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And my heating pad is dead…

weasel in the snow

It started off with a fizzle, but it snew pretty good there toward the end. Just three or four inches, but it’s turning to ice now. Glad I’m not driving in it.


Comment from Gibby Haynes
Time: February 23, 2008, 12:24 am

I’m way too mature to write something like, “‘Just three or four inches…’ Zing!” Way too mature.

Dear god it’s 04:24 on saturday morning. What in the name of Mother Earth’s wang am I doing on the intertubes?

Comment from Steamboat McGoo
Time: February 23, 2008, 10:35 am

Weaz – I did that with some swiss cheese once. Ate half the sammich before I notice it was a bit chewy.

You’re heating is out? You don’t mean…?

Comment from S. Weasel
Time: February 23, 2008, 10:38 am

Oh, shoot! Heating *pad*. My heating is fine.

I’ll correct the headline.

Comment from Steamboat McGoo
Time: February 23, 2008, 10:41 am

Thank god! I thought you might be shiverin’ your ass off up there! Whew.

Comment from Lokki
Time: February 23, 2008, 11:35 am

Weasel, your waxed-paper adventure reminded me of a story my father used to tell about his friend, and our neighbor, Dimitri.

Dimitri was an interesting character. His family was Russian nobility who had been forced out of the country by the Bolsheviks. Of course he was only a little boy at the time, but he had a great story of escaping across the Baltic sea at night with the Bolsheviks chasing them in a faster boat. They gradually threw everything they owned overboard, but escaped in the end. Whether it was because throwing everything away made the boat lighter or because the peasant-trash Bolsheviks stopped to rescue all the cool stuff from the water, he was never sure…. but back to our story – his family settled in Paris, like all good exiled Russian nobility did (although he never mentioned his father driving a cab for a living as legend says all former Russian Counts did). He did,however, sometimes talk about being a prisoner in Berlin during WWII when the Americans were bombing it by day and the English were bombing it by night. As I recall, he didn’t care for it….

But, finally, my patient friends, to the point. Dimitri was an artist, a champion archer, and a violinist. He also fancied himself a cook taught by the babushkas in the kitchen as a child and later sophisticated by the french servents of the house in Paris. One Christmas, he got nostalgic for the Christmas goose that his family had always served in Russia, and determined to have one. It must be the freshest goose; the finest goose! With the help of my father, he arranged in November for a local farmer to start feeding a carefully chosen goose on a special diet of grasses and grains that Dimitri determined would add the most delicious and subtle favors to the fatted meat. On Christmas eve at precisely 4 p.m., the farmer killed the goose, plucked it, and delivered it immediately to Dimitri’s home. He ordered Elaine, his wife, to go to a friend’s home – he was not to be disturbed during his preparations! He did select my father to act as his assistant during the process as a special favor to him; indeed we were all to be invited to share in the goose and my mother was given a list of side dishes to bring as accompaniments….

The goose was carefully salted and sauced and placed in the oven to roast, while my Dimitri and my Dad retreated to the den for whiskies and nostalgic comparisons of childhood Christmases past.

After about three hours of whiskies, there came a sudden BOOOOOOM!!!! from the kitchen. It seemed that although Dimitri had been in the kitchen enough as a child to remember how the preparation of the sauces was done… but he had never learned that you have to clean the guts and offal out of the goose before cooking it.

As my father delicately put it…, ” About half the kitchen was covered in goose shit.”

I always liked that story.

So, Weasel, it coulda been worse, much, much worse.

Comment from porknbean
Time: February 23, 2008, 2:12 pm

As my father delicately put it…, ” About half the kitchen was covered in goose shit.”

Oh man that sucks. Did you all at least whip out the crackers and enjoy the goose pate off the walls?

Comment from S. Weasel
Time: February 23, 2008, 6:51 pm

Bravo. I think all family stories should end with ex-noblemen covered in molton goose shit.

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