can power through 4 minutes of almost anything*, yes?

Timing things has become a new habit. Perhaps it's a sign of encroaching psychological issues, maybe even a touch of OCD but I now know that the red light I flip out about about on North Street is only 14 seconds (literally) in duration...that I only stood on line at Shop Rite yesterday for a mere 6 minutes (giving me time to thumb through the National Enquirer and carefully monitor the cellulite of the stars) and the time it took to bundle the papers for recycling was a mere 3 minutes, 17 seconds.

 

Speeding through such torture gives me more time to sit -- blood pooling in my lower extremities and increasing the likelihood of stroke -- yet laughing gleefully at such web sites as iwastesomuchtime.com** and icanhas.cheezburger.com. 

Please don't tell people this about me. It's embarrassing.

*except waterboarding
**Thanks to Stajie for recently introducing me to this brilliant site.

Laissez Les Bon Temps Rouler Means Do Not Eat the Fried Butter Balls!

It's Mardi Gras and I am out raising hell, so please accept this timely archived post in honor of today's traditional festivities...

I used to think I had already come face to face with the killer sandwich of all time.

I used to think of it as the widowmaker, the equalizer, the King of the Sandwich World that would clog your arteries in record time but allow you to die with a smile.

I was wrong.

Ironically, since today is Mardi Gras, it was in the French Quarter of New Orleans where I was lucky enough to be introduced to the muffaletta. I can feel my rings getting tight at the mere mention of its name.....

The muffaletta, a delicious and exotic creation invented by people far greater than ourselves, sounds like what it is: a combination of something to be eaten and something to wear -- in this case, a blood pressure cuff and a heart monitor.

Imagine several layers of succulent Italian meats and cheeses piled atop a thick, salty layer of olive salad and packed under the sheltering dome of a huge round loaf, cut into quarters and intended for four. Whew!

Four? I think not.

My son Charlie and I, legendary aficionados of all things intended for four but only enough for two, stared at one another in disbelief as the oil trickled down our chins and the sodium infused our blood streams. "Does something this good really exist or are we dreaming?"

I thought this sandwich was the grand daddy of all heart-stoppers until clicking around on the Food Channel yesterday and coming face to face with Paula Deen, the white-maned grande dame of death by food, and a sandwich she'd made to share with people she wants to kill lady friends at brunch.

Someone should look for those women because, if still alive, they are in immediate need of  defibrulators.

Happy or homicidal?

Innocently dubbed the "Brunch Burger," picture a juicy hamburger topped by a fried egg and bacon and squeezed between two Krispy Kreme glazed donuts. If you are still able to stand without leaning on the shoulder of a paramedic for support, then you have not actually visualized this tower of calories, fat and cholesterol. There is risk in even gazing upon its image in a photograph.

Honestly, is Paula kidding?

No one loves salty and sweet more than I. I sniff PayDay candy bars like fine cigars at the check-out counter and dip pretzel rods into chocolate, pretending to give them as gifts at holiday time. I even loved the recent duet between Shakira and Beyonce but this sandwich made me tremble...and not in a good way.

Paula's brunch menu was topped off by a yogurt and fruit parfait meant solely to distract us from the fact that a Cardiovascular SWAT team, armed with pacemakers and led by Doctor OZ, was surrounding her home in Savannah just as the credits were starting to roll.

Apparently Paula has decided to cut to the chase. Why bother sneaking a pound of butter into a recipe when you can simply kill us with a sandwich?

It gets worse.

Paula also offers a recipe for deep fried butter balls.

The reviews for recipes on the Food Network's website is one of the last bastion's of civility on the internet. Cooks and foodies convene in cyber space to cheerfully discuss their pursuits in the kitchen.Or, so I thought.

This time there was in-fighting and hostility among the reviewers.The comments swung from accusations that attempted to re-polarize the northern and southern portions of the United States as well as some barely coherent rants which I blame on the effect of the butter balls, themselves.

How could anyone think straight after popping a few of those babies?

Since it's Mardi Gras today, I want to send a special shout-out to my Louisiana family and friends who all have Ph.D.s in  personality, charisma and hospitality. Not to mention good looks. We miss you and hope to see you before the muffalettas get us.  

To all my readers: Go out and eat something you might not normally enjoy on a regular day. If you're not lucky enough to be down in New Orleans today, buy the ingredients for a muffaletta and make one yourself. Or, head to Krispy Kreme but don't tell me what you do with the doughnuts you buy. 

Afterwards, in honor of the traditions of the Crescent City, stand by your front window and expose yourselves to the neighborhood. When the police show up, simply remind them that it's Mardi Gras today.

But stay away from fried butter balls. Or Dr. Oz and the SWAT team may show up at your door and I've heard that he never, ever changes those scrubs he we