Category Archives: Retirement

Feeling Snarky

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    Snarky is how I feel;  you know cranky and annoyed. I am irritated and out of sorts about life’s absurdity. I am not alone, snarky is gaining popularity. Sam Champion recently used the verb to describe his conversations with former coworker, Al Roker. I never had a chat with Al or Sam, but know about snarky.

   Here are examples of what makes me snarky:

• The cost of two standard white pillowcases in Kohl’s is $49.99.
• A video pop-up blocks my recipe search for sausage on the Food Network.
•  Rug Advertisements appear on my Facebook page after shopping online for        rugs.
• My new smart phone doesn’t ring because the volume is off.
• Having my groceries triple wrapped in plastic and put in cloth bags I provided.

   I feel snarky about, Candy Crush, Linkedin, Twitter, Email and even my own WordPress blog. I am disenfranchised with social media and have been on a hiatus. Now I am getting back on that horse.

   The original word snark, a noun for animal, was the subject in Louis Carroll’s poem, “The Hunting of The Snark.” The poem categorized as nonsense, is whimsical and humorous, and I laughed out loud enjoying its absurdity. Substitute a few of today’s politicians, i.e. Chris Christy, Jeb Bush and Hilary Clinton for the Bellman, Barrister and Beaver, and things start to sound sensible because in the end,  the Snark was a Boojum. What is a Boojum? It is a tree; but in Lewis Carroll’s poem, something imagined.

   Gradually snark morphed to a verb, meaning to be critical in a rude or sarcastic way, or to find fault. In my case, it might be an emotion, but more civilized and requiring less energy.

   So in the pillowcase incident, I did not ask to see the manager or email customer service but went to Walmart and bought two quality standard cases in a cloth bag (no plastic packaging) for $5.99.

    By the way, a free copy of Lewis Carroll’s nonsense poem can be found at The Public Domain Review along with a real find; a 1933 original video of a farmer playing hand fart songs. It is a hoot.

   After reading Lewis Carroll’s poem I was inspired and wrote the following poem. It may not make sense.

. . . .  just saying

Knock Knock

“Not only that, but this way you know,
Whatever you want, you need to let go,” said the door to the floor.

“Just set yourself free? How could that be?
Tell me more, it could be a trap,” said the floor.

“It could be a trap,  and not only that,
We could be much more!
I swing from hinges on call,
Hear mysterious things about it all.
Rumor – there is a big world to explore,” said the door.

“Whatever, a floor, a room, a broom, something more;
Will I be happy as somebody else, or happy simply being myself?
Not only that, do I go it alone?” said the floor.

“I can’t tell you that, what do I know?
But I can tell you this;
You’ll hear the door slam, if you don’t come along.
Not only that,” said the door to the floor.

 

Meet Me In Fancy Gap

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Rainy_Blue_Ridge-27527Fancy Gap is a small town just off the Blue Ridge Parkway in Virginia. The name stayed in my head until I conjured up this short story

Aging & Attitude

   The thick boardroom doors to Lion Technology fly open and the boss, Leonia, the grand dame, ceremoniously joins us around the water cooler. We are on break from a strategic planning session. As head of finance, I know to shut up and let Leonia be center stage. Sales representatives, holding paper cups, listen to her important chatter. I linger for a refill as the others return to the meeting room. Leonia whispers, “John, things have changed.”

   She wears a dress of invitation; black and white stripes up and down the skirt, then across the bodice; the zipper concealed in a side seam. She drains the cup with her head thrown back, and runs her tongue full circle around her lips, “Meet me in Fancy Gap.”       

   I'm still in love with her. Memories of our get-a-way cabin go with her high heel tapping as she saunters away.

   Later in the day, I study a quarterly report conflicted, and anticipate a blind copy of an email Leonia will send to her husband, Hector, telling him her plan.

    In the past, I have reneged on my ultimatum, leave Hector or else. Leonia believes I am easy prey.  

   Sure enough, late in the afternoon a bcc copy appears saying; What time are we dining with Sandy & Bob on Sat? Have a division mtg. on Mon in Roanoke. Thought I’d leave early Sun morning for some R&R at Doe Run Cabins. Love u

   The email brings back feelings put aside.

   Once, I asked her, “Why do you cheat on him?”

   “Hector?”

   “Yes, your husband. Why are you cheating on him?”

   “The day I met Hector he wore wool slacks, a blue pin striped dress shirt, a navy sweater draped over his shoulders and loafers. A pulled together look only a model carried off, hector did.”

   I grew impatient for a real answer mesmerized by her words.

   “Is this cheating? You make me happy. When I’m happy, Hector’s happy, real happy.”

   “So we’re doing Hector a favor? You said you loved me, what about love?”

    “Love? I love everything you do.” Sex ended the conversation.

   On Sunday, the drive along the Blue Ridge Parkway in Virginia is spectacular. A combination of crimson, gold, amber and tangerine colored leaves compliment the clear blue sky. I stop in Floyd to have breakfast at the Blue Ridge Café.   

   A lively group of men occupies a white metal table near a large front window with the establishment’s name scrolled in black cursive. A waitress greets regulars with, "Good Morning," and saves the "I’m Lorie, your server," for strangers like me. A piece of gray duct-tape across the thumb section of her hand acts like a bandage to protect a cut.

   Time is frozen; it could be 1965.

   I study the menu halfheartedly and listen to the men banter.  

   Jake, a robust man with a white beard and railroad cap makes manly man noises. I imagine him scratching his head and passing gas, it is not pretty. Luther wears suspenders,and his thin curly hair is pulled back in a ponytail. Several other men's stomachs lay beneath the tabletop, threatening to tear their pants. They discuss Obama Care then move on to love.

   Luther clears his throat and says, “What negative feelings do you bring to the relationship?”

   “Are you talking about me throwing the remote at the Giants or Jane catching it?” Jake chuckles.

   “You could’ve cracked the flat screen.” Lorie comments refilling water glasses from a pitcher positioned sideways.

   “No shit, blame Manning. He fumbled the ball.”

   Lorie gives me an hope you are good tipper smile. Says, “Ready to order?”  

   Her look makes me flirt. “How’d you hurt your hand?”

   “Burned it, you know what you want?”

   I want Leonia to stop jerking me around, but do not tell Lorie, and order the Blue Ridge Everything Omelet.

   Thinking about Leonia, I flip open my smart phone, and access her email account. I send Hector an email. Subject: Miss you/Meet in Fancy Gap. Then write a seductive message about missing him. I sign it Love u, and press send. All unbeknown to Leonia. 

   It is a short drive from Floyd to Fancy Gap, MP 189 on Blue Ridge Parkway. The 2010 census counted two hundred and thirty-seven citizens in Fancy Gap. Doe Run Cabins are on Keno Road. Familiar with the area, I arrive around 2pm, and see Leonia’s car parked outside our cabin. Leonia greets me with a big hug and smile. When I tense, she says, “We’re not at Lion Technology, relax.”

  I want to know, “What’s changed?”

   Leonia takes my hand; we go inside and sit on the bed. The black granite tops in the galley kitchen, flat screen TV, and the four-poster bed made with all cotton linen are familiar.

   “It’s serious. Hector has inoperable brain cancer and is probably dying. It may not be long. We'll be together, like you want.”     

   “Probably dying? Geez.”

   She cries. I lose control. We are under the sheets making love when her cell rings.

   It is Hector. He has received my email. I squeeze my hands with apprehension, and listen to their conversation.

   “So you miss me.”

   “Terribly” Leonia gets out of bed and puts on my t-shirt juggling the cell phone.

   Hector’s laugh is hearty and robust, “Well miss me no more, I’m outside your door, knock, knock.” The sound is loud and clear.

   Leonia eyes widen in panic. She hesitates waving her arms for me to hide, then opens the cabin door.

   Hector is wearing a big smile, Ralph Lauren jeans, and Rockports. He hugs Leonia and looking over her shoulder our eyes meet. “John? John, from Lion?”

   His happy expression changes to confusion then no need for an explanation.

   “Hector, I’m sorry about your cancer, please understand.”

   “Cancer, what cancer, why are you here?”

   Later, when Leonia is unpacking she informs me. “Hector wants a divorce. It’s ironic how things work out. Why don’t we buy a cabin on Groundhog Mountain, I’ll call that realtor, what’s her name? You know, she advertises on a billboard on route 8 outside of Floyd.”

   The cicadas produce a symphony sound locals say predict tomorrow will be hot and sunny. The sun sets and stillness surrounds me, grounds me. The Blue Ridge Café Men are back in my head with Luther’s question; what negative feelings do you bring to the relationship, as I leave and close the door.  

. . . just saying

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Z is for Zigzaggery

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New Thoughts on Words

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Photography by Patrick Latter

 

Instead of writing about zucchini bread, I thought this up. It is zany….

Z is for Zigzaggery

Zig-zagging along through life

Swimming the course with zest and zeal

Then zap!

A  hand grenade is tossed in your lap

Swerve and sway, get out of the way

Make sharp turns and alterations

Zoom in the zone

Experience Zen . . . . aka; zero expectations

Duck and Dodge, or escape to other zip code destinations

Zigzaggery is not a trip to Zeeland, Zanzibar or a vacation

You are at a zoo, the zebra’s have lost their stripes and duck tape is the only salvation

Zigzaggery! 

Here on earth we call it life

. . . . just saying

l7c5645Patrick Latter’s picture, he used photography skill to create the zigzag picture at the top

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Y is for Yawn

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New Thoughts on Words

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Aging & Attitude

Conversation. . . is the art of never appearing a bore, of knowing how to say everything interestingly, to entertain with no matter what, to be charming with nothing at all  Guy de Maupassant

The Florida sun, hot and heavy on our heads and shoulders, does not dissuade us from sitting outdoors at Flagler Beachfront Winery. Late in the day, the sun will set behind the renovated “little blue building” and create shade soon. The owners Ken and Kelly planned it that way. Their tag line Come for the wine, stay for the view sums up the intent. Wine is made on site and customers buy wine by the glass or bottle, and order from a tapas menu of grilled flat breads with Brie & Prosciutto or Artichoke and tapenade, to name a few of the food choices. Select grapes from Ken’s 100 acre organic family farm in Ohio, and other vineyards around the country, are used to make their label Beachfront Wine. Ken and Kelly are working owners and a four-year old son is under foot.

Mr. Wonderful, my husband of 42 years, places our order, and we get comfortable for the view. I chat away about what I cannot remember and Mr. Wonderful yawns. A big yawn and uses both hands to cover his wide-open mouth, “I must be tired after playing golf in this heat.”

I think nothing about it and continue, picking up for his lack of participation, when he turns his head distracted by the conversation at the next table. He is not listening to a word.

“Am I a yawn? A bore.”

Yawn is an involuntary reaction to fatigue or boredom.

Since even I cannot remember what I was saying,  conclude the conversation is tedious, monotonous, humdrum, and ho-hum.

“How do you keep the music playing?”  A Tony Bennett song, creeps into my head.

What to talk about?

Weather is a safe topic, changes every day, but unless you are a meteorologist, discussing rain only takes a few minutes.

Politics, World News?  Both seem risky. That leaves us with humor.

So I say to Mr. Wonderful, “Did you remember to take the garbage out?”

….just saying

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W is for Wheels of Circumstance

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New Thoughts on Words

cityrama-tours

Aging & Attitude

In 1966, during college orientation, we were instructed to look to our left, then to our right, and told one of us would not graduate. The glaring statistic stimulated conversation. Vera, on my right, was from Long Island, and had an unfamiliar accent. She escaped from Hungary as a child and remembered running across the border grasping her mother’s hand. I was watching Betty Boop cartoons while she was chased by Russians. Her experience stayed with me and is incorporated in my fiction story, “Wheels of Circumstance”, published In Florida Writers Association Collection, Volume Four.

Wheels of Circumstance

   Mama and I press our bodies flat against the frigid ground and pray the wheels do not stop. A gloved finger to her lips tells me what I intuitively know: we are in danger, and a disturbance may reveal our presence.

   The day is crisp; the strong sun’s reflection on clean snow hinders our vision. I am a fawn watching a doe’s movement frozen by headlights, mirroring the behavior.  Mama’s fudge colored eyes wide and alert do not move while her lashes flitter. 

   The wheels stop not by choice, but by circumstance. They rotate in the mud clockwise many times. When the engine shifts gear, the wheels twirl counterclockwise so fast, the steel spokes blur together. The vehicle, encumbered in mud, stalls and several soldiers jump out. I tremble, and see only soldiers’ feet in heavy boots with metal toes from where I am lying. I close my eyes at the thought of a soldier lifting his leg to kick me.

    The engine restarts and the uniformed men study the wheels as they spin again. The puddle gets deeper, a chocolate cesspool, and goop splashes, dirtying my face.  I watch two soldiers shift metal guns slung on their backs, and ready themselves to shove the vehicle from behind as a driver yells in a foreign language that reeks of anger. The noise muffles the sounds I do not make.

    The soldiers rock the truck, making the ditch bigger, and the wheels more trapped. The engine cuts out leaving a quiet sound. The driver jumps out of the cab enraged, a semiautomatic gun raised above his head, and shoots into the air and around the tires. 

   Mama rolls her body on mine, secures my mouth shut with her hand to muffle any sound, and listens to an approaching noise, another vehicle.

   The soldiers, who were pushing the pick-up yell, punch the driver and point to a deflated tire, as the second truck comes to a halt.  

   With chains and shovels, the angry team of men release the truck from the muck, and afterwards shove and slap each other in good cheer at the success of their efforts.

   I start to cry when they drive off.

   It is November 4, 1956 and what started as a birthday lunch at the University with Papa is the Hungarian Revolution.

   In the morning, we sleep late and dress leisurely for the special day.  I wear my favorite navy blue taffeta dress. Mama insists I wear leggings with my green winter coat adorned by gold buttons and a velvet collar, a matching headscarf tied under my chin. The leggings have inside zippers.

   Mamma wears a camel wrap coat and a fake fur hat.

   My birthday gift is a white rabbit muff with a cord I loop around my neck making certain it is not lost. I skip to the 9:45AM train to Budapest and nestle my hands inside my birthday gift,  occasionally, fluffing the rabbit fur on the ride.

   We arrive an hour later, and when we step down from the train, the crowd is noisy and the station disorganized. People run in different directions and change course unexpectedly. Papa is at the exit gate not at the University. He whispers in Mama’s ear after their kiss and her eyes droop in disgust. Papa grabs me in a birthday hug that lifts me off the ground and smiles his million-dollar smile.

   There is a “change in plan” goes the conversation between tickles to my chin and behind my ears. Mama and I are to take the train to Austria; Aunt Marion will greet us for a Birthday Holiday. Papa will come on the weekend. Mama’s eyes continually question his prediction. I am happy with the promise.   

   We get back on the train. Papa hands us a bag lunch and an envelope with Aunt Marion’s address and spending money. We wave from the window not knowing it is for the last time.

   Mama reads a newspaper on the train, turning the pages quickly and with tears in her eyes. “Who is Aunt Marion? Do I know Aunt Marion?” I ask of her.

   “Aunt Marion is Papa’s relative, really a cousin. I have not met her either. It will be nice . . . I think. Yes, Trudy it will be nice. Now close your eyes and rest, we have a busy day.”

   Near the Austria-Hungary border, the train stops, empties, and people are rude and loud.

   “Is everyone on holiday, Mama?”

   “Well, it seems…” and Mama holds my hand with intensity.  “Let me ask for directions,” she says and approaches the conductor now standing on the platform. I cannot hear but watch heads nodding and shaking.  Mama continues walking tentatively and then with determination.

   “I am going to call Aunt Marion and see if she knows another way.”

    Mama deposits several coins in a pay phone, and engages in a speedy conversation.

   Smiling Mama says, “Sure enough, Trudy, we can follow the road and cut through the pasture. It will be fun and faster, maybe we’ll see a deer.”   

   Our walk is interrupted by the sound of Soviet tanks, trucks, and gunfire. Mama pulls us down behind tall grass brushed with snow. We listen, hidden until the sounds of people screaming and crying disappear.

   Mama explains. “Mean people are invading our country and we must leave, for now. Papa will talk with them. It will be fine. We will cut through the meadow, and cross the border to meet Aunt Marion. She told me the way.”

   That was before circumstance and the mud. Now Mama’s eyes close and there is blood on her coat. The fake fur hat sits crooked on her head surrounded by brunette hair curled for my celebration and I grow up fast within these seconds.

    “Trudy, run ahead and tell Aunt Marion I stopped to rest.” Her soft words linger as she hands me the envelope and struggles to say, “She will help us. Run like the wind and do not look back.”

   I kneel beside Mama. “Let me stay Mama, you need help, let me stay.” My words hang small and meaningless in the air.

   Mama opens her eyes, “Gertrude Zimmerman, stop your silliness, listen to your Mama, go find Aunt Marion.  Run… I’ll see you in. . . .

   I finish her sentence, “Heaven.”

   The sounds of wheels stay connected to the loss of Mama, her love buried in my memories.

 

….just saying

 

V is for Valise

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New Thoughts on Words

retro-woman-suitcases-25792523

Aging & Attitude

Valise, I like its sound. Valise is of French origin from the Italian word valigia and reminds me of my grandfather. Pop-Pop called a small piece of luggage a valise. Something larger was a trunk, as in steamer trunk, the type slapped with vacation stickers and seen on cruise ships, headed towards the old country.

The definition of valise is a small overnight bag, a size manageable with one hand by ladies. Today’s equivalent would be a tote or backpack

My grandfather said, “Where’s your valise?” Never asked what was inside or if I had everything. We were treated as adults but I recall instructions on how to fold pressed dresses with tissue paper to prevent creases during travel. It works.

What was in the valise?

A toothbrush, no toothpaste, that was provided by the host. Other toiletries were not necessary, we bathed once a week at home and shampooed our hair at the kitchen sink with bar soap if need be. I did not need six different skin care products to prevent face wrinkles, nor numerous medications.

What was in the valise?

Perhaps one extra pair of underwear but pantyhose washed, rolled in a hand towel, and left in the bathroom to dry overnight. Certainly, I packed a nightgown and house coat not to be indecent.

What was in the valise?

Probably an extra sweater, put under your coat when real cold. We wore a scarf around the neck. The scarf protected the coat collar from grime and make-up, and doubled as a head cover. If the weather turned hot, the sweater replaced your coat.

Life was simple.

Make-up consisted of  blue eye shadow, pink lipstick, and white nail polish and stored in a handbag, along with a rain hat, two aspirin and a wallet.

What was in my wallet?

An orange library card, five dollars, and yes, my social security card.

I may have carried a bubble umbrella.

What was in your valise?

….just saying

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T is for Tomato Man

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New Thoughts on Words

English: Photograph of tomatoes on a vegetable...

English: Photograph of tomatoes on a vegetable stall at Borough Market in London, UK (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Aging & Attitude

Laughter fills the early morning air at the Hammock Beach Club in Florida. The sound is cynical, rich with ridicule and doubt. Bubbles St. Clair interrupts her swim to scan the tower balconies and find the source, a man on the fifth floor corner unit, waves. He is a stranger to her and she does not wave back.

The noise increases as people wake and stand on their terrace, sipping coffee, savoring the view from the lollipop yellow colored building. The neon paint is softened by a pale watermelon trim and whip cream clouds drifting across the sky.

As Bubbles does the backstroke the stranger turns to go inside, she gets a glimpse of his Coke 400 t-shirt and pony tail.

By noon Bubbles has showered, dressed, and is  roaming Publix’s produce aisle looking for fennel. The constant beep of an automated shopping cart annoys her, and she recognizes the driver by his red Coke t-shirt. Bubbles counts eleven types of tomatoes the man feels traveling in reverse creating a non-stop beep,beep, beeeeeeeeeeeee.

He is scruffy, overweight and has thin hair on top, a ponytail down his back. His three-day-old beard is red but doing the Cha-Cha with a bit of gray. His needy eyes turn and ask Bubbles, “How was your swim?”

His voice stirs feelings long forgotten, and has a texture reminiscent of her past.

He continues, “You know anything about these Romas from Canada?”   Bubbles examines the assortment of tomatoes before answering, “No never had them, look delicious though.” She feels sorry for him beeping back and forth, reduced to squeezing tomatoes for pleasure. She smiles and walks away.

In the parking lot Bubbles watches Tomato Man get in his car, coincidentally parked next to hers, from a distance. She slows her pace and avoids his wave goodbye.

Rolling her eyes, she mutters disbelief then arranges packages on the back seat before noticing a beat up wallet on the ground.

Inside there is a photo license of Tomato Man, and she reads the name aloud, Tom Scary.

I knew a Tom Scary in High School, she thinks.

The address reads, Hensonville, New York. I went to High School in Hensonville, she remembers.

Bubbles gets in her car, turns the air conditioning up real high, and questions aloud, “Is he  that stranger?”

….just saying

N is for The New Normal – The Alphabet Series

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A New Normal

Aging & Attitude

O56C0464Canada Calgary Zoo – Lee Tickett

New Thoughts On Words

Toes that no longer wiggle, giggle or dance when asleep

But cry, some sudden leg syndrome is attacking our feet

Hands that can’t twist to open a door

Or flip pages any more

Kitchen tops decorated with items to not forget

A part of our brain we haven’t used yet

Ridge in thought

Like stiff knees reluctant to bend

Our grey cells will not receive or send

Exhausted and depleted

We long for comfort food

Meatloaf and mash-potatoes

But for the cerebellum it is repeated conversations

So what if we forget to lock a door, a date, the place, a score

We are old, invisible and small

Don’t pester and pest

Let’s explore!

Close your eyes, envision youth and come with me…. please,

To places we have never been

                                                               ….just saying

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H is for Hanky Panky

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The Alphabet Series

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New Thoughts on Words

H is for hanky panky, two words joined by alliteration, not meaning. We hear the lyrics of Tommy James and the Shondells, “My baby does the hanky panky”, and picture a couple making out in a 1966 Mustang convertible. There is a mischievous fooling around atmosphere and know the girl is easy.

But what is hanky panky?

Webster’s (Standard Reference Works Publishing Co. 1956) definition; The meaningless professional talk of a juggler or magician, jugglery or legerdemain.

Sounds like politicians talking about the sequestration.

The term hanky panky is sighted in the first edition of ‘Punch‘ magazine Volume 1 September 1841. In London court, a con-man said to the judge,

“Only a little hanky-panky, my lud. The people likes it; they loves to be cheated before their faces. One, two, three-presto-begone. I’ll show your ludship as pretty a trick of putting a piece of money in your eye and taking it from your elbow, as you ever beheld.”

A later reference is from George Bernhard Shaw’s Geneva, 1939:

She: No hanky panky. I am respectable; and I mean to keep respectable.
He: I pledge you my word that my intentions are completely honorable.

Hanky panky defined as unethical, and referenced as Hocus Pocus or Hokey Pokey, grew in popularity when sexy and illicit acts were included.

It was playful and I recall teaching kindergartners the hokey pokey to practice eye hand coordination skills.

The closest we can get to that ridiculous fun for all is the Harlem Shake.

Google Hanky Panky and you will discover many companies sell lingerie and naughty items, but only one company makes the lace.

599290_10151373267023315_1455748430_nKlauber Brothers is a sixth generation family business and creators of an exclusive Signature Lace for Hanky Panky, a leader in intimate apparel.

The Klauber family was lucky to escape the treacherous trickery that forced them to surrender their business and never considered they would be in the  hanky panky business. They fled Nazis Germany on the SS Manhattan. It was the last boat to America in 1939.

Their story and craftmanship adds sobering thoughts to hanky panky, but I still hear lyrics in my head and think about a randition of the Harlem Shake, me mouthing the words…My baby does the hanky panky. I saw her walkin’ on down the line You know I saw her for the very first time A pretty little girl standin’ all alone “Hey pretty baby, can I take you home?”

…just saying

 

Eating Moose

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Sao-Tome-and-Principe-600x428

                                                    Aging & Attitude

Eating Moose


Miss Eva giggles, when her mom, Sasha Martin, announces they will be eating moose. The little girl’s flirtatious glance causes Sasha to clarify and add, banana mouse. This week the country is Sao Tome and Principe, and the menu Sweet Potato Frittata, Cod Fish Feijoada and Banana Mouse with Chocolate Shavings. Miss Eva started eating  international cuisine as a toddler, has a sophisticated palate and would not be surprised if moose were on the menu.

Do you dream of world travel? Not Sasha Martin, she turns dreams into travel around the world without leaving Tulsa, Oklahoma. I discovered Sasha and Global Table Adventure listening to NPR. Global Table Adventure, a way to experience the world, educate her daughter and take her picky husband with her, is her brainchild.

Tag lines reveal the mission and nature of her character.

Imagine if it were possible to create peace one bite at a time.

Let’s eat out way around the world.

Cooking the world A-Z

Catchy phrases like “stove top travel” and “I’m giving you the recipes, facts and reviews,” lure you to culinary delights. With eyes closed you can experience being there.

Sasha is focused, and organized; the website user-friendly and the pictures fabulous.

A student of the Culinary Institute of America she tackles a list of 195 countries alphabetically. If only I had discovered the adventure sooner,  she has explored 151 countries.

Travel Tuesday, tells about the country and culture, Menu Wednesday reveals what to cook, Thursday shows techniques and Fun Friday includes tidbits and polls. Saturday the family cooks and dines and the following Monday is meal review with photos and occasional video.

There is an Interactive Map, Adventure Status, and Global Gift Guide of twenty items with links to the manufacturers if you like to buy. Everything from Fred M Matroyshkas dry measuring cups, to Buddy Trainer Chopsticks, a set of two for $5.99.

The journey is real and sincere.

Proverbs are included this year, and Sasha tells of a recent visit with a friend  to share the wisdom.

“If I am a prince and you are a prince, then who will lead the donkeys?” – Saudi Proverb

Sasha captures their conversation by concluding; “May we all let our hair be wild.”

I agree.

  … just saying