There Will Be Posts

There have been adventures. 

There have been hugs. 

There have been delicious meals. 

All of this has photographic evidence residing in my phone.  Unfortunately,  Blogger turns my photos sideways. 

We are not really that weird.  It's the app, I promise.  While I could list the places we've gone and the foods we've eaten,  without the photos it's too boring for even the most devoted of denizens to read. 

So,  I will borrow a laptop tomorrow morning and begin, once again, to type.  For now,  though,  let's revel in the absurdity that is running our country.

FFOTUS says Russia wants Ukraine to succeed. The fact that Zelensky kept a straight face as this nonsense was a tribute to his acting chops. 

The Epstein files were redacted with see-through black marker. Apparently,  you can save them as a document and the redactions disappear.  They aren't just corrupt,  they are incompetent, too.

Even if you didn't enjoy your Christmas,  FFOTUS liked his less.  There must've been no one to talk to.  Went else would there be 200 some tweets?

The Kennedy Center's lineup for 2026 looks incredibly bare.  Hamilton,  the Jazz Showcase, dozens of artists - they've all found something better to do with their time than wait in line to walk under the faux named doors. 

And within those doors will be seats with marble armrests. There's a reason FFOTUS can brag that it's never been done before.  It's a dumb idea.

Next week tens of thousands of Americans, unable to afford health insurance, will once again be showing up in the Emergency Room with preventable illnesses and the common cold.

I hope that the most vulnerable of them aren't sitting next to a kid with measles in the waiting room. 

Christmas Eve Musings

Written for December 24, 2009.  

We were sitting on the steps in the main hallway of Annie's Washington abode, watching the 2 little girls play in their fantasy land, when he asked the question.

Not "How does the seed get into the egg, Mom?" Nope, that one was just before the Fullerton exit on Lake Shore Drive in a raging snowstorm on barely plowed roads when we were already 15 minutes late and traffic wasn't moving.

Peacefully watching the girls, the sunshine through the magnificent beveled windows making the prism rainbows we were, I thought, busily counting, out of his 7 year old mouth came "Santa's not really real, is he, Mom?"

He noted my pause, and, ever the Big Cuter, his face took a serious cast as he reassured me: "Don't worry. I won't tell her. She really believes he's real."

What followed was a precise analysis, continent by continent, time zone by time zone, of the why-nots of Santa's voyage. He was quietly demolishing every possible rational explanation for his existence, yet he was still insistent that we not destroy his sister's illusion. "She loves Santa, Mom. I mean really loves him."

I remember the intensity with which he informed me of that fact. It moves me, still. I knew right then that he'd always be there for her, no matter how silly she might be.

She was 10 or 11 when the subject of "when you stopped believing in Santa" became acceptable on-the-way-to-tennis-lessons-car-pool conversation. Then Little Cuter said "Of course there's a Santa Claus!" and the case was closed. I never heard anyone mention it again in her presence. No mothers called to ask me if it were true. She never said that anyone teased her about it. She knew it as a fact, and, somehow, within her 4th or 5th grade universe, that made it inviolable.

Was she that powerful amongst her friends that no one dared to defy her? Perhaps. Were they surprised that one of them was still stuck in child-like wonder and struck dumb at the concept? Unlikely. I like to think that Santa himself had something to do with it.

Because what I said to the Big Cuter, after his rationalizations had come to an end, was that his reasoning was valid but meaningless. The reality is that Santa is joy and love and family and caring and friends and warmth and giving and everyone ought to believe in that.  

Christmas is about welcoming a new baby into the world, and, as I told Brenda Starr (and she quoted me in the paper) what's not to like about that?

He bought it then, Little Cuter's teaching it to her kids now, and Honey Bunny will hear about it soon enough.  

from Robert Sabuda's The Night Before Christmas Pop-Up Book

Monday Night Football

Honey Bunny needed to watch football. Not just wanted to watch football, but needed to watch football, with the intensity that an almost 3 year old needs anything. 

"Where's Brock Purdy?" she asked, over and over and over again, in the highest little voice imaginable, unable to process the fact that the game wouldn't start for a while.

The 9ers are her team, in their red uniforms.  The Colts are in blue.  She groaned with every tackle and cheered at every touchdown.

What we couldn't do was find her cousins.  They were in the end zone,  with seats SIR was gifted from work. But Little Cuter took care of that problem. 

Do you think he's excited to be there?

Random Thoughts

I'm writing this introduction after I finished downloading my disgust with FFOTUS.  

Random Thoughts because that's all I can muster.  I can't put them together into flowing paragraphs.  I'm letting my pre-travel have I packed the right things anxiety allow other bad thoughts to intrude.  If you're in a happy mood and don't want to be disturbed, I totally get it. But my cup spew-eth over and this is my space to vent. 

I'm going to leave the venom and dismay sadness and hopelessness right here and go on to enjoy my family and friends.  I really really really hope the world allows that to happen and that all of us have joyous and peaceful times before us.  A girl can dream, can't she?

If you're ready, read on.

*****

Why am I surprised?  I had high hopes that were (ridiculously) dashed.  For some reason, not based on anything past or present, I did believe that the pedophile's files would be open for perusal by America and the world by this time. 

Why was I expecting this Administration to follow the rules?  Why did I think that the courts and the Congress gave a damn, had any power, would choose to do something about the flagrant middle finger being hoisted their way.

*****

And what about the new plaques under the presidential portraits in the White House?  

Who gave the toddler the crayons?

*****

Did you watch The Residence or read my post about it?  

If not, this sentence from that post will help The White House itself is a character, its history the mortar between the bricks of the story.  

Right now, the White House itself is weeping.

*****

It is illegal for someone to remove the name he attached to the John F. Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts.

It is also against the law for him to have pasted his name on the building, no matter what the Board voted.

I don't want to think about the disparity between what's not happening and what would happen if I rented a crane and brought some tools.  

The website has the same url but don't click through unless you want to gasp.  Here, if you're brave.

*****

We do know that no one gave him permission to play with the Lincoln Logs and the Legos.

NBC News

Tis the Season

My nails are a shimmery, shiny red.

My menorah is fully embracing Chrismukkah.

I had to freeze The Cornellians' annual kringle; I ate one third of it before reason set in.

We are spending the holidays with our kids and their kids and that's about the most wonderful sentence I can think of typing right now.  It's a gift we don't have to wrap or ship or worry about.  It's a one size fits all (maybe a little squished but still.....) joy fest and Giblet made his class newspaper by announcing the news.  

Right now, though, I'm too pooped to pop, and certainly unwilling and (even more) unable to let any 22 minute rant derail my happy train.   Self care is vastly under-rated.  

Happy Happy Joy Joy
 

One More Day

Today was Crazy Sweater Day, tomorrow is Pajama Day, Friday is the first day of Winter Break.  

From the looks on the teachers' faces it can't come soon enough.

$92 million ..... $57 million .... guaranteed for nine years or four years .... with health benefits and state of the art workout facilities ... and is it enough for the talented young man who can throw a ball?  

I know 60 educators who might take any one of those deals.  

As the vacation nears, the kids start losing their minds and the staff bears the brunt of it.  There are no free breakfasts and lunches during Winter Break.  Everyone is at home and there's barely room when they're just sleeping and one third grader fell asleep today at her desk because it's very noisy at my home.    

Many of the kids will be moving to new homes, new families, new schools.  One Garden Leader is getting four more brothers and I already have five. Another is moving so far away but won't change schools because then I can walk here; I've given up trying to figure out the logic.  

The district is downsizing (charter schools, fewer families) and all of a sudden seniority is an issue for teachers who thought they could spend their whole career in our little corner of the universe.  No decisions will be made for a while, which just extends the anxiety that even festive sweaters couldn't disguise.

In the garden, our mandarin orange tree is setting fruit, the tomatoes are ripening, and the kids have eaten all six spinach plants down to their nubs.  Did you know that it tastes like salad?  The irrigation is still wonky and the plants will be untended for two weeks; all my potential plant waterers will be traveling, too.  Right now it's in the 70's, but who knows what climate change may create over the holidays.  

All in all, it's been an interesting week in public education.

A New Look

An occasional reader of The Burrow commented unfavorably about that big picture that takes up the whole screen.  That was the motivation I needed to take the time and correct the situation. 

The interface is uncomfortable.  Not much is where I intuited it would be.  I found a theme that made me happy - plain, simple, a white background, and a way to make the font bigger.  Unfortunately, it did not have a way to reply to comments.  I couldn't find a work around.  

Organizing that failed theme took more than enough time.  I moved on.  I moved further on.  I went back and forth between several bold and bright ideas.  Time passed.  The options began to blur into one another.  

Did that one have a way to remove the picture?  It did, but finding the drop down menu where that was lurking was no mean feat.  

There was the matter of The Burrow ... the words in the header, not the content below.  Did I like one of a squadrillion colors and/or some kind of pattern in one of those same squadrillion colors behind the title?  And what font would I choose to represent my wit, whimsy, and profundities?  

I'm a person who takes stationary personally  I'm afflicted with a deep seated need to be sure what I choose is just right.  Thus, I spent too much time view clicking and ctrl + tab'ing.  Readability, an upbeat vibe without being silly, not too charming to overwhelm the content - there was much to consider. 

When serif became indistinguishable from non I knew I'd had enough.  My brain needed a cleanse, a sorbet, a walk around the block.

What it got was a quick look at the last saved iteration as I clicked Apply.   I hope you like it.

He's Intruding Into My Space

I was trying to get through December without totally losing my shit.  I made steady progress on the Brownie List, finishing all but 3 deliveries and cleaning up the wreckage before the cleaning ladies came today.  There's something wonderful about the moments before you rearrange the pillows for comfort rather than show, especially when someone else has created the pretty setting just for you.

That's the vibe I was carrying into the evening.  There's not much left to do.  My house is neat and clean.  We are as healthy as our 150+ years on the planet will allow.  I lit the Hanukkah candles and sat back to do the Wordle.

I opened my phone and there he was, the human wrecking ball of our Constitution, talking about Rob Reiner.  Rob Reiner for crying out loud.  Princess Bride (the perfect movie according to FlapJilly) Rob Reiner.  When Harry Met Sally, Spinal Tap, Stand By Me Rob Reiner.  The man who is being lauded as having re-invented the romantic comedy genre was responsible for his own death. 

I was appalled.  I couldn't pull my eyes and ears away from the clip (I won't link it).  I listened to him call Rob Reiner seriously deranged.... T*** derangement syndrome.  The man who understood human relationships in a way that is unfathomable to FFOTUS was on the pointed edge of presidential barbs. 

And then I started to laugh.  It was Archie Bunker yelling at Meathead.  Rob Reiner's political presence was obviously an irritant to the petulant person in the White House, and that petulance was on full display when a reporter gave him an opportunity to walk back his comments.  Like Archie, he doubled down.  He made it worse and worse and I couldn't look away and then the clip ended and I came here for solace.

There's Bondi Beach (with the added pleasure of sharing the name of the woman who's destroying the DOJ) and Brown University and I was doing a fairly good job of ignoring the whole situation outside because it's Hanukkah and Christmas and New Years and family will be close and babies will be held and there's so much that's right in my little corner of the world.

Apparently, it took Rob Reiner to prick my protective balloon.  

Thanks for being here and helping to dissipate the evil, the cruelty, the democracy killing and Republic destroying (sorry, Mr. Franklin, we are in danger of not keeping it) that's creeping in and eating at my soul.  

I will be back decrying it all when it's 2026 because this is going to get worse.   Acknowledging that I, as an individual, can do nothing to make it all go away, I'm going to concentrate on joy for the next little while and give my outrage button some time to recharge. 

Self-care is crucial. 

Chappy Chanukkah

Most of Us

I dropped off brownies to my nursery this morning.  The owner was there to greet me.  She and her husband, and now her daughter and son-in-law, have been my friends and GRIN supporters since before there was GRIN.  They caution me if the plant I'm admiring will require more care than I'm willing to provide.  They do the heavy lifting and I do the pretty planting.  

Our politics could not be more different.  Staunch conservatives, small business owners, and devoutly religious - just think of the opposites and there I'll be.  Abortion has been the lightning rod for our (friendly and respectful) disagreements over the years, until FFOTUS came to town.  They were fans.

They weren't thrilled with his verbiage but were willing to overlook it because he was espousing the up by your bootstraps mentality that lay behind their growing business.  Things didn't go quite as well as they hoped, but Pandemica was nothing but great for their business.  We could be outside, distanced, and enjoy socializing and chatting while shopping.  They did well enough to buy fancy new shelving for the $4.99 starter plants that live outdoors.

Then there was Biden and politics rarely came up; that made me happy.  

Now there is FFOTUS again and the cracks in their foundational beliefs are showing.  Today was a good example.  I posited that even she would agree that if a Chief Executive fell asleep at a televised meeting that he is chairing, firing that person would be the logical next step.  Her lowered eyes and sickly smile said it all.

But then we moved on as she talked about an upper age limit to complement the lower age limit for the Presidency.  And how about the Congresspeople who are in nursing homes (what she heard on her news) or just plain mentally unavailable (my Eleanor Holmes Norton and Diane Feinstein contributions)? 

At the same time, with the same smiling vehemence, we looked at one another and said throw them all out and let's start over.

Then she added this: We're neither of us at the ultra-crazy end of the spectrum, and we aren't that far apart.  We went on to agree that in addition to an awake President, we knew that children should not go hungry and that we'll be paying for everyone's healthcare anyway so why not give them insurance so they have a stake in the game and a chance to stay healthy?  

People shouldn't come in illegally (I have dead relatives who would have liked to swim across the ocean before the Nazi's wiped them out) but the border here was so porous for so long that residency and respectable behavior ought to be enough to validate someone's right to be here.  And don't get us started on the DACA kids; a child is not responsible for his parents' decision to move him without papers.  

Most of us believe the same things, it's just......

That's where we ended.  Another customer came in and commerce triumphed over conversation.  But I left feeling pretty good about America.  Like Mark Kelly said,  It will take time, but I believe we can get it back

Thinking Back

While waiting in line for a prescription, I was visited by my (dead) mother.  She stood right next to me, pointing at the shelf, upon which sat this remnant from my past:

I had neither seen nor heard nor spoken about Albolene for approximately half a century, yet suddenly I was transported to a bathroom in my ancestral manse (a split level in 1950's suburbia).  While I'm certain that my mother never considered paying this much money for it:

I am also confident that she wouldn't refuse a tub if I were to buy it for her.  

That got me thinking about what other blast from the past might be lurking on the shelves.

Would I find Prell shampoo, neon green and smelling luscious its tube? The thought sends me straight to the showers at Girl Scout camp, my first sleep away experience.  

click Americana

TBG had a law school professor with an unusually white and bright smile; they called her Ipana.  Does anyone born in the last 50 years know why?

created by AI via Google and I don't know how to credit it

My Bubbe came to America on a steamship.  70-some years later she took her first airplane ride to watch her eldest grandchild (that would be me) graduate from college.  Did the turnips in Waldbaum's produce department look the same to her as the ones she remembered storing in the root cellar as a child?

Ah, yes. Another reminder that the world is moving on.... and I am here to see it, so, by definition it's a good day.  And if my mind thinks I'm a lot younger than my body reminds me that I am, that's okay, too. 

Little Conversations

In every Joy to the World and Merry Christmas and Season's Greetings and Happy Holidays embellished box I fill with red or green tissue paper (a little bit, just to be festive) and silver squares of Reynolds Wrapped brownies, there's also a little conversation.  

Granted, I'm the only one participating in the exchange, so it's really a soliloquy.  But I'm addressing the recipients, by name or nickname or relationship, and the dialogue is peculiar to the recipient.  I really am looking for answers to the questions I'm positing as I pack and address and ship.  How old, how long, how serious, how happy..... these are things I wish to know.

Not-Kathy, aghast at the cost of shipping all this love, suggested that I get everyone who lives near others to meet at a central point and pick up their gifts.  I laughed and replied that she was the only one who would think of that (true) and the only one who would do that (not true).

That was another reminder of the beauty of the brownie list - everyone would do that if I asked.  I am surrounded near and far with fabulous humans.  I've been enjoying their company all month long.  I still have several dozen talks awaiting me, so off I go.

Elfing is serious work.

Note To Self

 These are the comments left on last week's post about The Brownie List.

1. dkzodyDecember 4, 2025 at 8:56 AM

   Yours is the second wonderful "best story of the day" this morning. Thank you for sharing happiness and kindness. I know it's an effort, and I know it is much appreciated by those who receive those packages.

   ReplyDelete
2. 
   Linda ReederDecember 4, 2025 at 6:04 PM

   Are these the fabled brownies?! Bless you for still caring

They arrived just in time.  Here's why:

I love to bake and package and ship and receive the love which comes with The Brownie List.  I don't like chocolate.  I don't eat them (possibly weird but that's never bothered me). Thus, I never know if they taste good (grammatically doubtful).  Acting as my Official Taste Tester is a major reason TBG is in my life.

Today, I decided to get ahead of my usual three pans per day.  By the time I was done, there were nine 8x8 baking pans of all descriptions littering (purposefully chosen verb) my counter.  I was busy slicing and wrapping and listening to Paderewski concerti through my hearing aids when TBG walked through the kitchen and grabbed a brownie.

One bite and his face told the whole, sad, disappointing, embarrassing, wasteful story.  For some reason, they were dry and not gooey (my specialty); they were cakey; had very few nuts; and they offered not a hint of special sauce.

In other words, they were fine as far as brownies go, but they were not Brownie List brownies.  My people know what to expect and I will not disappoint them. 

They will be repurposed tomorrow.  I moaned to myself as I unpackaged and untied and removed sub-par but still tasty.  TBG saw my face:  Some people like them this way. Don't worry. They bring you such joy I hate to see you put in the work and not get the result you deserve (another reason he's in my life).

And as I relaxed my shoulders into his words I started to laugh at myself.  I remembered why I have never been able to determine how many eggs and sticks of butter and boxes of chocolate I will need next year.  I always have that as my intention, and I always wonder why I didn't do it last year, and I began to remember year after year of remembering the answer.

Hence, this Note to Self:  

Dear Self, 

Every year you try this stunt.  The results have never and will never be pretty.  Stick to the plan - 3 pans per day.  You know I'm right. 

Love, Self.

I'm printing it out and putting it in with next year's brownie supplies.  We'll see if it makes a difference.

Inspiration, a Faux Uncle, and a Big Hug

I sat in the front row of the intimate (~200 people) town hall my Senator, Mark Kelly, held on Friday afternoon.  

I secured that front row seat by claiming kinship with JT, who grew up near me on Long Island, whose nephew is someone I liked but who disillusioned me, and who was delighted to play along with my charade as I charmed the young lady trying to seat me in the corner by declaring that I had to sit by my uncle right there in the front row, 2 feet from where everyone's hero spoke.  

JT and I waited next to each other in Line B, having arrived fifteen minutes before the doors opened.  We exchanged New York snark about politics and politicians and the hangers-on, on all of which he shared an insider's perspective.  The woman behind us ended up seated right next to us; it was the beginning of a beautiful (if brief) friendship.

There are many links on the interwebs which will give you the highlights.  It's obviously his standard stump speech, but delivered with a smoothness and ease I'd not seen before in his public events.  What's missing from the links is the audience participation.  There were lots of Marines and so lots of ooo-rah moments.  There were revival meeting moments, the audience echoing his words, or murmuring (what's louder than murmuring but quieter than speaking?) agreement.

It felt warm and cozy, surrounded by like-minded people, with undercover and conspicuously armed security and police in the midst.  Such is our world.  But he was out there, doing what Gabby was doing when a bullet pierced her brain, having become the elected official in the family.  His digs at our absent Republican Congressman for not meeting with his constituents hit home in a personal way here in Tucson.  

There wasn't much to feel good about in his remarks.  Our country is at a crossroads, with un-serious people in charge.   Much damage has been done, to our systems and our citizens.  There's not much Democrats can do until we take back the House in 2026.  

After an hour, he took himself and his fabulous jacket (which more than backs up his reminder to FFOTUS and DefSec that I'm not backing down)

down into the crowd for handshakes and conversation (with Faux Uncle) and, for me, a big, warm, seriously fabulous hug.  We talked about our grandkids and security and, in response to a comment from a bystander, exchanged that look shared only by those of us in The Club That Nobody Wants To Join.

Because I know him and I like him and I trust him, I'm going to share his parting words.  Parse them and you'll feel the broken pieces jabbing at you, but I'm choosing to go with the hope.

It will take time, but I believe we can get it back

An Introduction to The Brownie List

I am honored and thrilled to be on The Brownie List! I am a cook and know there is a secret ingredient in them aside from the love. Would you consider a bribe for the recipe? ...... You can save the long newsy update this year, I think I know what's up, almost daily, lots of fun! With love to you, FAMBB    (Comment on this post, originally published 12/9/2009.  Reprinted here, slightly amended.)   

The Brownie List - A Jewish Girl Does Christmas

 
It started innocently enough. HDK & Zanner and TBG & I were celebrating our first holiday season as working adults and we gave them a pan of my brownies and they gave us fire place tools. You know what I'm talking about..... the big brass stand and the little broom and dust pan and the oversized tongs and the pokey thing that's the only piece you ever really use anyway so why are the rest of them there????

Well, dear reader, I was abashed. Obviously, there was a mysterious Christmas gift giving code to which I was not privy. TBG was able to laugh it off and I liked the fire place tools a lot so I didn't make too much of a fuss but you can be damn sure that the next year I took Zanner shopping with me for their gift.

But that was because she kept score by dollars spent. In their divorce, there was only one point on which both they and the judge agreed --- neither of them had a very healthy attitude toward money. I was used to TBG's family Christmases, which featured lots of socks and warm sweaters and candy. Chanukah was books and stationary and hand knit mittens and maybe a doll or a dump truck but mostly it was judging what the relatives sent and then eating latkes. So, I had presented the brownies with pride and love and a sense that they were absolutely the perfect present for our bestest friends. I even baked them in a beautiful pan, which they got to keep.

Obviously, this was her issue and not mine. I knew that people loved my brownies and were happy to be around when I was baking them and smiled when they arrived as a care package in the mail. I knew that I loved making them and gifting them and watching people eating them and once I put that all together with the fact that Christmas is all about love and sharing and memories and comfort and did I mention love ..... well, the plan just kind of created itself.

I went to the giant Ace Hardware at Clark and Broadway and Diversey and bought clear plastic containers with bright red and blue and green and white tops. I bought brand new baking pans and actually paid attention to exactly how long 4 of them in the oven took to cook perfectly. I attached big beautiful bows and gave them to my special people. And my special people understood what they were receiving.... and, of course, that was part of what made them special.

Friends moved and siblings left the parental abode and cousins married and started families of their own and we moved and old friends re-appeared and playgroup kids went off to college and suddenly I was mailing a dozen boxes... then twenty... thirty.... forty-some last year and each one a total smile... on both ends.

How can I be sure? Because the only rule associated with The Brownie List is that the recipient must acknowledge the package with a real thank you note/text/phone call. 

]

It's possible to blow off a printed signature on a photo Xmas card or an e-card greeting or a generic family newsletter; no one will judge you if you don't reply.  But if I've taken the trouble to bake and wrap and ship you brownies you cannot ignore me. Not if you want to stay on The Brownie List. Just ask the people who've wondered where their box was lurking.

Not because I'm keeping score; I'm bribing you with sweet treats to entice you to share a bit of yourself with me. Because I like you. And I miss you.... all year long but especially now when I want you to help me decorate the tree and eat latkes straight from the pan and take the middle brownie when it's hot right out of the oven.  And because you're on the list, you know you'd like to be here, too.  

Alas and alack, we've moved on from wherever we were at the time we were entwined in each other's lives, and there's nothing we can to to fix that.

Putting you on The Brownie List is my next best thing.  Sharing is caring and I care about you.

The Brownie List

I've gathered the ingredients on the countertop.  They'll live there until I'm done.

The pans are washed and ready to go, on top of the towels I inherited from Nannie.  The pot with the melting chocolate and butter was part of my mother's trousseau in 1950.  That's 75 years of oatmeal and melted butter.  

Just waiting for that chocolate.

I baked and packaged and wrote short notes to ten different sets of people who are in my life but live far far far oh just much too far away.  Everyone will reach out to thank me, not only because it's protocol for remaining on The List, but because it's been too long since we last touched base.

It's time consuming and messy and dealing with the USPS website is a nightmare and it's just about the best thing I do all year long.  Each box sparks a smile, a sigh, a wonderful warm hug around me heart.  I know so many wonderful people.  It's good to be reminded of that now and then.
 

Not Shopping

Dilatory means slow to act ..... and that's what happened this weekend.  I had every intention, really, of posting every day while we were in Indiana with the grandbabies.  But marathon UNO games; hide and seek in the basement; jumping at the trampoline park; and watching the snow fall... and fall... and fall, leaving more than ten inches to play with, and then hanging with the softest, snuggliest,  most loving puppy in the world,  

there was barely time to open my phone or computer to type.  

I'm assuming I'm forgiven.

By Saturday afternoon we were stir crazy.  Leaving Grandpa home to watch football, the rest of us piled into SIR's massive Ford and plowed our way through icy roads and piles of unplowed snow to the mall.  

FlapJilly loves the mall, even when there's nothng but pre-shopping to be done.  Her mom took photos of the things she liked while the boys wandered on their own .... until we came to this place.

Who knew there were this many flavors of chips in the world?

Apparently, I am among the minority.  I had no idea that Dubai Chocolate existed, let alone that it had gone viral.  

I understand green Life Savers; they and the orange ones are about the only candy I eat.  But this......

I have no idea what these are.

There were some items resembling real food.

This is a pickle party, meant to be shared.

I'm sorry.  Cotton candy comes on a paper cone at a ball game or the circus, not packaged with penguins.

And, in case you were thirsty, there were sorta kinda familiar bottles in one cooler,

fantastic cans in the other.

I will let you draw your own conclusions about the collection of delectable edibles we found;  I remain somewhere between bemused and appalled.