Old Father Time

Do you remember the song "Old Father Time Keeps Pickin' My Pocket"?  Neither do I.

I'm not going to reveal whose birthday it is today, to avoid clogging the world's telecommunications systems with phone calls, e-mail, etc.  I am, however, keeping one line open so that Michaelle Jean can get through with the Order of Canada appointment.

Does it seem to you that Capricorn is the most undervalued astrological sign?  Here's today's reading from the stars:  "You are stolid and under the illusion that you are surefooted as you leap from career crag to crag.  You're in a rut, use your nut, get off your butt.  Capricornians with whom you share this sign:  Howdy Doody and Richard Nixon."  

My thanks to the Sage of Lantzville for recalling these most appropriate Ogden Nash lines: 

Come, children, gather 'round my knee,

Something is about to be.

Tonight's December Thirty-First,

Something is about to burst.

The clock is crouching, dark and small,

Like a time bomb in the hall.

Hark!  It's midnight, children dear.

Duck!  Here comes another year.

The Best, The Woist

Turner Classic Movies is, at this moment, screening ""Deadline USA," which has Humphrey Bogart as a newspaper editor and Ethel Barrymore in the Katherine Graham role as publisher. It is one of the films in which Bogart got to wear a bowtie, which he seemed always to enjoy.

But that is a digression, for what I have come to discourse upon are end-of-the-year best and worst lists.  Everyone in the trade, it seems, compiles them:  best and worst movies, best and worst styles, best and worst CDs, best and worst wurst.  It has become obligatory, and that is why I am not going to do it.

The best of these end-of-year roundups was Esquire's Dubious Achievement Awards, which grew increasingly rude and irreverent; but, sadly, the magazine has given up this noble cause.

Wait a second--just got a flash from Editor Bogart, says I have to do some kind of end-of-year list.  Okay, so there were some things to applaud in 2009, including another predictably unpredictable CFL season (with a continuing fashion statement by Saskatchewan Roughriders fans); Richard Thompson's charming comic strip, "Cul de Sac"; the publication of "Endpoint," last poems by the irreplaceable John Updike; Meryl Streep's wonderful performance as Julia Child; the successful saving of Victoria's CHEK-TV by the station's employees; PJ Perry's continuing saxology; Vaughan Palmer's puckish "Voice of BC"; Bobby Flay on the Food Network; President Obama's Nobel Peace Prize; and Litehouse Pear-Gorgonzola vinaigrette.

On the downside, we give low marks to Olympic 2010 religious fervor; the use of "impact" as a verb; the relentless (and often inappropriately logged) promos on CBC Radio 2; the slavish use of "Mr." before names in the news, even when identifying axe murderers; the push to have "actor" serve both male and female performers (think of the Academy Awards:  "And now, the award for best actor who happens to be female"); "reality" television, in all its ugly forms; increasingly wacky recipes (sardine ice cream); and the disappearance of Man-Size (or Big Nose) Kleenex.  I was going to add political chicanery, but that is so forever. 

Okay, did it, Bowtie Bogey.  But now on to what we at this desk consider the biggest story of the year:  the Grammy Award to Prime Minister Stephen Harper for Best Musical Performance by a Sitting World Leader.  Steve ("Leave it to Steve") pulled it off with his rendition of "With a Little Help from My Similarly Ideologically Inclined Friends." 

We spoke to him backstage at the Awards Gala, and he said, "I wanted to show that I am every bit as hip, possibly hipper, than Mr. Iggy Pop." 

"Wow," we said, "this may be the biggest triumph for a world leader since Harry Truman played the Missouri Waltz and Lauren Bacall sat on the piano."

"Well," said Steve, "I could have done that.  I could have had Rona Ambrose or Bev Oda or even John Baird sit on the piano, but my inspiration comes from a later pianistic president.  I refer, of course, to Dick '88 Keys' Nixon, the Thelonious Monk of the White House."  

"Did he have big feet and wear funny hats?"

"Huh?  Listen, I love this, but you have to excuse me.  I have to call the Governor-General. Hello, Michaelle?  Okay if I call you Mickey?  Listen, let's do the pro thing again.  You know, the prorogue?  Cool!  Dedicating my next number to you:  'Little White Lies.'  Peter Mackay on bass, Jason Kenney on drums, Peter van Loan on nose flute.  Hit it, guys!"

"The moon was all aglow

   And heaven was in your eyes

   The night that I told you

   Those little white lies."

    

I Would Prefer Not To

Whenever I feel I should post an entry, but fail so to do, I think of Bartleby.  Bartleby the Scrivener, as he is usually called, the curious character at the centre of an 1853 story ("A Story of Wall Street") by Herman Melville.  

Bartleby is a copyist in a Manhattan law office--copyists being essential in a pre-Xerox age.  But whenever Bartleby is given an assignment, a brief to copy, he responds "I would prefer not to."  

This is, in fact, all we ever hear from Bartleby, and that he continues to hold his job is a puzzlement. (We have all known people who remained employed while seeming to do nothing, but few have been as up-front about it as Bartleby.)

Herman Melville, best known for "Moby-Dick" (of which Harold Ross famously asked "Is Moby-Dick the man or the whale?") was both the most transparent and most enigmatic of writers, depending on which page you're on.

I asked Bartleby if he would fill in for me, while I recover from a surfeit of Yuletide cheer, but he responded as usual:  "I prefer not to."

And that is why there is no entry today.

The Ten Commandments Lite

A British priest--Tim Jones, of the parish of St. Lawrence and St. Hilda in York--told his flock that stealing is not only okay, but recommended.  "My advice, as a Christian priest," said Father Jones, "is to shoplift."

The clerical Fagin was addressing, primarily, people in need, and suggested that his followers should pilfer not "from small family businesses, but from large national businesses." Like the church (editorial note).

I am not making this up.  But I am grateful to Fr. Tim-Bit for loosening the sanctions Moses carted down from the mountain.  Now that we have scuppered "Thou shalt not steal," we could move on to "Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's wife--unless she is a real babe."  

Suggestions for further deviations will, I'm sure, be welcomed.

Christmas Eve

Good evening, and a merry Christmas to all those out shopping at 24-hour service stations. Jumper cables make a lovely gift.

For what seems to have been a very long time, I have been cobbling together a story about an Anglican priest. What follows is an excerpt from an early passage.  The priest is young and naive and earnest, and has his first parish in a small Prairie city.  The period is the late 1930s.

     Then it was Christmas eve, a half-hour until midnight, the people of St. John's coming through the snow to Holy Communion.  The gravedigger's wife and mother and red-headed children filled the front pew.  In rows behind them sat Major Tully; Mr. Bloor, the beekeeper, and his son; the McCauley sisters; a row of youngsters confirmed by the Bishop that spring; the Nortons (Harry in a pool table-green shirt); a middle-aged man pushing a nut-colored woman in a wheel chair; the deeply spiritual Mrs. Broughton, pale and soignee in a black, fitted coat, with her husband, the alderman (and would-be mayor) beside her, chewing gum and looking uncomfortable; a trio of college boys, home for the holidays, with their dates, the boys a little drunk, mickeys bulging in the pockets of their tweed coats, the girls candy-pink and fuzzy in angora mittens and tams; Mrs. Duggan, with her distressingly large goiter; a few uniformed men from the RCAF base; a small, grey man needing a shave, slumped in a dark corner; and many other persons I had not seen before and might not see again.  At midnight the pews were full, the candles lit, the prayer book and hymnal racks empty, and the sidesmen seated on Sunday school chairs by the doors to the narthex.

     Standing behind the choir, I spoke the words "Unto us a child is born; unto us a son is given."  Miss Williston, our rather shrill lead soprano, began the opening carol, and the crucifer--big, 16-year-old George Starkey, who had not been quite the same since being kicked in the head by a horse--led us down the aisle. 

     It is right, I thought, to be here tonight--not in a metropolitan cathedral of stained glass and incense, but in this frame and stucco church set where the sidewalks have given way to weeds and the kneeling people are red-faced, rough-palmed diggers in soil and keepers of cattle.  I thanked God for sending me here.

     "...Christ's blood was shed for thee, and be thankful.  The blood of our Lord Jesus Christ, which was shed for thee..."  I moved along the altar rail of communicants, their heads bowed, hands extended, holding the silver chalice to their lips, drawing a white, cross-embossed linen cloth across the cup's rim.  "...preserve thy body and soul unto everlasting life."  I thought of writing to Mother, perhaps before going to bed, to tell her I had celebrated this first Christmas eucharist with the chalice she had given me.  "Drink this in remembrance..." the last person was before me, the small, grey man, collar buttoned to his bristly neck, who had sat in shadows through the service "...that Christ's blood was shed for thee, and be thankful."

     The last hands had been shaken at the steps; even the choristers had gone, putting away their cassocks and mortarboards and stepping out into the snow, now flaking in lemon light. There were puddles in the narthex where galoshes had stood.  The server had snuffed the candles, the sidesmen had counted the collection (Christmas offertory, traditionally a gift to the priest--I would have to find some good way to use it) and I was alone.

     I walked back to the white and gold draped altar and looked around me.  What was I looking for?  Then I knew.  The silver chalice.  It was gone.

Chestnut Roasting

For several years, at the arrival of each new season, Vancouver's Four Seasons Hotel sent whimsical gifts to media folk.  The first gift, at around this time of year, was a bag of chestnuts (probably the idea of clever Dunc Holmes) with instructions for roasting.  Not all the recipients read the instructions, or read them upside down after an evening of wassailing, with the result that two morning deejays and one gossip columnist were felled by exploding chestnuts, and had to be revived with lashings of rum-filled eggnog.  

But, as Wass would have said, that is not the item.  The item involves "The Christmas Song," which, as you all know (possibly know too well) begins "Chestnuts roasting on an open fire."

The song was written by Bob Wells (lyrics) and Mel Torme (music) in the middle of a blistering Los Angeles summer.  Torme had come to Wells's digs for a round of tennis, and while waiting for his friend to change into tennis whites, saw--well, let Mel tell it:  "I saw a spiral pad on his piano with four lines written in pencil:  'Chestnuts roasting...Jack Frost nipping...Yuletide carols...Folks dressed up like Eskimos.'  Bob didn't think he was writing a song lyric.  He said he thought if he could immerse himself in winter, he could cool off.  Forty minutes later that song was written."

"There's a song for you, Mel," said Wells.  "Naw," said Torme, "let's take it over to Nat."

That was 1944.  Torme didn't record the song himself for another ten years.  Since then, of course, it has been recorded by everyone from the Mormon Tabernacle Choir to Alvin and the Chipmunks.

In 1944, the term "Eskimos" was acceptable (except to the people so designated).  No one has thought to alter the original lyrics, but try this:

"Chestnuts roasting on an open fire,

  All the Christmas candles lit.

    Yuletide carols being sung by a choir,

  Folks dressed up like Inuit."

You know where to send the royalties.

Steve Goes Green

Prime Minister Stephen Harper surprised world leaders at Christiansborg Palace, at a dinner given by Queen Margrethe II, by sitting at the piano and delivering a medley of "green songs."

"Hi, your Royal Highness and all you commoners," he began.  "It's great to be here in Copenhagen.  I chew your snuff all the time.  'Snuff said?  Ha ha, only kidding folks.  I don't even chew Juicy Fruit, name makes me uncomfortable.

"But seriously, fellow giants of the global stage, I want to say how thrilled I am on behalf of my fellow Canadians to accept the award of Fossil of the Year.  But you know, we are pretty green in Canada.  Look at me--green tie, green socks, I'm even wearing green boxers.  And to show how green we are, I'm going to warble a medley of green songs, beginning with the Oscar-wining 'Evergreen,' by Barbra Tarsand.  Ha ha, I mean Streisand.

"Then I'll move on to 'Green, Green,' 'Green Eyes,' 'Greensleeves,' and close with one I hope you'll all join me on, because it may be the one thing on which we all agree:  'It's Not Easy Being Green'."

President Barack Obama, speaking for other delegates, looked at his watch and said, "Wow, is it that time already?"

In other news, two candidates for appointment to federal cabinet ministers' posts in Ottawa were rejected for having scored too high on I.Q. tests. 

A Celebration of the Orange

Hands up, all who remember the often musty oranges we were given at Sunday School Christmas concerts, along with sticky hard candies and potentially toxic nuts, after we had paraded in our bathrobes as the Three Kings of Orient.

Despite that memory, I find this a fine time--indeed, the best time--of year for oranges.  The wonderful Cara Cara oranges (named for Hacienda de Cara Cara in Valencia, Venezuela) have just arrived, and Tom, the Emperor of Citrus Fruits at the Burnwood Drive IGA Marketplace, assures me that the Carmenesque blood oranges are but two weeks away.  I can hardly wait.

If you haven't discovered the Cara Cara orange, you will, I think, be surprised and delighted when you slice into it and find the richest, sunniest, most vibrant orange you have ever seen. This wondrous orange may be, it is posited, a cross of Washington and Brazilian varieties.  As for the blood, what gives it a distinctive deep burgundy color is the pigment anthocyanin, more common to flowers than to fruit.  

Some years ago, John McPhee wrote a book called, simply, "Oranges."  One reviewer wrote "You may come to the end of it and say to yourself, 'But I can't have read a whole book about oranges!'  But the chances are you will have done so...It's a delicious book."

And that's the news 'til now, from the produce section.  As soon as the bloods arrive, I will spend happy weeks squeezing together the juices of Cara Caras, bloods, and red grapefruit. Ambrosia!

Gate Crasher Nabbed at White House

The White House confirmed today that thanks to heightened security measures, another gate crasher has been apprehended.  The following report comes from Sgt. Beeps McGonigal:

"Suspect was spotted descending from fireplace in midst of White House Christmas party.  Claimed to have descended through chimney.  'Hey,' I said, 'are you on the guest list?'

"'I should be,' he said.  'Look, I have this handwritten note, asking me to come.  Said there would be cookies and milk waiting for me.'

"Loony, I thought.  Rotund man of indeterminate age, wearing red suit.  Bushy white beard, thought to be fake, until I attempted to remove it.  Carrying large bag, possibly filled with weapons of mass destruction.  'Okay, fella,' I said.  'Whatcha got in that bag?'

"'Why, gifts, of course,' he said.  'Likely story,' I snapped.  'No, no,' he said,  'look.  Here's a garden trowel and a package of heirloom tomato seeds for the First Lady, Mo'Def CDs for the little girls, a chewy toy for Bo, and a Lakers tee-shirt for the President.  Plus a little surprise.'  

"'Uh-huh.  And what might that be, Pops?'

"'Glenn Beck's hairpiece.'

"'Okay, I figure we've heard enough.  I'm taking you in, Buster.'

"'But what about my reindeer?'

"'Your what?'

"'Up on the the roof.  Pawing around.'

"'Um.  Finster, you go up on the roof.  Maybe you should take a shovel.'

"Finster asked, 'Whatcha gonna do with the little fat guy, Sarge?'

"'Put him down in the holding cell.  Along with that big rabbit we caught with a basket of eggs."

The Spelling Poltergyste..er, Poltergeist

I was alarmed to see, reading a recent entry, that the Spelling Poltergeist had been at its mischievous pranks, changing the word "raced" to "raised."

You know the Spelling Poltergeist?  This is the nasty-humored spirit that pulls the well-known word out from one, leaving a laughable misspelling in its place.  F. Scott Fitzgerald was a favorite target of the relentless Spelling Poltergeist.  Fitzgerald was said to write to friends spelling their names three different ways, all wrong, on the same page.  This did not prevent him from becoming one of the twentieth century's most admired authors, creator of "The Grate Gatsby" and "Tender is the  Nite."

One is amazed that the Spelling Poltergeist does not swoop down on the now widely televised spelling bees, and one can only conclude that the words are too difficult for any but precocious nine-year-olds.  The persons who compile the list of words to be spelled enjoy coming up with many that no one, including the examiners, have ever heard.  "Pogamoggan," for example. Contestants, to buy a little time while running the alphabet through their tiny but brilliant heads, often ask the examiner to use the word in a sentence.  This is a challenge for the examiner, who frequently has no idea what the word means, and is reduced to ad libing something like "Uh..I left my pogamoggan in the garage."

The Spelling Poltergeist is a constant threat to the writer, but I am determined to stand firm against its depredations.  I will triumph, I'm convinced, because as everyone knows, I am normily a flowless spieler.

"Anyone Can Whistle"--Stephen Sondheim

I was stunned to discover that  my whistling teakettle had stopped whistling.  "What is the problem, dear kitchen appliance?" I whispered.  "What has happened to your sunny disposition, your joie de vivre, your dedication to melody?"

No answer.

I should have known something was wrong.  For several mornings, the whistle had grown more subdued, ending, finally, in a pathetic "Pfft."

The Home Hardware Therapist would have the answer, I was sure, so I wrapped the kettle in a tea cosy and raised off to my neighborhood store.

The therapist was in his usual place, between the plungers and the plumber's snakes.  He could see at once that my kettle was in distress.  "Maybe," he said, running his hands over the kettle's glossy surface, "it's the tea you're making.  Or perhaps it's the music you're playing in the morning.  What have you been listening to?"

I had to confess that I had switched from my usual mix of Count Basie and Maria Callas to a heavy metal band called the Chocolate Brassiere Strap.

"Ah," the therapist nodded knowingly, "there's your problem:  heavy metal.  Too stressful, too intense, for this fine and delicate kettle.  Try some string quartets--Mozart, Debussy, not Shostakovich.  And you might switch to Moroccan mint tea."

I am delighted to report that the therapist's remedy worked!  Within days, my teakettle was not only whistling again, but whistling better than ever!  Whistling challenging pieces from the Paganini caprices to Charlie Parker's "Scrapple from the Apple"!

And, a wonderful and unexpected blessing:  my coffee percolator has joined in, providing a solid bass line for numbers like "C Jam Blues".  

Stephen Sondheim may say anyone can whistle, but not everyone can whistle like my teakettle, not everyone can perc like my coffee pot.

Never Coming to a Theatre Near You

For years I have had running thru the Cineplex of my mind a number of films that should be made, or should have been made, but weren't and probably won't be.  To begin, John Wayne and Maureen O'Hara should have played LBJ and Lady Bird in "Pedernales Romance."  Okay, so the physical resemblances aren't great, but they would have brought it off.  My favorite scene:  LBJ asking Sarah Vaughan to dance, after a performance at the White House, and her pianist, wondering what the appropriate thing for him might be, deciding to dance with Lady Bird.

At a certain time, James Garner would have been perfect for a Jack Teagarden biopic, possibly called "Big T," which was the trombonist-singer's nickname.

And it's time for another run at the Charlie Parker story.  Forest Whitaker played Parker in Clint Eastwood's "Bird," and Whitaker is a very good actor, but the performer who could really project Parker's great and powerful and perhaps even frightening charisma is Lenny Henry, best known for British TV's "Chef."  We're ready for "Bird Lives."

At least three of Dashiell Hammett's novels were turned into successful films--"The Maltese Falcon," "The Glass Key," "The Thin Man"--but no one, so far as I know, has adapted "Red Harvest" for the screen.  There was one Coen Brothers film that seemed to parallel the story, but what we really want to see is Hammett's unnamed Continental Op, described, in "The Big Knockover" (another terrific story) as "the biggest-hearted dick in San Francisco.  This little fat guy will do anything for anybody, if only he can send 'em over for life in the end."  The role Danny DeVito was born to play.

Another film ready for a re-make is "Pete Kelly's Blues."  I suggested to Dal Richards that Diana Krall would be right for the Peggy Lee role.  "That's true," said Dal, "but who would play Pete Kelly?"  "How about you, Dal?" I said.  "Are you free?"  "I'm not free," said Dal, "but I'm cheap."

And finally--I think--the ideal pair to play Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald would be Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie.  Seriously.  Think about it.  

I'm ready with treatments for all these projects.  Major studios may reach me thru my agent.

"The Lower and Poorer Sort"

Henry Fielding, author of "Tom Jones," noted "One reason why many writers have totally failed in describing the manners of upper life may possibly be, that in reality, they know nothing of it. The bad trade of writing is generally entered upon by the lower and poorer sort, as it is a trade which many think requires no kind of store to set up with." 

Gotta love it.

St. Nicholas Day

This is the feast day of St. Nicholas, Bishop of Myra (Asia Minor, today's Turkey) in the early fourth century, and remembered today as the patron saint of Russia, Aberdeen, children, merchants, sailors, travelers, parish clerks, scholars, pawnbrokers, and thieves.

It was the Dutch who, to celebrate the feast of St. Nicholas and his kindness to children, began the tradition of giving presents to children on his day.  They brought the custom to the New World, and Sant Nikolaas soon became Santa Claus.

And so, we wish a splendid day to all Hollanders, Russians, Aberdeenians, children, merchants, sailors, travelers, parish clerks, scholars, pawnbrokers, and thieves.  I am now searching around for something I can pawn.  Or steal.

Steve Sings Again

Hi there, music fans!  This is your ole buddy Steverino, tinkling the ivories at the Jade Dragon Lounge in Hong Kong.  To quote longtime Conservative supporter Irving Berlin, "I know a fine way/to treat a Steinway."

Did I hear someone say, "Play it again, Steve"?  Well, we're gonna get the show going tonight with a Hoagy Carmichael classic, appropriate to my visit.  It's Hoagy's "Hong Kong Blues." Sorry if any of the lyrics offend.  This song was written before the era of political correctness, which as far as I know has not yet reached Alberta.  Political correctness--kind of an NDP thing, really.  You know what my friend Jack Layton says NDP stands for?  "No Ditzy Prime Ministers."  Ha ha, that's rich.  Jack is such a card.  Got any plans for your next career, Jack? Okay, here we go.  Music, maestro, please.

"This is the story of a very unfortunate colored man

  Who got stranded down in old Hong Kong.

  He got twenty years privilege taken away from him

  When he kicked old Buddha's gong."

Funny, Bacall loved it in "To Have and Have Not."  Well, moving right along, I've got a tune here for my old pal Iggy.  I was going to do "Harvard Blues"--you know, "I don't keep no dogs or women in my room"--but being as we're here, I thought this Frank Loesser number might be more apropos.  Comin' at you, Ig:

"I'd like to get you

 On a slow boat to China...."

Wait a second, how did Bob Rae get in here?  Okay, Bob, you just keep that up.  We'll send Mike Duffy over to sit on you.  

"...out on the briny,

  The moon big and shiny...."

Wow, that's the first time I've been pelted with pork dumplings.

 

Chicken a la Nose Candy

News item:  Man taken from plane in Guatemala and arrested, when found to be carrying a roasted chicken stuffed with several thousand dollars worth of cocaine.

Man says he got the recipe from Bon Appetit and his lawyer claims it is an old family favorite, but prosecutors sniffed at these stories.  The question now:  Is it safe to consume the chicken? Arresting officers need to know.  Right away!

Meanwhile, we are open to receiving your innovative recipes for new ways of dressing up traditional fare.  

Christmas Singalong

Disheartened by the latest Yuletide heavy hip-hop hit, "We Three Dudes of Orient Are," I ask: where are the grand old, traditional Christmas songs, those familiar melodies that speak to the heart? 

I'm thinking of "All I Want for Christmas is My Two Front Teeth," a particular favorite of orthodontists.  And "I Saw Mummy Kissing Santa Claus," very big with lawyers.  How about Eartha Kitt's "Santa Baby," a song that brilliantly encapsulates the spirit of acquisitiveness? 

And then, my personal favorite, a seasonal song steeped in beauty:  Yogi Jorgensen's "I Yust Go Nuts at Christmas."  Perhaps Bob Dylan will cover it.

And now, must run.  The Mistletoe Twins, Holly and Ivy, are going to record my offering for the season:  "Let's Put the X Back in Xmas."

Professional Gift Certificates

Gift certificates are always appreciated, especially those to Wines-R-Us, but some fear they may be considered--well--lacking in imagination.

If you are one of these, take heart!  This Christmas, we are proud to introduce the Professional Gift Certificate Collection!

Think what joy you would bring to those near and dear to you with one of these:

* The Orthodontist's Christmas Smile:  A gift certificate for one root canal.

* Strictly Legal:  A gift certificate good for one law suit.

* Accountant Angels:  Professional help for your Canada Revenue tax audit.

* Lovely Liposuction:  'Tis better to lose than to gain.

* Degree Delight:  Good for one honorary doctoral degree, university of your choice.

Our family has embraced this new concept in gift-giving.  In fact, my wife has already revealed her gift certificate for me:  ten hours of basic instruction at the Arthur Murray Dance Studio.

The Dreaded Christmas Letter

I'm terribly sorry, I haven't had time to prepare anything today.  I've been working on my annual Christmas letter, my one-communication-fits-all.  As usual, I will type it single-spaced on a manual with a faded ribbon and then run off copies on a 1928 ink-smearing Gestetner, to make it as illegible as possible.  Hey, it's traditional.

I'm sure you, too, love receiving letters like these at Christmas.  However, I often find  myself sympathizing with their writers.  Especially those who have committed themselves to composing their Yuletide letters in rhyme.

As you know, these letters are commonly a wrap-up of the year's events--who graduated, who had liposuction, who came out of the closet--that sort of thing.

Well, I think, it must be very difficult for people when they have news to relate that is less than cheery.  Allow me to quote from a letter I received last December: 

"Did you hear of the investigation?

  Frank had to leave the force.

  When we were near starvation

  We barbecued his horse.

  Then we tried a separation,

   But settled on divorce.

   We hope your celebration 

   Is untarnished by remorse."

Good luck with your Christmas letters.

Are You Ready for a Throwdown?

So there I was in my kitchen preparing la specialite de la maison:  a peanut butter and cheese sandwich.  Suddenly, the door was flung open, and I heard a familiar New York voice cry, "I'm here to challenge you to a peanut butter and cheese throwdown!"  

Yes, it was Bobby Flay, looking like James Cagney's grandson, and accompanied by his equally daunting assistants, Stephanie and Miriam.  What could I say?  I said, "Uh--okay."

"Great," he said.  "What kind of peanut butter are you using?"

"My usual, " I said.  "Adams Crunchy."

"Sounds terrific," he said, "but I am roasting and grinding my own specially harvested peanuts. And, for an extra dash, I am adding macadamias, cashews, and the rare Nepalese Nugget, grown only in the Himalayan mountain tops.  Whaddya got for cheese?"

"A sharp, extra old cheddar from Armstrong."

"Yeah, that's good, all right.  Adding anything to it?"

"Maybe a little mayo.  Couple of pickles."

"Uh-huh.  Well I'm using this yak's milk cheese from Mongolia.  Then I'm spreading on my own beet root aioli, and for a little punch, some minced poblano and habanera peppers.  It all goes together on this poppy seed challah, which Miriam and Stephanie baked this morning. Whaddya got to drink with that?"

"I usually like a glass of milk."

"Very traditional, and I commend you for that, but I think I'll make my Tequila Surprise. Couple of jiggers of silver tequila, Triple Sec, juice of the rare Saudi Arabian oasis melon, and a sprig of saguaro cactus as garnish.  Okay, let's call in the judges!"

"Judges?"

"That's right.  Steph and Miriam found two for us.  Tell us your names, judges." 

"I'm Todd Fruehling, I'm ten years old, and I love peanut butter."

"Good for you, Kid.  And you, sir?"

"Mah nom ess Phil Foosher and ah jess cum from mah dentish.  Mah jaw ess froshen."

"You'll be fine, Phil.  Okay, now the moment of truth.  My spectacular and innovative take on an old favorite, labeled A, or my friend's humble offering labeled B, although personally I would label it F.  What do you say, judges?  Todd?" 

"I go for A, Mr. Flay.  I loved it!"

"Thanks, Kid."

"And thanks for the five bucks you slipped me."

"Okay, now let's hear from our second judge.  Phil?"

"It's definitely sandwich A!  Those poblano and habanero peppers completely unfroze my jaw, and the tequila has removed all pain!  Bless you, Chef Flay!"

"Well, Steph and Miriam, another triumph.  Let's move on to our next challenge:  pork rind and marmalade casserole.

"All you awesome cooks out there, keep doing what you're doing.  But ask yourself this:  are you ready for a throwdown?"

And then, quickly as they had appeared, they were gone.  I had hoped they might have left some tequila, but no such luck.  I was preparing to bite into my sandwich when the door burst open again.

Could it be?  Yes it was.  Gordon Ramsay.  "Where," he bellowed, "is the #%$*& kitchen?"