The Crab Chronicles

ORNL Can Kiss My Grits

There is some kind of freaky weather going on here because yesterday the HIGH here was 83. That's typically our September weather, late in the month, or maybe March. It was so nice I spent a lot of time outside, watering and puttering around in my gardens.

Michael and his friend Michael made a fire in our firepit last night, it was so chilly.

[above, a photo made earlier in the day right before they took Lola to walk.]

I have a bone to pick with the Oak Ridge National Laboratory. They recently canceled a class to reduce southern accents. Why on earth would they offer such a class?

"The course had been advertised as a way to "feel confident in a meeting when you need to speak with a more neutral American accent, and be remembered for what you say and not how you say it."

Really? Now the national news folks have picked it up and are reporting on it, like this NBC News story, Tennessee Nuclear Lab Cancels 'Lose Your Southern Accent' Class.

"Lisa Scott, a speech pathologist in Knoxville, Tennessee, told NBC News that Oak Ridge National Laboratory — the U.S. Energy Department's largest science and energy research facility — hired her to help staff members neutralize their Southern accents.

 Many businesses offer "accent neutralization" services for employees hired from foreign countries, and some do for native American English speakers with strong regional accents, especially in New York, Boston and Philadelphia, Scott said. Oak Ridge's course was the first she'd heard of by a government agency."

 

Yes, the government thinks my accent is a problem. Wow. They have no problem with printing government forms in Spanish for folks who live here but won't speak English. Why doesn't the government help them with their accents?! I was in a store recently and the Hispanic salesman had an accent so thick I had to ask him to repeat everything 2-3 times.

 

Oak Ridge National Laboratory is in the heart of East Tennessee. I lived there for 20 years. I still say "laht" and "fahve" [light and five] and "share" for shower. So be it. I've never had anyone say they couldn't understand me.

 

ORNL needs to stop wasting money on hiring people like Lisa Scott, and spend money on making the place more secure! They have nuclear reactors there for heaven's sake!

 

The story of Oak Ridge is fascinating. It is a valley enclosed entirely by the Blue Ridge Mountains. They evicted the farmers and built the entire city in the 1930's in order to build the nuclear bombs that ended WWII. It was the "secret city" for years. There's a terrific new book out The Girls of Atomic City that I read part of recently. The young women who went there to work were given amazing opportunities for that time, and they also had to endure some real hardships.

 

But back to the accent reduction thing that has me so ticked off. I am PROUD to have an accent. When I am at a family reunion it gets thicker. When I am in a long conversation with a non-southerner it is less. My musical ear adapts to what I hear around me, is my point. Most of us in the south adjust our accents to fit the situation, if need be. But to offer a class, like it's a speech impediment? HELL to the no.

Funny Stories

I know a number of funny stories which aren't mine to tell, but were told to me, and they made me laugh. I thought today if you're in the mood for a chuckle, this might be the time to share a few of the stories. (They all involve members of my immediate or extended family...)

My brother has lived in his neighborhood for over 20 years. He has a neighbor who is a single foster mom, and she has a big yard. He doesn't particularly like her but he has a soft spot for her kids. He noticed a few years ago that she had trouble keeping her grass cut, so he started just mowing it for her, when she was at work. He had been doing that for several years when he ran into her at a neighborhood party. She was telling several guys how her grass never needed mowing! "I never have to mow it!" she crowed. "I lucked out and got this amazing grass that never needs mowing." She went on and on. One of the guys standing around her finally laughed and said uh, nope, Bruce mows it for you. She didn't go find Bruce or thank him or say a word, just turned and walked off. (Bruce doesn't mow her lawn any more, BTW, she had to hire someone...)

One of my cousins, who grew up in Kentucky, went to a rather exclusive private girls' college. Her first week there she was terribly homesick -- 17 years old, never been away from home before. She wandered into a common room in her dormitory and noticed the TV was on and nobody was watching it. She started flipping through channels and found Hee Haw, a show her dad always watched but she had never really liked. As soon as she heard the music she burst into tears.

When my dad was in the Army, stationed in Germany, he worked a lot of hours and didn't have a lot of free time for his favorite hobby, reading. So he volunteered to clean the latrine before inspections. All the other guys thought he was crazy to volunteer for that duty. So before inspections he go in there and lock the door, and quickly clean the latrine well enough to pass inspection. (He had a strong stomach and nothing bothered him.) He then kept the door locked and sat down and read his book. If someone knocked on the door he hollered "I'M NOT DONE CLEANING HERE JUST GO SOMEPLACE ELSE!"

Dad and my brother in the early 1980's

My grandfather (Bob Hasty) was a great fan of the Atlanta Zoo. He started taking us there when we were quite small. He always went to the monkey house first. That way, if we got tired, we still got to visit the monkeys. (Guess what was his favorite place at the zoo?!)

My great aunt Hazel was naughty once, as a small girl, and she was punished by being locked up in an outbuilding where there were watermelons stored -- this would've been around 1900. She found a crowbar or something and ruined every melon in the  building.

Another time, a little boy came to school dirty and stinky and kept wearing the same shirt each day, until she poured an inkwell down his shirt. "He won't wear that shirt tomorrow!" was her response when the teacher asked why she did that.

 

Hazel's brothers were equally into pranks. One day they asked their dad if they could go to a party and he said no. They waited until he was asleep, tied him in his bed, took the car keys and went to the party.

My grandmother was equally a prankster. This is from Mom's recollections:

Mother was a bit of a mischief, often played jokes on people, mostly family. We all ate together at our big dining room table. Sometimes, when we had company, she’d start passing serving dishes around the table, never putting them down. The trick was to see how many times a polite guest would continue to pass the bowl of beans around. Of course we kids would have the giggles.

One of her standards was to slip a hair brush down in the guest bed so that feet would encounter the brush and come flying out of bed.

above, the Butler family around 1918 -- Hazel is standing in the back, second from the right, next to my grandmother Wilma (with the very curly bobbed hair!)

I will share more of these as I think of them...

The Tomato Thief

There are very few places in the world I would really like to visit but one of them is Cooperstown, New York. Yesterday, my friend Cindy got to be there for the 2014 Hall of Fame Induction. Cindy is a diehard Braves fan, and her son lives not far from Cooperstown, so it was a terrific opportunity for her.

I texted her and said I thought I saw her on TV last night, the back of her head anyway. She said it was 77 there yesterday. I then suffered a spasm of Weather Envy.

Here, it felt more like 97. Yikes. I had the air conditioner on AND a fan yesterday afternoon.

I am working on a project that I find so fascinating that it's hard to tear myself away. I am writing up family histories on my mom's families, the Butlers and the Hastys. I want to take my time and do it right, and that requires patience and research and reaching out to folks in the family.

I don't know as many stories about the Hastys, only because my grandmother didn't like most of the siblings of her husband and so stayed away from them and kept her children away from them, as much as possible. She preferred her own family and didn't care who knew it.

However, I have a Hasty cousin who has done a lot of research and I can trace the family back to Marcus Hasty, who lived from 1789-1862.

In this age of computers, I truly think we are all capable of writing down our family histories, and we should, as much as possible -- not just the line of folks but as much as we know about them as people. Seniors likely know many stories and they should be preserved. My mom has tons of stories. If I was better at camera stuff I'd just make videos of her telling stories.

I so regret not doing that with my dad when he was alive.

[below, me at age 6 at a wedding of one of my Butler cousins. I was the flowergirl but I was more interested in the cheese straws on the table than anything else.]

Lola has been a hot mess for the past 24 hours.

I was eating a bowl of sliced cantaloupe yesterday afternoon while sitting on the sofa in the family room, and Lola barked and carried on like her life was in danger, rolling her eyes, trying to get next to me and get a piece of that cantaloupe.

When I finished I put the bowl down on the floor even though there was literally nothing in it, and she licked it for 5 minutes.

Last night at dinner, I sliced up a homegrown tomato for Michael and put it in a small bowl at his place at the table. We were waiting for Mother and sitting on the sofa watching the news, and ignoring Lola. Lola very quietly eased herself over to the table and managed to balance her upper half on the chair and very very quietly take each tomato slice out, and eat it. She was so stealthy and so noiseless we didn't see anything, but I hollered when I got up and saw the empty bowl. We knew immediately who did it.

I have never seen a dog who likes fruits and veggies so much.

She sleeps on on a dog bed in my room. This morning, 7:38, I am sound asleep. Lola gives a mighty WOOF and jumps up like HEY I GOTTA GO OUTSIDE NOW NOW NOW THIS IS NOT A DRILL!

I jump out of bed and throw on a robe, and I am looking for my shoes when I hear a thump. That was the sound of Lola jumping on the bed and bounding over to my side, so she could snuggle into the warm spot I'd just vacated.

She's allowed on the bed, but not under the covers or on the pillows. I know that sounds harsh but we have to draw the line somewhere.

She went into Michael's room yesterday at some point and peed on his floor. I told him that was her way of saying he needs to clean up his room. He almost didn't see the puddle for all the dirty laundry..

That's about all the news for now.

Stay cool.

 

Connection to the Past

We are deep in summer now. I can walk outside -- as I just did, with Lola -- before 10 a.m. and feel the hot Georgia sun beating on my head, and hear the thrum of insects. Everything is green, and the flowers are in bloom again due to last week's rain.

A hot day is ahead [91, according to weather.com] and I see no signs of rain today.

That feeling of being outside, in the sun, and hearing those noises, connects me to my childhood, and it connects me to my ancestors. They stood under the hot Georgia sun, decades ago, and thought probably the same type thoughts as me.

Will it rain today? Do I need to water the flowers and the gardens? Should I wear a hat? What should I fix for supper?

I ponder the fact that I am a descendant of generations who have dealt with the Georgia summer, and we all survived, and managed, and taught our children how to cope. Don't go out walking in the middle of the day, if you can help it. Do your chores early, before the heat of the day is the worst. If you have to be out, wear a hat. Drink iced tea or lemonade.

My grandfather used to cool off his children with alcohol rubs at bedtime.

I imagine up north kids get a similar education about how to deal with cold weather.

But there's also this fact. In the heat, when one isn't particularly energetic, we tell stories. We talk about the past. We tell stories we were told by our grannies. We might sing songs that were sung a hundred years ago, or two hundred. I still know all the words to "Yankee Doodle Dandy" which I think I learned around age 5. Mama learned her first song as a toddler -- "Take Me Out to the Ballgame."

Historian and author Shelby Foote said "The southern man doesn't live in the past. The past lives in him."

I was telling Mother last night that I used to be so impatient with reading educational materials, once I finished school. I found history deadly dull, at times.

Now, I don't. I take time to read every issue of Georgia Backroads Magazine. I get started watching something on PBS like The Civil War and I am mesmerized and sad, and time has suddenly vanished.

I think about my dad telling me and Bruce about the Civil War battles fought around here. We have seen all the important battlefields in the southeast, and listened to Dad explain the battles with great animation. He read voraciously and most of his reading was history.

I often think about the recent afternoon that I spent with my friend David Moore at Oakland Cemetery and the blog entry I wrote.

David and I talked about the fact that both our dads were longtime members of historical societies and revered history, and when we were young we didn't "get it."(My dad was one of the founders of Historic Augusta.) David's dad, Virlyn Moore, was a leading member of the Atlanta Historical Society and a prominent athlete.

We are all connected, Georgians whose family roots go deep. David's dad played baseball with my grandfather at some point, possibly for the Atlanta Crackers -- the minor league team that was the main source of baseball pride here before the Braves moved to Atlanta in 1966. Papaw played for them in the early 1930's.

Sometimes when I get too worried about money, or Michael, or the house, or any number of other things, it helps me to remember that I am not facing anything worse than what generations before me faced, and we have endured. My ancestors lived through the Civil War and worse -- reconstruction. Hard times for all Georgians during those years.

Mother and I were both saying yesterday how much we love the photo below, of my grandparents Wilma and Bob Hasty, taken in 1923. They were young and in love and had just gotten married.

Mamaw was born in 1899 to Beulah Phillips Butler, who was born in 1870, just a few years after the civil war. Undoubtedly, Mamaw's grandmother held her and cared for her, and 63 years later Mamaw held me and cared for me. I am awed thinking of that fact, that hands that touched my grandmother belonged to folks who survived the Civil War. We are linked in time.

The past is all around us, and any person who loves history finds themself, at some point in life, realizing how important it is to preserve it. We have to preserve places like Oakland Cemetery, because if we lose that connection we will be truly lost.

We are all connected, all end products of generations who have endured. We will leave our photos and stories and songs behind for future generations, and we owe them a great legacy.

Lola Speaks

Mother and I get such a kick out of Lola. She is our lovey baby and a great source of comic relief. I do not ever again want to live without a dog.

Mom is out of her arthritis medication, almost. So I called the pharmacy this morning and they said they would have to fax the prescription refill to the doctor, to get a new prescription, and if I want it expedited to call the doctor's office.

OK, no problem. Mom's doctor, who specializes in geriatric medicine, is named Dr. Taylor Graves -- irony abounds over there at his Emory office... Mother couldn't think of his name this morning. "Think of an open grave," I said, trying to be helpful [snicker snort].

"Oh Lord..." was her reply.

So I finally reach one of his nurses and we talk about the medication. While she is looking up the online records, Lola is sitting right next to me whining because she wants a bite of Mother's toast.

Mother likes to eat toast with jam every morning, after she finishes her eggs. Lola wants it. Lola never gets that. I usually pacify her with Milkbones.

Despite her utter failure at ever getting Mother's toast, she still likes to beg. Lola has an entire repertoire of whines, barks, snuffles, yips - quite a cacophony.

I had been talking a minute when Mother suddenly realized that since I had the doctor's office on speakerphone, the nurse could hear all of Lola's entreaties. So Mother suddenly said "TELL HER THAT'S THE DOG, NOT ME!"

I chuckled. "The odd sounds you are hearing are NOT my mother, but the dog." I held the phone closer to Lola for a second.

The nurse started laughing and nearly dropped the phone, I think.

The rest of the conversation, the nurse was giggling. She asked me what kind of dog Lola is, etc. I said to Lola "Tell this lady hello" and held the phone down near her mouth. She yipped and then sneezed violently.

I was tempted to say the old Monty Python line "I empty my nostrils in your general direction!" - but I figured the nurse probably wouldn't get the reference, and might even think I was nuts.

I hung up and gave Lola a Milkbone and she hushed. She also got to lick crumbs off of Mother's plate.

Later, she will walk outside several times, take 5-10 naps, and possibly try to eat a tomato out of the garden...

In my next life, I want to be a dog...

 

Secrets to Great Scallops

We had to postpone Michael's birthday dinner last weekend for several different reasons, but yesterday was the birthday dinner day. We set off for Buford Highway Farmer's Market bright and early [about 11] to find goodies and hopefully buy some of the regular groceries.

Michael loves two things from his native country: kvass and halvah. We bought some of those items as part of his birthday.

Kvass tastes like spoiled beer and old motor oil to me, but it's a cultural aquired taste, obviously. (We buy the non-alcoholic kind.)  Halvah is made primarily from sunflower seeds and sugar. Again, not yummy to me, but whatever. All Russian kids love halvah, in my experience.

We also bought some huge sea scallops. Mike loves scallops, like his grandmother. I like them

We have learned, over the years, that grit hides in most scallops and there is only one way to remove it: soak it in water. I put the scallops in a bowl and rinse them about 3-4 times. The first rinse, the water is always really milky colored, if that tells you something.

Most times, scallops you buy in the grocery store have been plumped up with injections of water, so when you cook them they shrink a lot. [Boo, hiss, booo....] These scallops were much better.

After soaking the scallops, I dried them on paper towels. Each scallop was still plump, about 2-3 bites per scallop.

To cook them, I simply melted some butter in a skillet - in this case Kerrygold Irish butter, because it was on sale at the market. It's richer and has a better flavor than most American butters. Another good choice is Plugra.

I minced two big fat cloves of garlic and swirled it around in the butter, and added sea salt and good pepper. I cooked the scallops on low, 5 minutes each side.

That's all it took.

Right before serving I squeezed fresh lime juice on each scallop.

Simple, easy, delicious. Really easy to make. Mother and Michael both said they were the best scallops I'd ever made.

We had also bought some wonderful Syrian bread at the market, and I finally cooked up the big zucchini, roasted in the overn. Yum!

Meditating With Lola

I am beginning to think we are getting a recap of last summer's soggy weirdness. Last summer it rained all summer. This summer started out well, but in the last few days we've gotten a LOT of rain.

I've not had to worry about watering the pot plants or gardens. That's a good thing.

I walk outside and I can hardly breathe because the humidity is so high. Yuck. It's like one degree off from being actual rain materializing in the air.

I met my temp job boss for a late lunch yesterday, at my favorite Greek place, Grecian Gyro in Tucker. I had Greek potatoes and Spanakopita. YUM. (I had already had an Aidell's chicken sausage with Mother earlier, because I needed some protein.) Work is slow right now, which is why I am home, but there's a possibility of more temp work in the near future. Yay.

I am trying to meditate a little bit every day. I have to be lying down when I try it because I usually fall asleep. Obviously, I would not make a good Buddhist.

So late yesterday afternoon I am lying down, and Lola keeps playing a game called: Prevent Dee from Meditating/resting. She barks hysterically for a minute, then comes and jumps on my bed like COME ON!

I didn't follow her wishes. She had just been outside.

Finally, she jumped on the bed and barreled over to me, stared into my eyes and licked my face. I told her if she would lie down and quit acting crazy I'd give her a tummy rubbing.

She complied, and I was able to rest a bit, and meditate. Oddly enough, rubbing a dog's tummy is relaxing and helps one to meditate - if it's a female dog. I guess it's sort of like counting beads for Catholics.

Mike is good about tummy rubs

Changes

I was talking to a friend not long ago whose life is in a rut. He wants new experiences, new blessings, a new direction, but he is too afraid of change to do anything.

He is stuck fast in old habits. I believe fear is holding him back. That's the nasty, insidious power of fear.

I know all about that. I understand that mindset completely. There is something I wish I could say to him but I'm not sure if I should, or how I should say it. If I could, what I'd say would go something like this:

If experience has taught me anything it has taught me this -- just when life seems to be rocking along just fine, something WILL come along to blast you out of your comfort zone. You can either hunker down and pretend it doesn't exist, or resolve to meet everything head-on.

Would he listen to me though? I don't know. I just know he needs to get shaken out of his comfort zone.

Case in point: I remember so clearly my internal debate about whether or not to go to Russia in 2002. (The trip was in January 2003) The tragedy of 911 had happened recently and everyone was nervous about international travel and terrorism. I didn't speak Russian. It was an expensive trip. I wasn't sure my voice would hold out to sing Handel's Messiah - it's a demanding piece of singing. There were so many reasons NOT to go.

I ultimately prayed and thought about it and decided to GO. I needed to do something outside my comfort zone.

That trip changed my life forever.

That trip led me to adopt my daughter, and then my son. It brought me many new friends. It deepened my faith in God.

It seems to me that if one doesn't get out of a rut on one's own steam, the Universe [or God or whoever you believe in] will do something to shake you up.

When my dad died my whole world shattered, and it took me a long time to put it back together. I am not the same person any more, but that's OK.

I had to be strong for Mom, and she had to be strong for me and my brother. Both sides of our family pull together when cancer happens, or an accident. We are blessed.

I have a friend who just broke up with her significant other. She is re-orienting herself pretty well, I think. She has a lot of family support.

I have another friend who has not been able to get out of a bad relationship and  she has attempted suicide -- unsuccessfully, thank God. That's a permanent solution to a temporary problem, and such a sad, sad thing.

I am praying for all the friends mentioned here, although I don't want to mention their names because I respect their privacy. Everyone has their own journey to make, and the best way to support my friends, I feel, is to love them. I also believe in the power of prayer; it can change lives and work miracles. Please say a prayer, or send positive energy to my friends.

Thanks. Peace be with you.

The Big Day Recapped

Some years ago, don't ask me how many, Michael was in the car and we drove past The Vortex -- the one at Little 5 Points [the Haight Ashbury of Atlanta y'all] -- and he said "I want to eat there!" What boy wouldn't? The door is a giant skull and you go in the mouth to eat in the restaurant. Click on the above link and you'll see what I mean.

I had to explain that because they allow smoking in there [gasp!] that he would have to wait until age 18 to eat there.

So yesterday was his birthday. My friend Gary came to town and we all went down there to eat at the Vortex. Well, the area is so popular that now you have to pay $5 to park near there. I don't care about that but Michael was steamed. A couple of weeks ago he and some friends went to Little 5 and parked in the wrong place and the car got booted and he had to pay $50 to get the boot removed. What a racket. Taught him a valuable parking lesson, though...

I digressed.

So anyway, Michael had babysat my friend Nicole's kids yesterday morning and we had to go to lunch late. I thought that was a good thing, a very good thing. How crowded will The Vortex be in the middle of the afternoon? I [foolishly] thought.

Answer: very crowded. As in, people huddling outside the door, waiting to be called in.

I walked inside and asked how long it would be before our party of three could be seated. An enormous black man glared at me. A woman with a piece of metal sticking out of her nose informed me it would be 30-45 minutes. I asked if we could get a beeper. "No, we will just step outside the door and call your name" I was informed.

ACK. All the good memories of eating at The Vortex in past years instantly vanished.

I was feeling peckish. I hadn't eaten since breakfast, and when my blood sugar drops I feel weak and sometimes dizzy. I should've had a mid-morning snack but I didn't because I had to get Mother to the hair salon.

I asked Michael what he wanted to do, while Gary walked down the block to Savage Pizza to see if there was a wait there. He returned and informed us there was not, so we walked down there. I had not eaten there before.

Well honey, despite the peculiar name Savage Pizza was a great place. I told the girl at the cash register my dilemma and instantly she returned with many packages of crackers and a coke. I made my way to the table and Gary had ordered a huge Greek salad. We all split that, and then had a fantastic Greek pizza:

"Garlic tomato sauce, feta, artichoke hearts, Greek olives, red onion, fresh spinach, mozzarella and parmesan cheeses. Anchovies at your request."

YUM. So, so tasty. AWESOME crust, too. [We skipped the anchovies.]

Michael had a royally honored birthday. His babysitting boss [my friend Nicole who has 3 kids, 1 adopted from Russia] paid him extra and brought him a small cake. Yesterday evening, two of his friends dropped by with really nice presents. Mike was out with other friends, but so be it.

Mother and I had leftover pizza for dinner, a win win for me since I didn't have to cook. I will tell you the secret to re-heating pizza properly: don't use the microwave. Take a big skillet with a lid and put a light coating of olive oil on the bottom, then place the pizza slices on there and put the lid on. Wait 5-8 minutes. The pizza should be perfectly re-heated and not rubbery.

Lola was totally into the birthday fever. Michael had a birthday cake I had made for him on Friday, a sour cream pound cake [thanks cousin Jan!] and he wanted a piece for breakfast yesterday - hey that was fine with me, since usually I can't get him to eat breakfast. I cut a piece and put it on the table yesterday morning, and when I wasn't looking Lola snatched it off and ate it in one gulp. Later yesterday, the cake was on the dining room table in a cake carrier and she managed to nose the lid off and take a bite out of the cake. ACK. Then I had to take the cake and put it on the middle of the stove, the only place in the kitchen besides the microwave where she can't get it.

That's the issue with having a very loooooong doggie who is very smart.

The weather was really unseasonably cool yesterday - hi of 79 or so, after a lot of rain. I found a 5 lb. zucchini hidden in the enormous plant.

Anyway, the day ended with Mike getting a tattoo. Yes, in addition to the ear gauges he now has a tat. It's my name, in calligraphy lettering, on his left arm. It's bigger than I would like but how can I fuss about it?! Short answer, I cannot. He's 18.

I told him to please get a tat that could be covered up in a job interview and he agreed to that request and complied with it. I also warned him to go to a clean place and check on the walls for the certificate from the health department. He went to 2 places before he found one that looked clean enough to suit him.

I hope he doesn't get any more tats or piercings, but it's out of my hands. He's still adorable. And no matter how big he gets, to me, he will always look like this photo, made on the occasion of his 11th birthday, his first one celebrated with us:

My Baby is Legal

Hard to believe my baby is 18 years old! Wow. Seems like just yesterday the judge in Kazakhstan said he was mine and I gave him a big hug and said in Russian "Now I am your mama!" -- I had been practicing that phrase for months.

He has come so far, and yet he is still a smart, sweet, funny boy. Excuse me, man..... legally.

Now he shaves, drives his car, has a bank account and a job. Seems like just yesterday I was quizzing him on his multiplication tables.

Above, this was a few weeks ago when we went to a play.

Below, in Kazakhstan in 2007.

It's a bleak rainy day here, and he is babysitting this morning, but we will be going to lunch later, and having a little family birthday party tonight. He went ice skating with a bunch of his friends last night, and went to the movie with friends the night before -- so the celebrating has been happening for two days already!

I made him a sour cream pound cake yesterday. Of course, Mother and I had to sample it last night.. I put a piece of it on the table this morning for Mike to eat before going to his babysitting job, and Lola snatched it off the table and ate it the minute I turned my back.

She said it was delicious.

He had another piece for breakfast. Hey, getting him to eat ANYTHING for breakfast is a feat!

Happy Day my darling boy!