Foil Turkey

If my digital camera didn't always pull that Taxi Driver "You talkin' to me?" routine every time I tried to use it, I would use it tonight. I would make a tinfoil heart-bosom and post it here just to prove that no, alas, it was not me who came up with that brilliant foil turkey in the Wondertime Thanksgiving leftovers piece. I would also like to say that I've written about death and heartache and grief and paralyzing anxiety for 250 years now, and never have I gotten so many emails before as I have about the turkey soup. Go figure. You all like yourselves some turkey soup. I'm glad. (Somewhere online is a newspaper article where I am quoted talking about those very same leftovers, and I sound like a finalist in the World's Biggest Jew contest. "Better you should. . . " I start every sentence. "You don't know from . . . ?" I ask. "Oy," I say.)

Oy.

New Wondertime columns are here and here. And oh, right, I nearly forgot to tell you the name of that poet! Here--lean in close and I'll whisper it in your ear. What? You couldn't hear that? What? You don't want to contribute to my health insurance fund after I get fired from my job? Really, what could I have been thinking?

Oy.

I am not even getting to the part about the condo, which will have to wait until next week. But yes, I live in a condo that is also a cabin in the woods. Little House on the Prairie, but, you know, with the prairie mown by a management company.

I hope your Thanksgivings were full of thanks.

xo

I'd been wondering about that saying!

from Wikipedia: "Quince juice from organic farming is available in Germany (where quince is called "quitte") and its pleasant taste mixes well with other fruit juices. This is where the saying 'A quince for you, a quince for me, quinces we shall eat,' comes from."

New wondertime post here.

Also, remember those Thanksgiving recipes I was steaming over in July? They're here too. And if you think I'm making it all again now, for the actual real holiday, well, quinces we shall eat, if you know what I'm saying.

The Annual Pinata Episode


Okay, so there it is. Are you disappointed that it's so G-rated? I know. I'm sorry. Don't worry--plenty of the attending parents still tease me, year after year, about the boobyata. This year's model was--how shall I put this?--kind of soft. The kids had to bash the heck out it before any treats could be lured damply from its recesses. And even though I'd put the treats in bags to mitigate all that inevitable Lord-of-the-Fliesing after them? All the bags had broken open. On account of the damp bashing. Oy.

New wondertime columns are here and here.

When I called my parents last night, my dad had just been reading my latest column and he said lovingly, "You know, you really are kind of a downer." And that's true. I really am. Which is weird, because I swear I'm nearly pathologically cheerful in my actual daily life. Go figure.

Thank you again for all your honest weighing in on that gymnastics column. I appreciate your saying that you've felt that way and your saying that you've been the exhausted teacher and your saying that you worry you'd be judged in your fancy jeans. Which you so wouldn't be--I promise you that.

xo Catherine