Hello, hello, dear readers. Brace yourselves: My son Brian is coming over for dinner tonight. He told me over the telephone that his wife Tammy made some sort of casserole (a French dish) that she’s bringing over. I told him straight away, I said, “Now that I’ve got a whole household to feed, Tammy had better get to work cooking another casserole for us. If they don’t eat, I won’t eat.” Brian said that Tammy had already made enough for everyone, but I think he was just bluffing to protect her. She’s probably down at that McDonald’s restaurant down the street from their house asking the chef if he has any extra casseroles he can sell her. I don’t even know if Tricia’s friends eat casserole. If you’re not brought up on French cooking, you might not have a taste for it.
I remember when I was your age, I bought Brian a remote control airplane. This was back before every kid had one. And what did he do? He flew it right into our neighbor Mrs. Magellan’s laundry line. How’s that for gratitude? I think her name was Mrs. Magellan, or maybe Mrs. McAllister…one of those two. Irregardless, she didn’t live there long, probably because the neighbor boy was always flying remote control airplanes into her laundry zone.
I am thinking of adding a new geological feature to my yard before the frost comes in and the ground freezes up. Perhaps a peloponnesus: not a one of my neighbors has one of those! Or maybe a piedmont might do the trick (thought it admittedly wouldn’t be nearly as glamorous). I’m going to go onto the Internet now and do some research before Brian and Tammy get here and disrupt me.
Until next time!