"Alice, Off the Page"
- taken from a March 27 article in The New Yorker by Calvin Trillin

It's a peculiar fact of human nature that we will do things for other people that we would never do for ourselves. Cleaning the kitchen is a prime example.

Demographics (aka the problem with Connecticut)

Problems with the local of my abode (in the specified region) arise when the median age of a sabbatical seminar on rabbinical Judaism through the modern ecumenical movement places a nubile twenty-something year old among several brace of octogenarians. The coup de grace is dealt when the priest queries my pecuniary status: “So, you’re living in New Preston? Are you a millionaire?” “Not yet father, not yet.”



Still to come: Wedding Weissen, the true life and death story of my first brew.

Living with my grandfather has it strange little quirks. For instance, many times I will enter the kitchen with the intent to try my culinary hand at a certain dish, only to find out that the stores of a certain indispensible ingredient have been depleted. There was the time I planned to make tomato salad only to find out that two large tomatoes and six cherries had dissappeard in the course of an afternoon. I've seen a quarter of a package of bacon dissapear in less than an hour. My personal favorite? Drinking half of a bottle of salad dressing as an after dinner snack.