As much as I gripe about the tedium of the holiday season (see T’is The Season To Be Cranky, November 30, 2015) I must confess that there is one time-honored December tradition to which I happily succumb. As soon as the calendar informs me that we are about to embark on the eight days of Hanukkah,
I’m so glad this holiday season is over. Because if I hear one more boast about brisket, I think I’m going to spray paint someone’s Dutch oven. When did brisket emerge as the national dish of December? And where was I when this was happening? Clearly not in the supermarket purchasing Lipton’s Onion Soup Mix.
It is July and once again we have succumbed to the temptation of a summer rental. Apparently the seduction of a new experience was more powerful than the memory of our last rental. At that time we had fallen in love with a charming, rustic home on an island with beautiful beaches. At least I
Question: What’s the scariest thing that a wife of forty years might hear from her husband? (No, it’s not “I’m leaving you for a younger woman,” though that might be preferable to the true correct response.) Answer: “Honey, at the end of the year, I’m going to retire.” Question: What’s the scariest thing that a
