12/31/03’s illustrious band:

Moose Milk

Brought to you by Grandpa Max.

A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away (South Dakota), a New Year’s Eve party was held in an isolated cabin. The revels were great but the weather was not, and come New Year’s Day, those who had stayed overnight, including my Grandpa Max, found themselves snowed in.

The stranded celebrants looked groggily around for a little breakfast, but all they found were leftovers from the night before. One of the men, possibly my grandfather, got the bright idea of mixing the dregs together.

“You cannot possibly be serious,” someone undoubtedly protested.

“That sounds disgusting,” someone else surely said.

“Don’t knock it ‘til you try it,” said maybe my Grandpa Max.

And so a blender was filled with crème de cacao, vodka, coffee and ice cream. The bartender sipped the concoction, appreciating its hair-of-the-dog effect, and offered it around. One by one his companions sampled it and grudgingly proclaimed it not bad.

“What do you call this stuff?” one asked.

“Uh . . . moose milk,” the creator replied.

And thus, a tradition was born.

Grandpa passed to his children, including my Dad, the custom of holding a moose milk party on New Year’s Day. The host served moose milk (the exact formula remains a family secret) and guests brought leftover munchies from New Year’s Eve. Dad and Mom carried on this tradition throughout my childhood, delighting guests with a serendipitous variety of snacks and their children with “kids’ moose milk,” or chocolate shakes. The annual moose milk party became very popular -- and, after a while, too big and expensive to host. Eventually, and with some regret, Dad hung up his apron.

As soon as he did, however, a wealthier acquaintance announced a new moose milk event. He hired professional bartenders and caterers instead of sticking with the leftover theme, and the gathering lost its feeling of thrown-together camaraderie. People began dressing up for it and leaving the kids at home. My parents never attended the hijacked version of the party, but people who did assured them that the original was better.

Don’t despair, though. I think my Uncle Tom, Dad’s brother, still milks a moose now and then. And a few friends and descendants have been authorized by Dad to serve moose milk, which they do in small numbers, keeping the true spirit of the tradition alive.

So have some fun bidding farewell to 2003 and kicking 2004 off right. Happy New Year!

Today around the world: December 31 is New Year’s Eve across the globe. In Japan, it’s also Omisoka, a time when the family gathers to get ready to celebrate the new year. They clean house (susu harai), put things in order and decorate. In the evening they have toshikoshi soba (buckwheat noodles) and then go to temple to make their wishes known to Buddhist or Shinto divinities. At midnight, in all Buddhist temples, the bell (bonsho) is rung 108 times to announce the new year.

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12/30/03’s illustrious band:

TANSTAAFL

Brought to you by author Robert Heinlein in his sci-fi classic The Moon is a Harsh Mistress. It’s an acronym for “There Ain't No Such Thing As A Free Lunch.”

That was Heinlein’s way of saying that you have to pay the piper; you don’t get something for nothing. It’s the social version of Newton’s Third Law of Motion, which states, “For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction.”

I haven’t actually read Moon, which is a dangerous admission for a sci-fi nerd like me. However, I’ve read several of Heinlein’s other novels and pronounce them engaging, but irritating. Stranger in a Strange Land is especially good; it’s the story of a man born and raised on Mars who comes to Earth as an adult and has to learn what it means to be human. Or try to, anyway. He gives to the world freely of his considerable gifts, but rather than simply accepting his boundless love and generosity, the world exacts a price.

Anyway. I don’t have anything more interesting than that to say today; I just like muttering tanstaafl. I suppose I could muse upon the theme of end-of-year reflection and giving something back for what we’ve been given, etc., but really, I just geeked out there for a minute.

Today around the world: December 30 is Rizal Day in the Philippines.

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12/29/03’s illustrious band:

Ninnyhammer

Brought to you by A Word A Day (www.wordsmith.org).

No, a ninnyhammer is not a weapon used to bludgeon stupid people. We have Jerry Springer and his folding chairs for that. Nor is it the name of a role-playing game like Warhammer. A ninnyhammer is the dipstick him- or herself. AWAD isn’t sure where the word originated; perhaps it’s a shortening of the word “innocent” + “hammer,” short for “hammerhead.”

I’m back from a glorious Christmas break in sunny Phoenix and feeling like a ninnyhammer myself. Too much sun -- that bright, warm thing in the sky that you northerners saw a lot less of than I did -- will do that to a person. What, me rub it in? You betcha! I spent Christmas Day lounging on a patio in shorts and a T-shirt while Chef Jeff grilled dinner, and you didn’t. Nyah nyah nyah.

This year Mother Media and I joined Sister-san and the aforementioned Chef at their new desert abode for Christmas. It was a brief visit filled with food (including tributary cookies!) and fun. Highlights:

• The Desert Botanical Garden (www.dbg.org). I was astonished by the amount and variety of plant life native to the southwestern desert. Forty kazillion varieties, to be more or less precise. From the familiar saguaro and barrel cacti to exotic octopus cacti and ocotillos, the grounds were jam-packed with succulents and delicate blooms. The garden provided a great excuse to walk around outside in shirtsleeves just a couple days before Christmas.

  
  

• Dress rehearsal at one of Chef Jeff’s theaters. Jeff had provided lighting design for a locally written play and snuck us into a dress rehearsal, where we saw some good acting and a bad wig. The lighting, of course, was magnificent. I really ought to go to the theater more often.

  
  

• Thunder on the mountain. Christmas Eve morning found me on the back of a Harley, hair flying in the breeze. Jealous yet? You should be. Phoenix lies in the basin of the Salt River and is ringed by mountains. Aptly named South Mountain lies just a few miles south of la Casa Marron (the Brown House), so I got a ride to the top.

  
  According to the web site, “At over 16,000 acres, South Mountain Park/Preserve often is referred to as the largest municipal park in the country. It boasts 58 miles of trails for horseback riding, hiking and mountain biking for all ability levels skills.”

  
  Though I haven’t spent much time on motorcycles, I quite enjoyed the trip. The weather was perfect, traffic was light, and the view was spectacular. Almost made me want to get a tattoo. (Just kidding, Mom.)

  
  

• Indoor/outdoor holiness. We found a local church to attend on Christmas Eve. The service was 90 percent music, with the hand bell choir providing an unexpected treat. Like most buildings in that part of the country, the church had plenty of outdoor “rooms,” including a veranda and a courtyard, to supplement its indoor space. We gathered around the campfire in the courtyard to light candles and sing Silent Night. The pastor dismissed us with a reminder to “let the light of Christ shine in your hearts -- but leave the candles here.” What, no open flames in the car?

  
  

• Giant glowing camels. After church, to uphold the tradition of looking at lights on Christmas Eve, we drove to nearby Mesa, where the Mormon church’s Arizona Temple Visitors’ Center had assembled a display of more than 600,000 lights. Wow! What a sight! We saw palm trees and cacti crusted with lights, fountains made of lights, and Nativity scenes accented with lights (and the recorded voice of James Earl Jones). The best part, however, was the trio of double-life-size camels, with attendant wise men, making their way across the arid acreage in front of the buildings. They certainly put those wire-frame lawn deer to shame.

  
  

• Bling bling. I got a lot of great gifts this year, as usual more than I deserve. Among my favorites was a deck of slang flashcards from Sister-san. (You can find them at www.knockknock.biz.) Thanks to these delightfully illustrated cards, I’m developing some mad vocabulary skills. I now have the proper terms to describe, for instance, the silver/hematite bling Mother Media scored me from her killer jewelry party (really ups my steelo) and the hella janky ceramic kitties I get as a joke gift year after year. Props to my homegirl for some way dope shopping.

  
  

So that’s the D.L. on my tight trip south. Yo, y’all, this blog dawg’s gotta bounce. Keep it real. Don’t do anything wack and don’t be a ninnyhammer. Peace. Word. Out.

Today around the world: December 29 is the birthday of His Majesty King Gyanendra Bir Bikram Shah in Nepal (home of Mt. Everest).

AND for those who have inquired about this year’s holiday missive, it’s in the works, but I’m making no promises regarding a delivery date. Thanks for asking, though.

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12/19/03’s illustrious band:

Puppy Break

Brought to you by Larry and his puppy Niko.

Niko is a six-month-old long-haired dachshund. Larry, a colleague of mine, brought Niko to Media Headquarters for a socialization visit this morning. Word spread like wildfire: “There’s a puppy in the art department!� And suddenly everyone had to take a break and go get his or her hands sniffed and licked.

It’s the general consensus around MHQ that every department ought to have a pet, a mascot. Most of us would love to have an office dog or cat around to hold and pat and play with -- and, in certain areas, to send after the mice that feed on food left in desk drawers. Scientific studies have consistently shown that interacting with pets is a great stress reducer, so I’m sure having a few around would increase productivity. In these tough economic times, a office dog might be the only employee benefit the company can afford.

Plus, they’re nice and soft.

That’s it for today. I’m away all next week and probably won’t be blogging, so if I don’t see you, enjoy the holidays! Band naming is likely to resume on Monday, December 29.

Today around the world: December 19 is Separation Day on the tiny Caribbean island of Anguilla, a U.K. dependency. The third week in December is also Human Rights Week (United Nations) and International Language Week (International Society of Friendship & Goodwill). So be nice to people in every language you know.

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12/18/03’s illustrious band:

Adventists Parking

Brought to you by the author of Practical Awareness, Experiences and Ideas, a strange little book I received as a gag gift. Muchas gracias, Senor Editor.

According to the back cover, the author of this tome, a gentleman named Clyde, “enjoys a vigorous retirement, pursuing many hobbies from home maintenance to gardening, from plumbing to classical music theory, and extensive Bible study in both English and French, not to mention writing songs and books. He pursues his myriad interests from his home in Brooklyn.�

The book consists of 13 chapters, and Clyde has filled each with a collection of random thoughts and convoluted grammar. From what I can gather from the preface, Clyde has a wealth of wisdom about everyday life that he wants to preserve for posterity. The thing is, he never says, “You should do it this way� or “The best method of dealing with that is like so.� Instead, he tells a little story about something he did one time, and you’re left to draw your own conclusions. The stories don’t have plots or morals, just one guy’s bemusing ideas.

For instance, in the chapter on saving and lending money, the following paragraph appears:

“I was delighted to hear of a young man in the thriving computer skills employment who decided not to rest on his laurels but to take a course in auto repairs, in order that he might have backup if his (now apparently secure) field should fail. I never knew that such ‘sure-footed donkeys’ existed at such an early age, and in these times. We can be sure that when one person has an idea, it spreads. I do not believe that many people are individualistic.�

I’m not sure how this relates to saving and lending money. Clyde also notes, in the chapter on dealing with mice and rats, “My short booklet, ‘Self-improving Triumph over Diabetes, Prostate Problem, and More,’ a motivational work, included a short chapter on this topic.� Nice attempt at cross-promoting the other book, I guess, but what does his prostate have to do with mice and rats? Do I really want to know?

As for the Adventists parking, Clyde observes that in his neighborhood, at least, Adventist Church members seem to be the most considerate in parking their cars. He’s not speaking preferentially of this one religion, he assures us, just passing along a noteworthy fact.

It would be very easy to make fun of Clyde. In fact, I already have. But I’ll bet it would be just as easy for Clyde to make fun of my blog, because he knows as little about my motivations for writing as I do about his. Clyde was eager enough to see his ideas in print that he fell prey to a vanity press and paid to get his book published rather than being paid for it. There but for the grace of God go I, because I want to publish books, too.

And Clyde beat me to it. So maybe I should be like the Adventist parkers and considerately let him be.

Today around the world: December 18 is Republic Day in Niger, which held its first free elections 10 years ago. Despite being one of the hottest countries in the world, Niger boasts a population of over 11 million people. They’re called Nigeriens, not to be confused with Nigerians from neighboring Nigeria.

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12/16/03’s illustrious band:

Jingle Smells

Brought to you by Sister-san, who coined this phrase in response to my musings about the aroma of fresh-baked tributary (gingersnap) cookies.

Odors are among the most powerful memory triggers. This time of year is full of different smells, and each one reminds me of something different. The smell of gingerbread means “home for the holidays,” because it’s usually at Mother Media’s house that the famous cookies (and numerous other goodies) are baked. Peppermint means excitement, because it’s at holiday time that kids get candy canes from downtown merchants and as school treats. If people are handing out free candy canes, you know parties and presents are just around the corner.

The smell of evergreen means coziness. Mature pine trees lined our sloping back yard all the years I was growing up. Neighborhood kids and Girl Scout troops slid our sleds under them between doses of hot chocolate and marshmallows at the marker-marred kitchen table. Mom used their boughs to decorate the house for Christmas.

There were several years when our family trekked into the Black Hills to harvest our own Christmas tree and rode home in Dad’s Jimmy with sticky sap on our mittens, fragrant in the turned-up heat. Sometimes in the fall we’d go into the Hills, too, to gather firewood for the old stove in the basement that helped heat the house. I seldom minded hauling and splitting and stacking the logs because it was good work in the crisp air, and we had baloney sandwiches on white bread to take for our lunch.

When I inhale fresh, clean snow on a sunny winter day, I always think of skiing. I spent many a winter Sunday on the slopes of Deer Mountain, racing headlong downhill, not slowing until the last moment, when I would turn my skis, feet together, and carve a huge roostertail of snow from the trail. Or, having mastered the art of complete turns, I’d do elegant 360s all the way down the hill, leaving curlicue tracks in my wake.

We always carried a trail mix of peanuts and raisins and M&Ms in our coat pockets for the long rides up the chairlift, swaying high above the slope, but at noon we’d clomp inside in our stiff boots to eat in the chalet cafeteria. We packed our own as often as not, but the smell of french fries still pervaded every lunchtime. Skiing was always exhilarating, always fun, so fresh snow smells like fun.

Right now, I can smell chocolate because someone just brewed a fresh cup of cocoa. And that reminds me, it’s been at least an hour since my last dose. Gotta go!

Today around the world: December 16, 1773 (230 years ago), is the anniversary of the Boston Tea Party. The Sons of Liberty, led by Samuel Adams (the revolutionary leader, not the tasty malt beverage) dumped tons of British tea into Boston Harbor to protest taxation policies of the British government.

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12/15/03’s illustrious band:

Mystery Gifts

Brought to you by the closet in the spare bedroom at Sensational Acres.

A week or two ago, I went pawing through my closets in search of Christmas lights to drape over my hapless ficus. The lights were buried because, although this year marks my fourth Yuletide at Sensational Acres, it’s the first year I’ve bothered to decorate. I’m always away for this holiday, and I don’t like a lot of frou-frou trappings in my home, so I haven’t bothered to deck the halls in previous years.

This time, however, since I already had a tree in place, I decided to put something on it. In the process of digging out the lights and a few other items, I came across a box of miscellaneous junk left over from when I moved. There, amongst unopened cans of Silly String and some plastic harmonicas, were three wrapped Christmas gifts.

The recipients’ names clearly had come from the drawing of names on Mother Media’s side of the family; it was the givers’ names that gave me pause. My own appeared on one tag -- but my ex-husband’s appeared on the other two. That makes the gifts at least four years old, because 1999 was the last time he was considered part of the family.

So what’s in the packages? I have no idea. And why didn’t we send them before the turn of the century? That one’s easier to answer: sloth. I can’t blame the ex for that, either. Despite his name on the tags, it’s clear that I was the one who wrapped the packages. The tags are in my handwriting, for one thing. The lumpy corners and excessive use of tape are dead giveaways as well; gift wrapping is a skill I never quite mastered. I would have been in charge of the mailing, too, since (A) the recipients were my relatives, not his and (B) I was in charge of all the mailing, not just at Christmas time. So it’s my fault those presents are still present, unpresented.

That’s all changing this week, though. I was a busy little elf over the weekend and got all my wrapping done (thank goodness for gift bags!). Those dusty old parcels are now in boxes destined for the post office, which I will visit over tomorrow’s lunch hour. I’m curious to know what’s inside, since I’ve long since forgotten, so I hope the recipients will let me know. Perhaps this qualifies as one of the “sacred mysteries” of the season.

And speaking of the season of giving, here’s an easy way to make life a little easier for someone else. Campbell’s is donating a can of soup to the needy for every person that goes to the web site and votes for his or her favorite NFL team. Visit the link below; the button is right there on the front page. You won’t be asked for your name or other identifying information. It will only take a few seconds of your time to fill some empty tummies with warm soup this winter. Spread the word.

http://www.chunky.com/click_for_cans.asp

You don't have to love football to do this -- just click on a helmet. The purple one with the painted-on horns is always a nice choice.

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12/09/03’s illustrious band:

Gingerly

Brought to you by more holiday confections. Yesterday, candy canes. Today, gingerbread.

I don’t think anything else in the world smells as marvelous as warm gingerbread. Whether in the form of moist, fluffy cake -- with raisins, of course -- or dense, spicy g-people with icing mittens, gingerbread is the aroma that jingles my bells the most.

Gingerbread is a family tradition. Sister-san has a diverse staff of gingerbread people who come out in force to decorate her house each Christmas. I enjoy baking tributary cookies from a recipe handed down from our grandparents’ bakery. Tributary cookies are a softer, chewier version of gingersnaps that get their name from the network of cracks that spread on their surfaces as they expand during baking, like a map of rivers and tributaries.

No Christmas is complete until I’ve baked a batch of tributaries, eating at least half a dozen raw. Mother Media is often kind enough to mix and chill the batter before I get to her house, so I just do the fun part: rolling balls of dough in sugar and popping them into the oven -- and then into my mouth along with a swig of cold milk. (Take-home tribs warmed for a few seconds in the microwave are almost as good.) Since tributary cookies were a special favorite of Dad’s, I always think of him when I have one. Or two.

Today around the world: December 9 is Constitution Day in the Northern Mariana Islands (a commonwealth in political union with the U.S.) and Independence Day in Tanzania (a county in eastern Africa bordering the Indian Ocean; famed Mt. Kilimanjaro provides its highest point).

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12/08/03’s illustrious band:

Citizen Cane

Brought to you by the official beginning of Candy Cane Season, which I proclaim to be today.

Candy Cane Season not like Wabbit Season or Duck Season, wherein people in funny hats run around the countryside trying to shoot things. Rather, it’s that time of year when I, possibly wearing a funny hat, pursue incarnations of peppermint through the land. From Schwann’s seasonally available Peppermint Stick ice cream to Luna’s new Chocolate Peppermint Stick SPF 15 lip balm to the striped treasures themselves, no mint is safe. No peppermint, that is. Whoever thought flavoring candy canes with spearmint or, worse, wintergreen, ought to be ashamed of him- or herself.

I love peppermint. I intentionally keep my consumption of it (except in toothpaste form) to a minimum throughout the rest of the year to heighten the wintertime enjoyment. But a few weeks before Christmas, I throw caution to the wind and start crunching. Starlight mints and peppermint bark are terrific, of course, but I have a special fondness for candy canes. They make dandy decorations for the umbrella tree in my office (thanks, Garden Doctor Skeeter!), or for garlands, or for strands of lights.

And they’re the most fun to eat of all the candies. ‘Fess up, now: Doesn’t everybody enjoy slurping the red stripes off the white cane, sucking the end to a point and poking people with it? Don’t you try to see how thin and sharp you can make the end before it breaks off and stabs you in the tongue? Or how about the problem of when you’ve eaten the whole stem of the cane and are down to only the U-shaped curve, with half of it in your mouth and half dragging across your upper lip? Haven’t we all made the mistake of peeling the plastic wrapping back only part of the way, then getting our fingers hopelessly sticky as we try to tear the syrupy film the rest of the way off? Am I the only one who has suffered the lethal combination of sticky cane, high wind and long hair? Or sticky cane and friendly cat?

The scent of peppermint stimulates the senses, helping us stay awake when we’d like to hibernate. If you’ve spent too much time indulging in sausage-and-cheese hors d’oeuvres, lutefisk pate or eggnog, the humble candy cane steps in as a festive breath mint. Candy canes are crutches for getting through the long, dark days of December, and I, for one, intend to lean heavily on my stash. Starting today.

In addition to being the Candy Cane Season Opener, December 8 is also Bodhi Day. On Bodhi Day, a.k.a. Rohatsu, Buddhists celebrate the day in 596 B.C. when the Buddha achieved enlightenment. Judging by his fat belly, happy smile and perky attitude, Buddha was no stranger to the charms of the candy cane.

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12/04/03’s illustrious band:

Reindeer Food

Brought to you by holiday traditions old and new.

At least half the comfort and joy of the holiday season comes from doing the same things we did last year, the same things we’ve always done. Ritual provides reassuring continuity, a sense of order and predictability. Some traditions are somber and reflective, like church services, while others, like our family tradition of having pizza for dinner on Christmas Eve, are just plain fun.

Since today is Thursday, which is Soup Group Day -- the day several coworkers from Media Headquarters go out for lunch together -- I thought I’d pass on another fun custom centering around good eats.

Reindeer food is a relative newcomer on the scene, at least in our family, but it seems likely to stick around for a while. Reindeer food is basically just a baggie of oatmeal (possibly with food coloring added) with a label on it, but junior celebrants love to sprinkle it on the lawn on Christmas Eve so Rudolf and friends can have an outdoor snack while Santa enjoys the milk and cookies inside. If the food is sprinkled on snow, you’ll often find on Christmas morning that it’s been scooped or licked up by hungry ruminants. Sometimes the reindeer even leave tracks or antler marks on the ground.

What makes for a cool Yule around your house?

Today around the world: December 4 is Kamolol Day, or Thanksgiving, in the Marshall Islands.

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12/03/03’s illustrious band:

Rattle Battle

Brought to you by a conversation held in the Wild West last week.

Specifically, we were gathered around the table trading stories, as usual, and for some reason the talk turned to rattlesnakes. Oh, I remember: My aunt Jo was describing how my uncle Tom, as a kid, was almost always late for dinner, and how he would begin explaining why even before he got all the way into the house. His excuses were many and varied, some more believable than others.

One night Tom claimed that he and a friend had been playing on a baseball pitcher's mound or some other slight rise in the land, and when they decided to leave, they found their hillock surrounded by rattlesnakes. Every child of the prairie knows that you absolutely do not mess with anything that rattles and coils, so they waited in terror until the sea of scales parted long enough for them to escape.

This was an imaginative tale, and the family did not believe him until he swore it was true. Finally Grandpa and Tom's older brother, my Dad, went out to where the younger boys had been. As a precaution, they took guns along. It was a good thing, too, because they ended up shooting nearly two dozen snakes between the two of them, and scared away at least as many more.

GAAAAGH!!!

Except for a brief period of interest when I was very young, too young to comprehend evil in its purest form, I have always hated snakes. Now I know why: It's genetic. Dad hated the awful things all his life, and Mother Media is none to fond of them, either. Even a harmless garter is enough to make me levitate. Intellectually, I know that most snakes are not interested in attacking me and injecting me with venom that would make my flesh swell, blacken and eventually putrify; they just want to get away. But that doesn't matter. They have no legs, so the way they move just creeps me out.

The little buggers aren't just creepy, they're sneaky, too. The Plains states, of which my father's and my homeland is one, are full of snake stories. For instance, Dad, as a young man in a rural area, worked on local farms in the summers to earn money. One of his jobs was pitching hay bales from the field onto a trailer to be hauled to the barn. A couple times each summer, he said, some poor guy would hoist a bale and find a reptile napping beneath, angry at having its hiding place destroyed. Or, even worse, a man would lift a bale and carry it a few feet, and suddenly a snake would erupt from inside it, drop to the ground and slither away.

This, said Dad, was one of the many reasons he chose to become a pharmacist rather than a farmer.

I read a similar horror story in one of the Little House on the Prairie books. You've heard of sod houses, right? On the Great Plains, where wood was scarce, the pioneers would cut blocks of sod from the earth to build their homes -- prebaked adobe, basically.

In one of the books, the main characters arrived at their new location in the late fall and just had time to build a sod hut before the ground froze solid for the winter. Come spring, as the weather warmed the land, hibernating rattlesnakes awoke and emerged from the very walls of the house!

Sweet dreams, everybody.

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12/02/03’s illustrious band:

Emergency Meat

It’s our final monthly reading from the Book of Spam. Let us observe a moment of silence. Then, a quotation from the Spam Calendar:

“The look of the Spam luncheon meat can has changed throughout the years. The first blue and yellow cans pictured a loaf of undecorated Spam surrounded by parsley, spelling out on the front that this was ‘a new Hormel Meat’ for all the consumers that were unused to canned meats. Another early can billed Spam as ‘the meat of many uses.’

“During World War II, the cans were covered with a ‘special economy label for period of emergency’ that was blue and white only. In the 1950s, the Spam loaf was decorated with cloves, and the trademark bubble letters ballooned up to gigantic proportions, creating the can that most know and love.

“In 1997, the label typeface changed to the clean serif font that is used currently. However, the most important change came in 1998. The picture of the classic Spam loaf was replaced with the image of the savory Spamburger Hamburger that decorates the label today.”

Ah, this reminds me of a blessing I forgot to count yesterday: turkey! And turkey leftovers, such as Mother Media’s splendid White Chili, which was my main dish at lunch today. I also spied a turkey sandwich and turkey casserole. How will your Thanksgiving bird be reincarnated in coming weeks?

Today around the world: December 2 is National Day in Kyrgyzstan and United Arab Emirates, National Higher Education Day in Myanmar / Burma, Republic Day in Laos and International Day for the Abolition of Slavery (internationally).

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12/01/03’s illustrious band:

The Count

Brought to you by my recent trip to the Wild West for fun and feasting with Mother Media. Since it was a Thanksgiving trip, and it was 700 miles each way, I had plenty of time to count my blessings. Here are just a few.

• A good car. The Suave Samurai, my faithful steed, kept me warm and dry and out of the wind, and got good gas mileage to boot. It's comfortable, reliable, and cuts a dashing figure streaking across the plains.

  
  

• Books on tape. When you have to spend a couple 10-hour stretches in the car, driving through great gaps in FM radio coverage, you become very thankful for books on tape. The time passes much more quickly when you have a tireless companion along to read you a story.

  
  

• A home where the buffalo roam. A lot of people find the Midwestern landscape boring, but I don't. I could (and did) spend all day gazing across golden corn stubble silhouetted against a crisp blue sky. The undulating terrain gives rise to interesting clumps of trees and shrubs. Snow dusted over buttes is like powdered sugar on a bundt cake. And when you see the grey-weathered remnants of old houses dotting lonely hills and hollows, you can't help but wonder, What the heck were those people thinking?

  
  On this trip, I saw not only roaming buffalo (bison, actually), but also deer and antelope playing, cattle of several breeds, hardy quarter horses, rabbits, fox, wild turkeys (the kind that gobble in gullies, not the kind you drink), black-capped chickadees, hawks, and a llama. In touring my aunt and uncle's ranch, I also got to see a badger's or mountain lion's pantry and tracks in the snow that my uncle suspects belong to a coyote. Who needs the Discovery Channel?

  
  

• Cell phones. Never thought you'd hear me say that, did you? But having a cell phone along for the ride made both me and Mother Media feel better. I was able to buzz her from the road with progress reports and proof that I could call for help if needed. A cell phone also enabled us to check movie listings from a distance and decide whether to go out of our way for one.

  
  

• A comfortable office chair. Mother Media sent me home with a nice swivel chair that she wasn't using, and I gotta tell ya, it's a very welcome addition to my home office. For years I've had only straight-backed dining room chairs available, and those clearly aren't meant for long-term sitting. Now, however, I can twirl and tilt in cushioned comfort for hours on (my rear) end. Thanks, Mom!

  
  

• Health. My old hometown is full of tales of woe: who's lying and stealing, who's cheating and divorcing, who's sick and dying. Hearing all those sad stories made me enormously grateful that none of them are mine. I do my share of griping, but my life is sweet and easy compared to many, and I appreciate it.

  
  

• Family. This time out, I got to visit with relatives I hadn't seen since last Christmas or, worse, since the last family funeral. E-mail is very helpful for keeping in touch, but it's not the same as swapping stories in the kitchen, time traveling through my aunt's photos, bumping around in my uncle's pickup, high-fiving my cousin's preschooler, fingering the fine leatherwork my other cousin makes and sells in his store. It was a long way to go to look a few people in the eye, and worth every mile.

  
  

• Good parka, good boots. I appreciate the beauty of the prairie, but I fear its winds. The ceaseless gales drove many an early settler to distraction or worse, and a winter gust can suck the heat out of your body in the space of a frosty breath. I'm blessed with clunky but well insulated boots and a parka that puffs me up to twice my natural diameter, and I gave thanks for them every time I stepped outside to fill the car with gas. What I don't understand, given the vastness of the wind, is why there are so few windmills on the plains. Does anyone know?

  
  

• Crack Balls. Crack Balls are the best! Mother Media had made a batch and saved me a few, so I got to enjoy them all week long. Several friends and relatives have already tried the recipe with great success. After much serious discussion, it was decided that the next variation to try should use Nutter Butter Peanut Butter Sandwich Cookies instead of Oreos for the filling and milk chocolate or melted peanut butter chips (or both!) for the coating. Thanks again to Senor Editor and the Mighty Quinn for hooking us up!

  
  

As you can see, I've kicked off the holiday season in style. All joys great and small are welcome!

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