Learn something new everyday. Johnnie Cochran was from Shreveport.

Lyman is talking to women on the phone.

Big Daddy asked about sweet corn today.

Jason is coming to spend the night.

I need a nap.

We had another nasty weather scare here Saturday evening.

Clouds were low and dark. Severe thunderstorms threatening tornados stretched from here to Alabama.

About 5:20 the weather strip informed us that a tornado had been sighted 7 miles south of Ferriday, next town over, traveling this way at 30 miles an hour. The warning siren began to blare.

Lucy's cage went into the hall and I started sweating. I really stink when I become afraid.

Whatever. I don't know where it touched, or where it went, but it didn't come here. I haven't seen news that it did damage locally.

I spent nearly 30 years in Texas, and never came so near these godawful things as I have twice in the past six months.

I like a good heist. But as far from Vidalia as NYC is, do Fed-Ex workers really wear black there?

Silly sister.

Mo' crawfish.

Speaking of finding things in Dallas.

When I was a waitress, back in prehistory, there was an art deco medical arts building in downtown Dallas. It has since been replaced, by, I think, the keyhole building by I.M. Pei.

When the place was under destruction, I went by for a memento. The letters from the name, made of heavy cast aluminum, were available. I wanted something sculptural, like an "S", but had to settle for a "G".

I think I was 21. 20, maybe.

Some men buy fast cars, and some men build greenhouses. Lyman's has cool automatic louvers.

All right, that's it. I've had it with Gore boys.

Big Daddy came by this morning for a cup of coffee.

"Does Janis want some sweet corn this season?"

Do you have any idea how long it will be before corn is ready? Farmers haven't even planted here yet.

Arghhhhhhh!

"No, sir. By that time I intend to be living with blue-eyed, childless orphan Giancarlo in Siena."

I have some strong feelings against boys in the house:

1) I am too old for overhead lights. There are lamps in every room in this house. Use them.

2) Do not put a sweating glass next to the coaster in your bedroom.

3) Do not invite your grandparents to dinner and disappear until after the food is cooked and your grandparents are gone.

4) Do not wad up shirts and leave them on the end table in the living room.

5) Do not, under any circumstance except emergency, have the TV on when I wake up in the morning.

LATER: And what the $%#% is on the bathroom mirror?

If you don't read Indigo Insights, and I encourage you to, you might miss this and a bunch of other funny stuff:

A man is at work one day when he notices that his co-worker is wearing an earring.

This man knows his co-worker to be a normally conservative fellow, and is curious about his sudden change in "fashion sense."

The man walks up to him and says, "I didn't know you were into earrings."

"Don't make such a big deal, it's only an earring," he replies sheepishly.

His friend falls silent for a few minutes, but then his curiosity prods him to say, "So, how long have you been wearing one?"

"Ever since my wife found it in my truck."

Thanks, Bob and Indigo.

Our neighbors, the grandparents, now have a huge pair of pink inflatable bunny ears visible above their enclosed patio.

These were sophisticated, dare I say sedate, people.

The stillness of these peregrines puts me in mind, by way of contrast, of a concert I attended in about 1984.

David Gilmour, guitarist for Pink Floyd, was touring solo, and took his act to Reunion Arena in Dallas.

The congas and light percussion were handled by a woman who was competent, lively and fit, wearing a stretchy pantsuit for comfort, and looked like she'd swallowed a beach ball.

She might be the only obviously pregnant performer I've ever seen on stage.

As smug a jerk as Sean Penn comes across on stage at the Academy Awards, I'm told he is quite nice in real life.

He has been filming in Baton Rouge recently. A young waitress who is a friend of our boys, and who has overnighted with us occasionally, waited on him at the restaurant where she works the other day.

She told Michael that she was a little nervous serving him and not at her best. Mr. Penn was gentle and undemanding, just as he should have been.

I didn't think to ask about the tip.

UPDATE: Johnny Depp is floating around Baton Rouge, too.

I'm posting this site for personal reference regarding peregrines.

Lyman is making fun of me for watching these boring birds, but I am checking their behavior against Lucy's.

Ordinarily, peregrines stretch, yawn and sleep much as Lucy does. From what I can make out from descriptions, they tuck their heads forward under their wings rather than back over their shoulders as Lucy does when they sleep. I still haven't observed a yawn, but maybe the birdies aren't as bored as I would be. I haven't seen any sort of stretching apart from a brief double-wing stretch when one is about to fly from the roost.

One of the things I forget is that San Francisco can be pretty chilly, worse at 33 stories. Those eggs can't take much neglect. The transfer I watched happened in about 30 seconds.

When Lucy is awake, she likes for me to be awake, too. (I told you she is like a baby.)

So if I lie down to nap, she often resorts to ear-piercing screams to keep me alert.

In the interest of teaching the little girl the Golden Rule, I'm considering investing in something along this line.

Since I have absolutely nothing to offer in the way of music on my own in response to O'Possum's Thursday Three, I'll direct you to attorney Stuart Buck, who is an accomplished classical guitarist.

I've been wanting to work him in here for days.

He had a light stroke several months ago, but he's all better now.

UPDATE: Much as I like Mr. Buck, there is nothing on his site that indicates he does plumbing. A good recording of a classical guitarist is considerably cheaper than an hour with a plumber.

My attorney does plumbing.

Gracie and George changed places at about 6:12 a.m. PST this morning, as the day broke over San Francisco.

I read on the message board that the female usually sits the eggs at night, so I assume it was George who came to relieve Gracie.

Before, when I thought I saw Gracie stretching and returning to the nest, I must have seen the birds exchanging places at about 11 a.m. PST. 5 hour shifts?

We'll do better than Sonic tonight. We found a quart of chili from a friend, and a dozen tamales from the Apostolic Life Tabernacle (best in two towns) in the freezer. Those should go down well on this 44 degree gray day.

We are about to starve to death here.

We have tried a couple of recipes the past two nights and both of them were flops.

One was a crawfish terrine from Emeril Lagasse that was too bland to bother with. That's what playing to a national audience gets ya.

The other was a Brazilian black-eyed pea fritter with a sauce. The recipe called for "dende oil" which research shows is a distinctly flavored palm oil used in Brazil and Africa.

"Lyman, sweetie boy, maybe we shouldn't try this. It can't come out right."

You don't pop around to the corner grocery for dende oil in Vidalia, LA.

"We'll make do."

Lyman shops, out comes the food processor, and we make a fritter substance with peas, onions, cilantro, and other goodies that tastes pretty good from the container.

The Waring Pro deep-fryer (highly recommended) comes out, we drop the fritters into the hot oil, and they disappear.

I don't know if they were good or bad. They dissolved, nada, nothing left in the basket.

We tried coating a fritter with a little flour. We turned out with a brown flour shell that crumbled in the hand.

I'm thinking Sonic tonight.

Cool ... Clear ... Water.

I can't imagine anything better than a good shower after three months abed.

Part of any recovery therapy when I was a child, was for my mother to set me off in some other part of the house, put crisp sheets on my bed, give me a thorough warm bath, and put me back to bed in a clean gown. She was a good mama.

So is Peg.

It has been yet another chilly, dreary and rainy day for Lucy and me. (Lyman has been talking to women on the phone. Their charge.) We were all cheered to hear from Mr. Hlatky about this post.

That cookie business is especially pertinent to little "Pudgy", as Lyman calls her.

I joined the group and discovered I was wrong. George and Gracie, who are almost indistinguishable except for size (George being smaller) have been taking turns sitting the eggs.

Couldn't tell by me.

George brought Gracie a snack at about 10:45 a.m., presumably PST, the day Gracie laid the fourth egg.

Now I can begin to put some of what I'm seeing in context. The moderator for the group is very helpful in isolating and presenting photos, and otherwise explaining what is going on.

Here's a paper from the University of Cincinnati on yawning. According to the author:

Most animals with backbones yawn and even some without. Dogs, cats, rats, snakes, fish, birds and humans all yawn. Fetuses at 11 weeks after conception yawn in utero.

She describes most of Lucy's yawns here:

It's a not-always-so-subtle cue to spouses, co-workers, and bosses for attention, sympathy and a respite due to tiredness, stress, over-work or boredom.

And sometimes she's just sleepy.

Question: If I subscribe to a yahoogroups.com board, will I open myself up to pummeling with pop-ups and stuff? I have Norton protection.

Gracie is the perfect picture of patience. I've seen her leave the nest to stretch twice in the past three days.

This is a girl who's used to zipping around at 175-200 mph.

I haven't seen George, and I haven't seen her eat anything yet. I might have to join the message board there to find out the best times to watch for other things.

The picture is poor, but I haven't noticed her yawn, either. Do all birds yawn? Lucy does, bigger'n Dallas, and loudly, too.

I read that Gracie started full-time incubation of her four eggs on or about March 10. They should hatch about 33 days after that.

Poor thing doesn't have thumbs to twiddle.

I've been peeking in at Gracie, the falcon, on the Peregrine Nest Cam. Sitting eggs seems a lot like watching paint dry.

Speaking of stinky boys, the weather is glorious and breezy. It would benefit me greatly if someone with a camp at say, Grand Isle, would invite Lyman out for about two weeks.

He is funny, intelligent, capable, and a good cook. He comes with a beautiful bird.

Spring cleaning is much easier without him underfoot. Or Lucy.

Radley Balko points to an article about an editorial in the Harvard Crimson calling for a boycott against a sophomore's cleaning service, Dormaid.

I can't find the full editorial online. In the excerpt Radley pulls, the writer says:

"By creating yet another differential between the haves and have-nots on campus, Dormaid threatens our student unity," the Crimson said in an editorial.

Seems to me the real differential in the situation is between the sorry young adults who have not the gumption to clean their own damn rooms (a tender point with me), and those who have the entrepreneurial wit to do something about it.

Or maybe that's the point. The household help was so much more discreet.

UPDATE: Here is the text of the editorial. And, yes, the point is that household help was just that.

It's less annoying than I thought.

UPDATE II: I will say that in any case it would be a public service if adolescent boys' rooms were regularly cleaned. The adolescent boys I have known, even the most meticulously groomed and tidy, leave a stink in their rooms. Simple fact.

Everyone from Jordana Adams to Matt Yglesias has done this exercise.

I confined where I've been to places where I have spent a night, or, like Florida, visited for more than a drive-through, not states I've driven through or changed trains in, or whatever.

bold the states you've been to, underline the states you've lived in and italicize the state you're in now...

Alabama / Alaska / Arizona / Arkansas / California / Colorado / Connecticut / Delaware / Florida / Georgia / Hawaii / Idaho / Illinois / Indiana / Iowa / Kansas / Kentucky / Louisiana / Maine / Maryland / Massachusetts / Michigan / Minnesota / Mississippi / Missouri / Montana / Nebraska / Nevada / New Hampshire / New Jersey / New Mexico / New York / North Carolina / North Dakota / Ohio / Oklahoma / Oregon / Pennsylvania / Rhode Island / South Carolina / South Dakota / Tennessee / Texas / Utah / Vermont / Virginia / Washington / West Virginia / Wisconsin / Wyoming / Washington D.C /

Go HERE to have a form generate the HTML for you.

UPDATE: Missed one. I lived in Natchez, MS, from June 1993-Jan 1994.

We watched a show tonight on HGTV in which the mother of a teenaged daughter had decorated the entire house in white, black and gray. The girl wanted color in her room. What color? Pink.

So the designers did a room in a bright pink with white and green accents.

Janis: "Can I do my bedroom in pink?"

Lyman: "Depends on which one you want to sleep in."

Pale Male and Lola seem to be doing fine now in New York City.

Find a webcam of an urban peregrine falcon's nest in this article from the San Francisco Chronicle.

A real-life question: A couple is getting a divorce. Assets and debts are being divided. Who should be responsible for the bill from Victoria's Secret? The man or the woman?

Dr. Frank has a post on one of his "found" objects titled "some prats are south."

According to this definition prat can mean "fool or dupe."

According to this definition prat can mean "major dumbass."

According to this definition it means buttocks, hindquarters, or, as some term, "ass."

Experience shows me that, indeed, some prats are south.

I can think of half-a-dozen off the top of my head. How about you?

Lyman went out tonight for a meeting with the fantasy baseball league. I didn't say that he came in second last year?

He spent time with the Catholic priest from Our Lady of Lourdes up the street. The priest told a joke:

A woman was driving down the street. A policeman stopped her.

"Ma'am, do you know why I stopped you?"

"No, sir."

"You were speeding and you were weaving.

"Ma'am, have you had any alcoholic beverages to drink?"

"No, sir. I haven't."

"Ma'am, what is in that cup there?"

"Water."

"Can I see that cup?"

"Yessir, you may."

"Ma'am, this smells like wine."

"Oh, blessed Jesus, he's done it again."

Here's another blogger post from an engineer that gives a unique perspective on events. Thanks, Mr. Bowen.

Our condo complex took a bad beating by hurricane Ivan. It was one of the first built on the coast, in 1985. Construction techniques have improved a great deal since then.

Our unit came through nicely.

Management of reconstruction is thoroughly reprehensible. Our board is uncommunicative, our lawyer is craven, and six months down the line they have not replaced windows.

Mold is rampant.

People without damage have reported theft, and I mean down to the dishwasher and water heater. Others have had their property overturned and abused.

Report is that the president of the board cried when she saw the damage. Honey, so did we all. Move along.

This post from James Joyner shows where bloggers can do a real service.

Jeez, I like this woman.

One can do worse than Audrey Hepburn.

One year ago today I was gliding down a mountainside in the company of that handsome and sweet David Moon. Lyman was suffering somewhere.

After having watched the dot.com fizz close-up -- we had $10,000 out on Ameritrade -- I think the next big meltdown will come on conservation and alternative energy stocks.

Just sayin'.

Be careful.

I'll go see them. They're due here on March 17.

Our friends' son is a certified civil engineer.

He joined the Navy and became operator of a nuclear submarine.

He fulfilled his time at sea, and now lives in New Orleans. He called his daddy tonight to say that he had gone to Lowe's and bought some tomato plants.

Son, get ready for a challenge.

Lyman and Lucy.

The other night Lyman told me that he had ordered a Parrot Pinata for Lucy.

A few days later a box came. It had two (2) medium Parrot Pinatas, one (1) Vine Ring Slider w/Bell, and one (1) 30 ft. roll of woven palm leaf shredder.

Silly kids.

Kansas mamas are a protective lot. For three months now Peg has been nursing her son, and there's more ahead.

She can still use some good thoughts.

I guess that's settled, then.

When we chose Lucy as a first bird, it was after a lot of Internet research comparing sizes, dispositions, noise levels, cage requirements, intelligence and beauty. We spent some days going back and forth between the African Grey and the Eclectus.

Since we were inexperienced, we finally chose Eclectus because one is more a "family" bird, bonding to more than one person, and three of the four greys we saw were feather-pluckers.

Many experts say birds will be happier if there are two in a home, not necessarily of the same species.

We cooked dinner for Lyman's mother and father last night. It was her 85th birthday. Lucy has a way of interjecting herself into conversation. Talk progressed to birds, then to greys.

Lyman's mother said she wishes we would get a grey. Before she dies. Lyman has wanted one for months.

So there you are.

We need to finish setting up the greenhouse and putting the yard in order. We need to straighten things up at the coast, and get back on track there, which doesn't seem to be happening sooner than mid- to end-summer.

Then we'll get a baby grey. New cages. New routines. A new toddler in the house. If we're going to have one for the rest of our lives, might as well have two.

Now, Debra and Craig, do we need a boy or a girl?

A million-dollar expansion of the Vidalia library is nothing but good news to me. I read as many as five books a week. Raise my taxes -- which the board is not proposing to do -- and I'll still come out ahead. (I read books rather than watch television.)

I do think, though, that hard-working writer Julie Finley must have errors in this story. From 2,300 sq. ft. to 900,000 sq. ft.? How might that be possible on that site?

My favorite Canadian gentleman, Colby Cosh, knows more about Louisiana than I do.

The world has flipped. Here I am watching Frank Zappa's son, Dweezil, with Lisa Loeb on foodtv.com, thinking, "He sure seems like a nice boy."

Speaking of dancing, I just walked out to our ill-tended garden patch to pick a handful of pretty romaine lettuce for dinner.

A loose-leaf lettuce has gotten away from us. Its leaves are large enough for props for fan-dancing



Sally Rand-style.

Sort of like one of those giant vegetables from Alaska.

Lucy has been doing a lot of dancing on the playtree in the window.

I've described her before. She twists and turns her head into impossible positions, flutters her wings and makes odd noises. She reminds me of a Balinese dancer. An expert on Eclectus suggested that she is trying to draw a mate.

She has added a new twist this season. She occasionally quacks like a duck.

We're short on parrots in nature here. I guess she's doing her best with what she has.

Another of my husband's delicious qualities is the timbre and accent of his voice. His is a deep southern voice that makes women, especially northern women, melt.

When he was arranging our stainless steel kitchen countertops from Stainless Steel Kitchens in Elkhart, Indiana, the girl at the desk would call others to the phone.

When I spoke to her, clearing all our chits for our order, she said, "We're going to miss him."

We're in a different project now -- a little exercise of democracy in a condo association at the coast. Women are calling him all the time.

A little 79-odd woman called him the other day, without any particular message. I think she wanted to hear his voice.

Fritz Schranck called here the day the hurricane hit. He has a fine voice, too.

I posit that there are attorneys and lawyers, then there are counselors at law.

Mercedes McCambridge died. I didn't know until I saw the Oscars. She was Rock Hudson's sister in "Giant".

I was in an automobile accident when I was 21 where I hit the windshield. I was riding in a restored Mustang that didn't have seatbelts. At the the corner of Northwest Highway and Preston Road in Dallas, a Lincoln flew through a left turn lane against the light and walloped the Mustang.

The driver, the cutest little SMU political science major from Dayton, Ohio, suffered a punctured lung and Lord knows what else. It was a first date. We didn't keep up. I was on the other side, and had only a broken arm, apart from lacerations and contusions.

I had been taking acting lessons before, mainly because I was a lunchtime waitress in my own little studio apartment and wanted to see what was so interesting. Even the lessons were a lot of work that would yield not much to me. Yoga is better.

Anyway, when my face healed enough, I enrolled at El Centro Junior College in downtown Dallas in the acting department for a few courses, and found my way into some plays.

I was playing the lead, Molly, in "The Mousetrap", when Ms. McCambridge came to visit children or grandchildren in Dallas, and our director enlisted her as a "play doctor", a critical eye who could come in to improve the performances.

She improved mine.

The crawfish boil was a success. Lyman takes all credit for the food. The eight of us had clean bathrooms and whatnot for my efforts.

Our group likes crawfish spicy. Lyman does that well. And they don't care how small they are, which they were this early in the season.

Everyone needed lotion on their hands this morning.

Life on the farm can be rough, as this story in the Natchez Democrat illustrates.

One of my husband's outstanding qualities is that he is a minor go-to guy for cooking crawfish. He does it as well or better than anyone around.

He's off to the Sykes' farm to pick up a bag right now.

Dahlin', it's time for a crawfish boil.

Lor, lor. A half-million dollars for walking trails in Natchez?

A good power walker can cover the whole downtown in half an hour. They have sidewalks already.

We have a self-admitted fool for baby girls here.

Are you a fool for baby girls, baby boys, both, or neither?

I get along better with little girls, but the best work I have ever done was as a schoolroom volunteer with a little boy. His parents were having problems and it was showing in his schoolwork.

I would visit his first grade class and we would sit together to work on his reading. He responded very well. He should be about 18 now.

Smiley Anders today:

Who needs Miss Manners?

Leroy Colter says he found this on the Internet, or Spec Lewis sent it.

Anyhow, it's "Redneck Etiquette:"

1. Never take a beer to an interview.

2. Always identify people in your yard before shooting them.

3. It's considered tacky to take a cooler to church.

4. If you have to vacuum the bed, it's time to change the sheets.

5. Even if you're certain that you're included in the will, it's rude to drive a U-Haul to the funeral.

I'm not certain number 3 is valid here, so long as the cooler holds potato salad and banana pudding rather than beer.

Evidently, The Boy partakes of his mama's artistic talent. Is he five yet?

Another thing about birds that I didn't imagine before living with Lucy is that they "turn over" at night, just as we do.

When she sleeps, she tucks her head back over her shoulder and buries her beak in her feathers. From time to time, she'll straighten up, fluff, and tuck it on the other side.

It makes perfect sense, of course. Cats do it, dogs do it and humans do it.

It just never occurred to me that birds might do it, too.

A question for Debra and Craig: Sometimes when Lucy wakes, she'll take a drink of water before she goes back to sleep. What happens in the wild?

The funniest thing I've read about Hunter S. Thompson these past few days was an anecdote in the Washington Times:

One of Mr. Thompson's more colorful antics occurred in 1970, when he ran unsuccessfully for sheriff of Pitkin County, Colo., on the "Freak Power" ticket. The gonzo candidate " whose platform included changing the name of Aspen to "Fat City" and decriminalizing drugs " decided to shave his head, so he could denounce his crew-cut Republican rival as "my long-haired opponent."

Velociman had his annual physical:

I won't lie to you, though: I have the body of a 30 year old. Unfortunately it's in the back of the Blazer, and I don't know what to do with it.

It's a great day for cleaning, but the city has a water problem right now, so the water is turned off.

If the water were on, I suspect it might be a good day for shopping, instead.

UPDATE: Still no water at 4 p.m. This is not at all common here.

UPDATE: Ahhh. A leak in the water main forced replacement of a pipe. City workers hope to finish by dark.

UPDATE: Ees dark. 7:30. Still no water.

Achh! There it is!

If current indications are anything to go by, we have the makings of a long, hot summer here. Today is sunny, humid, and the temperature is 73 degrees at 10:53 a.m.

Now there's a trash e-mail with a subject line I can appreciate: "Tequila for your country."

Gracias, Senor.

What is it with the baby boys these days?

Now, Ken Layne and Laura Crane have one.

Congratulations.

If you have a high-speed connection, check out these videos showing a new technology that stops a saw blade before it cuts a finger.

Were I a woodworker, I could bypass a lot of luxuries to buy tools with that capability.

(Found at hgtv.com, the American Home show)

UPDATE: Texas Instruments designed the processing. See here.

I'm so far behind the times. ::sigh::

The White House is looking for a new chef. Here's a piece from the San Francisco Chronicle.

Have you seen any stories on this? Never mind. I googled.

Here's an interesting one, with good quotes:

At the same time, there is a limit to how creative a chef can be at the White House.

"While it is an honor to serve the first family," he said, "it is the same thing, night in and night out, over an extended period. And it's time for me to be exploring all of my creative abilities and not limiting myself."

Even official dinners can be unsatisfying.

"These are not Escoffier dinners," Scheib said in a 1998 interview before a dinner in honor of Prime Minister Tony Blair of Britain. "You can spin it any way you want, it's still a banquet. How you serve 240 people and have them not think it's another rubber-chicken-circuit dinner, that's the job."

I suppose there might be reasons to want the job, but I can't imagine why, and that's without regard to politics.

If you find something really juicy, please pass it on.

Scott Chaffin has it right here:

Conventions are a declining industry, Wick, because good convention cities are hard to come by these days. There’s Las Vegas, and there’s New Orleans, and there’s…what? Nothing, that’s what. Every other place in America is a bunch of guilt-ridden boomers trying to get rid of reminders of their wastrel younger years. Idiots.

I like cooking fine.

I learned literally at my mother's elbow, dragging around one of those little stepstools one of my brothers made in woodshop, so I was always in the way, and presenting a constant danger that she would flip over one and break her neck.

She never sent me out of the kitchen unless she was in high gear, putting dinner down at 6 p.m. for her family. She'd pass me a handful of our cheap stainless and send me to help set the table. Patricia taught me how to do that.

So I feel pretty darn trivial tonight complaining about cleaning the four - count'em four - utensils used to make a wilted red cabbage slaw: saucepan, skillet, colander and bowl. It's a side dish, for goodness' sake.

Here is the recipe, from FoodTV sometime in the past:

WILTED RED CABBAGE AND BELL PEPPER SLAW

Can be prepared in 45 minutes or less, but needs to chill 1 hour or overnight.

½ cup distilled white vinegar
½ cup water
¼ cup sugar
¾ teaspoon salt
½ teaspoon Dijon mustard
3 tablespoons olive oil
1 tablespoon mustard seeds
½ head red cabbage, shredded (about 3 cups)
2 red or yellow bell peppers, cut into 1-inch julienne strips

In a saucepan bring vinegar and water to a boil with sugar, salt, and mustard and simmer, stirring occasionally, 3 minutes.

In a large heavy skillet heat oil over moderately high heat until hot but not smoking. Add mustard seeds and sauté until they begin to pop. Stir in cabbage and sauté, stirring, 1 minute. Add vinegar mixture and simmer vegetables 1 minute.

Drain vegetables in a large fine sieve set over a saucepan and transfer them to a bowl. Boil liquid over moderately high heat until reduced to about 3 tablespoons and stir into vegetables. Chill slaw, covered, at least 1 hour or overnight.
Serves 4.

It's a change from the average for barbecue or fried fish.

Lucy had a terrible day.

We asked a team to come in today to straighten up the yard. Look, I've done this before, and these guys can do in an hour and a half what it would take me three weeks to do. They blew the oak leaves off the roof, drive, patio and sidewalks, vacuumed the leaves and acorns off this acre yard, edged and cut the grass. 65 bucks.

When I did it, my neck popped like a wrestler's. I was dressing to go to one of Lyman's relative's funerals, put a necklace on and looked in the mirror. Ahem. No go.

Lucy is terrified of blowers to the point of being uncontrollable. Her hiding place of choice is the corner under the office counter, behind Lyman's computer tower. Many wires.

Bad day. She's well, but exhausted.

We have received a request.

J-Birds needs help. Go here and offer a suggestion for naming nest boxes for birds.

This is worth forwarding to Natalie Solent. I'll try that. When her computer is back up.

I can't resist excerpting this quote from Pammy's post:

For all those men who say, "Why buy the cow when you can get the milk for free. "

Here's an update for you. Nowadays 80% of women are against marriage. Why?

Because women realize it's not worth buying an entire pig just to get a little sausage.

I hope that's okay with you, Pam.

My readers, all ten, should go to this article and debate it.

I picked that up through Joanne Jacobs.

I don't much disagree with many of the solutions, for the poor or disabled. I don't like the premise:

Life happened. We became mothers.

Life didn't "happen" to me. I came into maturity in the '70's when birth control was freely available. I have more reasons than I have mentioned here to not have children. A middle-class woman of the '80's elected to have a child.

Honestly, do these mothers have no memories?

UPDATE: Let me make myself clear. I don't see where it's my responsibility to subsidize your day care, honey, so you can "optimize" yourself. You're a writer for Newsweek.

I'm fit to be tied.

We have space for something like this.

Here's another one I like, by Roberto Mauricio, from the large collection at Tyler Cowen's personal website.

Louisiana's best of the naive painters was Clementine Hunter.

Check out these prices.

Mother's seven children didn't arise from spontaneous generation. Here is a photo of my father. I don't know his age when it was taken.

They had been married for 52 years when my father died of cancer in 1990.

Concordia Parish is a lovely place to be on Valentine's Day, don't you think?

Best to you on this day.

Smiley Anders at the Baton Rouge Advocate today:

Marvin Borgmeyer likes to collect memorable quotes.

For instance, there are the immortal words of Philadelphia Phillies manager Danny Ozark:

"Half this game is 90 percent mental."

And, says Marvin, "As our school kids prepare for the upcoming geography bee, it is good to remember the famous quote from former Vice President Dan Quayle:

"I love California. I practically grew up in Phoenix."

For the first time in, what, three weeks, we have a gorgeous sunny day. And I feel like a vampire.

If you look at this picture and this picture, you'll see three generations, two champions, so far.

Tyler Cowen of Marginal Revolution passes along this item about classical music concerts not finding a following among younger listeners.

Just the other day before the Superbowl, I watched Al Roker's show on tailgating before football games. It included a segment on tailgating before the Santa Fe Opera. "White-glove tailgating," it was called, and Lyman said it looked almost as fancy as The Grove at Oxford, MS, before a University of Mississippi football game. (I told them Lucy should be mascot there.)

So there you go. Hire some flatbed trailers and bring out the crystal and candelabra. I might even drive out for that.

I'm fairly certain my life runs in 12-year cycles. Skipping the first one, my second was full of curiosity and travel, living in varied places, and not settling down. The third was taking focus, meeting goals and stabilizing. The fourth was moving to the area, meeting Lyman and establishing a home and family of my own (partly, anyway).

For the past two years, I have been in a light depression, which was, I think, that cycle winding down.

We'll see. This one seems to be starting with an orchid and a greenhouse.

It's not all dead deer and butter beans around here.

Lyman brought me an orchid for my birthday and Valentine's.

How often do you water one?

Dinner decisions can be complicated here because we both like so many things.

The other night Lyman was cooking pork roast, stewed cabbage, and a choice of baby butter beans or field peas with snaps.

"Do you want butter beans or peas?"

"I don't care. I like them both."

"We need to decide something here."

"Okay. Are they in the indoor or outdoor freezer?"

"Both are indoors."

"Is one bag closer to being empty than the other?"

"They're about the same."

"Where are they in the freezer?"

"In the door."

"Are they on the right or the left?"

"They're both on the left."

"Is one higher than the other?"

"The field peas are higher."

"Then let's have those."

This is why a girl can do with a sister:

"It’s your special day and you won’t feel one bit different than you do today. I promise. HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!!!!!"

For Possum's Thursday Three:

The first of all computers that I encountered was through my brother, Charles. When he came home from Vietnam he took the money our mother had saved for him and enrolled at the Control Data Institute. That was 1968. He had a template to help him structure diagrams for data flow.

Remedial learning at Reed was Fortran for physics class, 1975. I was fine with vectors, but not computers. Between that and the white mouse, I dropped out. I'll get to the mouse in a future post.

I was hired off a barroom floor in the Magnolia Building in Dallas, 1984, to document the modeler program for an alternative long-distance company. The program had to do with telephonic switching. I documented that sumbitch thing down to tolerance. The computer I started with was a mainframe DataGeneral. The company sold, to the dismay of many young workers, to General Communications in Kansas. I could be in Ellsworth today. The company became a component of Sprint.

Within a year or two, IBM came out with the OfficeWriter. Here comes my worst experience. I had worked through about 40 pages of if-thens elegantly, and the computer wouldn't take it. It was a horrible blow, and I've left lovers with less effect.

The first computer I owned was the beauty in New York's Museum of Modern Art. ATT, wasn't it? 256 K, as I remember. I'm not a good typist, and wouldn't have graduated without it.

I like this line from Mercy:

I didn't bring kids into this world to let other people raise them.

It's the reason I never had children.

I talked to our neighbors today. They are preparing to put one of their dogs down. Mudpie is a chocolate Lab with cancer.

She was thrown out of obedience school, but she's a good, sweet dog nonetheless. I've heard her name a million times. Today she was wearing Mardi Gras beads.

I live too far north. We don't have headlines like this:

Man shot dead on Desire Street.

I am officially rooting for the Eagles, but the young corner for the Pats, Randall Gay, is from LSU.

UPDATE: Kevin Faulk was one of LSU's, too.

You can go to Radley Balko's site here where I found it, or to J-Birds' site here where I sent it, but don't miss the video performance of Einstein, the African Grey, on Animal Planet.

(That's not Einstein up there, but close enough.)

If you are interested in Cajun and Creole cuisine, you should start hinting for John Folse's Encyclopedia of Cajun and Creole Cuisine for Valentine's Day.

Chef John Folse is a long-standing ambassador of Louisiana cuisine, and this book is a lavish production. Lyman's sister's family and ours received copies this Christmas.

Scuttlebutt is that the publisher wanted to charge $130 for the book, but Folse insisted it be priced affordably. This edition is priced at $49.95. It weighs 9-3/4 pounds according to our kitchen scale.

This 16-year-old girl was to become my mother.

You don't see it, but her hands were clenched because they were rough. She picked cotton on the family farm.

She would have been 86 on Feb 5.

Lucy isn't the only bird that gets grumpy in gray weather.

'Tis the season of



About this time of year we have large flights of blackbirds that swarm to different locales. This year a flight is spending a lot of time poking around our yard, which is a clear indication that we need to hire a vacuum. (Which is one reason why I won't show pictures.)

We're talking as many as two hundred chatterers in and under the trees. Lucy has not been entirely happy with them.

Our oak trees dropped a terrific crop of acorns this year. The squirrels seem to have been feeding heavily. When one thumps onto the roof it sounds like a bowling ball.

Possum's Thursday Three is about fears and phobias.

There's nothing that rises to a phobia in my makeup. I'm not crazy about heights, I've lost any taste for crowds, and I don't like to wait in line.

So I won't be on a balcony pitching beads at Mardi Gras or waiting in line for four days to lunch at Galatoire's on Friday.

Oh, and I wouldn't bet on it, but I'd like to see the Eagles win. Just rooting for the underdog.

As far as the State of Address:

I missed most of it. I'll read later.

I did see all of the rebuttal.

Lemme try this again, to deadhead this stupid idea of "the peace that our parents bequeathed to us":

I'm a baby boomer, too, if a late one, 1957, and the only secure environment I knew was the one my parents gave in my own home.

1. Duck and cover drills at school in case of nuclear attack

2. Assassination of a sitting president

3. Assassination of a presidential contender

4. Assassination of Martin Luther King

5. The Vietnam War. My brother went.

6. Riots at the Chicago convention of '68

That was by the time I was eleven. I did not grow up in a golden era of civil polity. So shut up about it already, Nancy, or anybody else.

Or was she talking about the times I would crouch in my mother's closet and inhale her dresses. They always had a faint smell of Tabu.

UPDATE: Bob Schieffer mediating one of the presidential debates brought up that same idea.

Cher, will Pierre C. Shadeaux bring the good news today?

UPDATE: A long spring for South Louisiana.

What kind of belly-crawler would steal a nutria's house?