Patum Peperium

When A Man Loves A Pig

Madame's Nightshirt
Mrs. Peperium

The Empress of Blandings perhaps?

Sometime during the Christmas holidays, our expert of all things pig, Maxy, found himself in one of his most favorite positions ; completely surrounded by pork loin. Perhaps Maxy was tuckered out from enjoying the holidays and that caused him to do something he never does : He sent out an S.O.S. Code Blue...Have too much pig, please advise...stat.... Unlike poor Captain Lord of the Californian who saw the improperly fired distress rockets from the Titanic and most improperly (but most sincerely) concluded that since the Titanic was a ship where luxury knew no bounds he was just witnessing a display of midnight fireworks causing him to tell his crew to stay on charted path for port and go off to bed, I did realise Maxy needed help. So, being a pig fancier myself and married to even more of a pig fancier, I sent word promising help. But misconstruing an improperly discharged distress rocket is merely a horrible accident while promising to help someone and never doing it is a most dastardly act. I never made good on my promise to Maxy. Can you believe that? To make matters worse, as Maxy will tell you, I've been sending him emails every now and then saying "pork is on the way". "Ha!" he finally wrote back, in complete disgust.

I'm sorry Maxy.

Well now Maxy, pork is really on the way. The cold weather has completely set into our bones here, and some of us, well one of us, has found viral influenza has settled into his bones as well. And I've promised him help too and since it's the exact same help I promised you, I can now multi-task by killing two birds with one essay. Hooray!

Now, for the rest of you, when one has viral influenza one must ignore all save-the-world-and-your-body- quackery that masqerades as a college education these day and not fall for the idea that you must not challenge your body and planet in their great time of need and therefore choose to dine on ethically raised and braised vegetables and sip herbal tea until you're dead. In Boston, I once had a roommate who, when I came down with influenza, gave me tea to sip made from purple cone flowers saying it would heal me. Have you ever tasted tea made from purple cone flowers? Let me give you a hint : It is not tea. Two days later I crawled to the doctor's and he asked what I had done to myself. I told him about the purple cone flower tea. He said whiskey would have served me better. Do you know why? When you've got influenza, your body is dying for challenge. Not a challenge on the treadmill or rowing machine either. It wants a showdown with meat. You must fight fire with fire, waistline and cholesterol be damned. Otherwise, your virus will hang on much longer than it should and you'll probably pull up anemic in the meantime. Oh, and I wouldn't be surprised at all that by the time the virus decides to vacate the nice comfy residence your herbal tea sipping has given it, you find you've gone a tad effete too. Check your nails (if you haven't already taken to painting them). Do you see a nice pink hue underneath them with white half or quarter moons (depending upon your ancestry) down by the cuticle? No? Then there's only one thing to do. Head straight to your nearest steakhouse. Once seated, order a large whiskey (for purely medicinal purposes) a nice big juicy medium-rare NY strip, or my favorite, a Delmonico, and a side of creamed spinach. Repeat daily until your nails exhibit the proper healthy pink hue.

The last time Mr. P was struck with viral influenza, his doctor suggested the consumption of not just beef but pork too. And Mr. P, though nearly dead, was delighted. He loves pork and he especially loves a way that I have frequently prepared it for him since the early days our marriage : Pork with Celery. In this instance, Pork with Celery was a most excellent choice for his battered body. In the pre-pharmacological days the Greeks and Romans used celery to cure colds and influenza. Because I'm not a quack snake oil salesman promising medical miracles, I cannot say for a fact that Pork with Celery will cure the common cold or viral influenza, but it won't kill you. Indeed it will make you feel as if you are on the road to recovery and, it will also not tax your waistline. The beauty in the dish is its simplicity. You would never know it was of Greek origin. It is very satisfying and delightful for eaters of all ages. I enjoy serving it in soup bowls with a crusty loaf of bread that is not cut but rather passed from person-to-person with pieces being torn off with each passing and a good crisp white wine. Maxy, since your tastebuds are fond of very sharp flavors, I would suggest placing bowls of good olives (garnished with chopped fresh herbs and drizzled olive oil) and feta cheese on the table. For the potable you may want to go all the way with a Retsina. (The influenza crowd should stick to whiskey)

Pork with Celery

2 tbspns olive oil, virgin not necessary

2 lbs boneless pork roast, cut into several large pieces

For the cooking liquid

2 cups chicken broth

1/2 cup dry white wine

5 tbspns olive oil, again virgin not necessary

2-3 cloves garliv, finely chopped

salt and freshly ground pepper to taste

4 cups chopped celery leaves and stalks (The more leaves, the better)

In a 6 quart Dutch oven (that's a pot with 2 handles and a lid), heat the oil for browning (this is why you do not want to use virgin olive oil - virgin olive oil has a much lower threshold for heat than regular olive oil. It burns easier and causes flame-ups too. There was a reason virgins were the sacrifice of choice among the cannibals. Contrary to what the Episcopal church teaches today, those cannibals really did know what they were doing...gosh...) and brown the meat both sides. Add all of the ingredients for the cooking liquid, except for celery. It should come up about halfway on the side of the meat. If it does not, add more chicken stock, or wine. Bring to a simmer and, reduce heat and cover. Simmer until tender, at least 1 3/4 hours. Add the celery and simmer another 1/2 hour. Uncover the pot for at least 15 minutes to reduce the sauce.

Serves 4 to 6 as a maincourse.

24

The Eccentric Observer
Old Dominion Tory

The clock started running for Mitt Romney last night when Rudy Guiliani finished his concession speech. With Guiliani doing everything in that speech to end his candidacy, save making a formal announcement, the race for the GOP nomination effectively became a two-man race--McCain v. Romney—and one in which John McCain now is the frontrunner.

Like the fictional character Jack Bauer in the action show “24,” a government agent who races against the clock to thwart a grave threat to the nation, from that moment, Mitt Romney had twenty-four hours to prevent a catastrophe. Romney desperately needs a breather to prevent McCain from becoming “inevitable” and to retain his own base of support. His probable hope is that he can lash together a coalition between his supporters and those of now-departed candidates to stop McCain from taking a majority of next Tuesday’s primaries, after which he can bring his financial and organizational resources to bear on the remaining primaries.

The reasons for this hope are evident: McCain did not win a majority of votes in Florida (he took home 36%); Florida’s huge senior citizen population gave McCain an advantage he will not have in other states; many “regular” Republicans still suspect McCain’s conservative bona fides. However, given that McCain’s victory last night represents his third straight primary win (or, as Mitt might put it, three straight gold medals) and his number of endorsements from “establishment” Republicans is growing—and may include Rudy Guiliani and Arnold Schwarzenegger if press reports are correct—this is a tall order.

Romney’s only hope, therefore, is to knock McCain off what looks like a winning stride—and do so today. He should mount a blitz of talk radio (especially the big names) to make the case for his candidacy--and against McCain’s. He also needs to make himself available to any interested reporters in order to show that he is full of fight and ready for next Tuesday.

But any appearance he makes on talk radio and in the media today pales in importance to that which he makes tonight at the GOP debate at the Reagan Library. There, he can challenge McCain directly and prove his mettle as a campaigner. At every chance, he’ll declare himself as a “real” Republican, who is all about free markets and national security and an outsider who is not beholden to and enthralled by the denizens of Washington ’s media-government establishment, and cast McCain as the exact opposite. He’ll also need to pounce on any gaffe that McCain makes and to bring any answer he gives around to making the point that McCain is beloved by the establishment. But, it cannot end there. Among McCain’s perceived strengths are his “straight talk” and his disdain for “politics as usual.” Romney needs to undermine those strengths, to demonstrate that McCain can “double talk” or at least waffle with the best of them and to show that McCain is entirely capable of the dirty tricks that he often decries. To the latter, McCain obliged him when his campaign claimed that, last year, Romney approved of establishing a timetable for withdrawing American forces from Iraq and ran telephone calls that warned voters that Romney was against “traditional values” and pro-gun control (the former call was played on Rush Limbaugh’s and Sean Hannity’s programs yesterday).

Tonight’s debate is Mitt Romney’s last chance to prevent John McCain from grasping the Republican nomination, and much like the character Jack Bauer, Mitt Romney will need to hit his enemy hard—perhaps harder than some might like—if he is to win.

The Good Old F And P

Madame's Nightshirt
Mrs. Peperium

From England With Love

Madame's Nightshirt
Mrs. Peperium

Last fall Mr. P read this to the children :

Then, because they had so much fun, they all watched this snippet one night when I was busy with dinner :

Now both children love Bond...James...Bond as much as their Dad does. Not that either one of them has any real clue to all that Bond...James...Bond does for England. Buoyed up by their love for Commander Bond, Roger Kimball's future daughter-in-law has asked for this addition to her stamp collection:

They can be purchased here.

And Little Bertie has requested this for his Valentine's Day treat as he, future Bond girl fancier, is convinced it's Truly Scrumptious:

T 0 P S E C R E T

Monsieur Bon-Bon's Secret "Fooj" 1 pound granulated sugar 1 small can evaproated milk 1/4 pound unsalted butter 1 tablespoon water 1 tablespoon corn sirup 4 tablespoons unsweetened chocolate Put all the ingredients into a saucepan. Melt slowly on a low gas until the mixture thickens slightly and is absolutley smooth. Turn up gas and boil very quickly until it forms into a soft ball when a sample is dropped into cold water. Remove from heat and beat well with a wooden spoon.

Pour the whole mixture into a flat, greased pan, in squares, and leave to set.

When cold, DEVOUR!

It warms my heart to see Mr. P's good influence over his offspring actually take hold. I should spank him but he'd probably enjoy it too much.

Hillary Clinton Finally Comes Clean About Her Role In Preventing Her Husband's Bimbo Erruptions?

Madame's Nightshirt
Mrs. Peperium

Yesterday on Deface the Nation, Hillary Clinton, in her on-going attempt to say anything to get elected, really said something that spoke volumes to the women listening. Hillary, the nation's First Feminist admitted to getting carried away at times in her support of her husband's political career :

Sen. CLINTON:

Oh, Bob, you know, my husband has such a great commitment to me and to my campaign. You know, he loves me, just like, you know, husbands and wives get out there and work on each other's behalf. I certainly did that for him for many years. And, you know, I'm very grateful for all of the help he's given, both supporting me, along with our daughter, and making the case for my candidacy. Anyone who knows him, who has followed his long and productive career, knows that he is committed to bringing our country together, that he has worked across all the lines that divide us. You know, I think that, you know, what he is doing for me is obviously out of a sense of deep commitment to me personally, but also based on his experience as president, as to who he thinks would best lead our country. And I know that in my own support of him, going back some years, I sometimes got a little bit carried away. I confess to that. But he is going to continue to be with me and support me and speak out for me, and I'm very grateful for that.

There is no finer example of our First Feminist getting more carried away with her support of her husband's career than this:

Juanita Broaddrick:

I remember it as though it was yesterday. I only wish that it were yesterday and maybe there would still be time to do something about what your husband, Bill Clinton, did to me. There was a political rally for Mr. Clinton's bid for governor of Arkansas. I had obligated myself to be at this rally prior to my being assaulted by your husband in April, 1978. I had made up my mind to make an appearance and then leave as soon as the two of you arrived. This was a big mistake, but I was still in a state of shock and denial. You had questioned the gentleman who drove you and Mr. Clinton from the airport. You asked him about me and if I would be at the gathering. Do you remember? You told the driver, "Bill has talked so much about Juanita", and that you were so anxious to meet me. Well, you wasted no time. As soon as you entered the room, you came directly to me and grabbed my hand. Do you remember how you thanked me, saying "we want to thank you for everything that you do for Bill". At that point, I was pretty shaken and started to walk off. Remember how you kept a tight grip on my hand and drew closer to me? You repeated your statement,
but this time with a coldness and look that I have seen many times on television in the last eight years. You said, "Everything you do for Bill". You then released your grip and I said nothing and left the gathering...

Even Betty Friedan would have to admit this is Hillary's second best example of getting a little bit carried away:

Hillary Clinton put up a strong defence of her husband on American television on Tuesday as a sexual scandal threatens his presidency. Looking assured and comfortable she answered the questions put to her by the network anchor man.

She denied again that there had been any sexual relations between Bill Clinton and the former White House aide, Monica Lewinsky.

She rejected the allegations "unequivocally". She went on: "I've just been through this so many times. We've been accused of everything, including murder."

When NBC Today show host Matt Lauer began, "Where's there's smoke...," she quickly finished, "There's no fire."

The truth "will come out" she said. The best thing to do at present is "be patient and take a deep breath".

She refused to talk about the specifics of the allegations, and she rounded on political opponents whom she accused of trying to destroy Bill Clinton. "When all of this is put into context some folks are going to have a lot to answer for," she said.

Ok Tim Russert, on behalf of the women in your audience (and country), please quiz Hillary about what exactly she meant when she stated she got a little bit carried away in supporting her husband. We thank you in advance.

Man vs. Machine

The Eccentric Observer
Old Dominion Tory

A couple of weeks ago, Senator Barack Obama probably thought he was in a race for the Presidency. Now, he realizes that he is in the middle of a demolition derby.

Senator Clinton has abandoned whatever voice she found in New Hampshire and now uses an older, more familiar hectoring one. Former President Clinton now continually delivers bald-faced whoppers and assorted half-truths with the same podium-pounding sanctimony with which he denied his dalliance with “that woman” ten years ago. In the background are tales of push polls and anonymous telephone calls that stressed Senator Obama’s middle name, Hussein.

I cannot feel completely sorry for Senator Obama because, as a politician who came up in the rough-and-tumble of Chicago politics, he should realize the efficacy of the observation from Chicago’s own Mr. Dooley that “Politics ain’t beanbag.” Moreover, as an apparently intelligent man, he should know that one of the more dangerous places in the world is between the Clintons and what they believe is rightfully theirs. Still, for those watching the Clintons pummel the youngish and charming Senator Obama, their behavior conjures up memories of their “Just Win, Baby” style of politics and pseudo-governing. Undoubtedly, many people are hoping that, as they enter the voting booth, many Democrats will say to themselves, “It wouldn’t be right to subject the country for four, possibly eight, more years of this Clintonian mendacity and temerity,” and cast their votes for Senator Obama.

The trouble is that, despite being charming, intelligent, Ivy League-educated, and charismatic as well as a member of the best club in the United States, the U.S. Senate, Barack Obama remains an insurgent candidate, an outsider. Certainly, there is a lot of love for Barack Obama. Much as it was for John McCain in 2000, his is a candidacy created and sustained by starry-eyed romantics in the news media and within the ranks of the party faithful who were fervently hoping to be swept off their feet. And, sweep them off their feet he did—and still does.

The trouble is that the establishment of the Democratic Party—the unions, the state and local pols, the “community leaders,” the money people—the people who have the organizations that can turn out reliable voters, raise the cash needed to sustain a candidacy over the long haul, and perform the other scut work of politics already had fallen for their candidate. But, they had not fallen in love—they had fallen in line. Their decisions are entirely understandable. George Bush’s unpopularity meant that 2008 would be a Democratic year. Remembering the Clintonian years not as it was, but as they wished it to be—a golden era of peace, prosperity, and good jobs in the government— the Democratic rank-and-file placed Hillary Clinton at the top of their preference list for a presidential candidate. Add to that appeal, the graying eminence of Bill Clinton still enthralled the Democrats. So, seeing wisdom in Damon Runyon’s cynical observation that “The race doesn't always go to the swiftest, or the fight to the strongest, but that's the way to bet!” they conceded that she was “inevitable” and signed on with her campaign.

As much as some of them might be regretting that decision now, they show every indication of sticking with their decisions—and, therefore, Hillary Clinton remains the establishment candidate, the machine’s candidate. Indeed, the strong performance of the Clinton campaign in New Hampshire as well as in Nevada owes much to the power of the organization, particularly the unions, who earlier pledged themselves to Clinton, Inc.. So, the Democratic contest has come down to a matter of Man vs. Machine. Even if Senator Obama wins in South Carolina, therefore, he has an exceptionally formidable task before him. He will move to a bigger stage—Florida—and then on to an even bigger one, the collection of disparate states holding primaries on February 5. As it is in any military campaign fought on a grand scale, in this political campaign, a large and powerful organization can provide the margin of victory against even most motivated and skillful opponent.

Despite any queasiness that any Democrats are experiencing about the behavior of Mr. and Mrs. Clinton on the stump, therefore, the fact remains that, because of the support of the Democrat establishment (no matter how grudgingly given), Mrs. Clinton retains the advantage.

The English Godfather

Man About Mayfair
Sir Basil Seal

I have a Goddaughter. Yes, I do, and before any of you bemoan this child's fate, or berate her parents apparent lack of judgment, please remember that The Countess is her Godmother and my superior officer and keeper. So, the choice may not be quite as rash as it seems at first blush. But back to my Goddaughter...I have watched her grow from a rather beastly mewling baby into a beautiful and accomplished young women. She has become a very fine young lady and to our joy, if not all together hers, she has recently moved to St. Louis to begin a new job.

We are delighted to have her near once again. It was due to this recent move that I had the pleasure of dining with said Goddaughter at a dining establishment last week. It was after this most enjoyable meal, as we sat over our port and coffee, that I realized my Goddaughter was indeed a very beautiful woman. I beamed benevolently upon her as I thought of her fresh beauty, warm and humorous personality and her six figure income, which she has earned by her own smarts and hard work. Of course, at that moment my smile became a frown as a young man approached our table to share some inane comments with the Goddaughter. It was actually the same young man with the ridiculous haircut and oily smile who had slimed by our table on four previous occasions to share inane comments. I began to have suspicions about this cretin's motives for annoying me with his continued visits. He couldn't possibly be yearning for my conversation. What did this hooligan want? Ahhhhh......I glanced across the table at my beautiful Goddaughter, and it was but the work of an instant and I saw the light. Gold digger, huh? Sniffing about above your station, what? Well, old Uncle Basil has seen right through your scheme my good man. I was young once too, and wrote your play book as well, you whippersnapper....

Of course, I went to work immediately. I played along with this scenario, inciting the young thug to join us. Pulling up a chair and inquiring if he would like a glass of port or maybe some very light beer. Lemonade? His evil intentions were plain to see, written as they were across his forehead just below the horns. I had the young cad marked immediately. I had to bide my time and suffer though his bumbling attempts to ingratiate himself with the Goddaughter. He was barking up the wrong tree there, but I still had to make sure, since you never know what a women will do out of spite. He was a salesman of some sort, of course and probably used facial creme. He looked the type.

When the Goddaughter excused herself for a moment, I pounced. Yes, (I said) to this wolf in off-the-peg clothing, we are always so thankful when our young lady can have a few happy moments, in her otherwise tortured existence. Well, what I mean to say is, that normally due to her schizophrenia and multiple personality disorders, she spends much of her time under sedation. Occasionally, when the meds go really bad and the axe murderer personality comes to the fore, as it did with that last unfortunate boyfriend, the doctor, by the way, said that even without the actual member, he might live a full life at some point in time, well...The jury decided that it really wasn't her fault, you know, being ill, and not herself, as it were. Yes, it is always a blessing, these rare moments of peace and happiness...Yes, and such a pretty girl too...What a shame.

When the Goddaughter reappeared, I explained that the young gentlemen in question had said something about an early start in divorce court the next morning and had rushed off. Left his compliments, of course. No, no number was left, I'm sure he will get in touch with you one way or another. Would you like a little more coffee, my dear? How about some nice strawberry cheesecake? Just the thing, what? We are so glad you're back home safe and sound...

Crab Tea

Madame's Nightshirt
Mrs. Peperium

The other day I was having a chat with a priest (Catholic, naturally) about a recent (like in last week) fishing trip he took. He decided very early on it was too cold to fish and went out for oysters instead proving beyond a reasonable doubt he's not a dumb priest. Besides, he's supposed to be a fisher of men more than a fisher of trout.

The priest speaking of, well, truthfully, writing of partaking of cold oysters in cold weather got me to thinking about how much I enjoy cold seafood on cold days too. Strange, I know. I think this odd tick of cold seafood in cold weather derives from the of hours and hours I spent as a child around smelly old fishing wharves and lobsters boats on hot, hot summer days. I loved those wharves and boats as much as a girl could, but my word, did they ever stink. They stunk to high heaven the less religous would say and so did I when I returned home from a long day of fishing on them. To neutralize my high heaven status so that I could join the rest of the family in the dining room without them losing their lunch, my mother or grandmother would have to hose me down with lemon juice. Naturally, the natural acid in the lemon juice would always find it way into the tiny cuts on my hands and arms from the fishing hooks and penknife used to cut bait and, often I'd be sitting at the table teary-faced trying to enjoy dinner. But, the lemon juice never hurt enough to make me give up my love of fishing or smelly old fishing wharves and boats. It took marrying a man from the Middle West to do that. Ah well, there's a price to be paid for everything. Besides there are days, when Mr. P has the bouquet of a smelly old fishing wharf. Really. Anyway, I'm quite convinced that I prefer seafood in cold months because there is less smell associated with it and when enjoying it I am reminded of hot summer months.

Now some of the longtime readers know this, but others may not, like many of the men that follow this blog I too am following Sir Basil's reading list. However, I am a girl and in the world called Patum Peperium girls are different than boys. Wonderfully different, I might add. So my girl status (technically old woman status) puts me on Sir Basil's reading list for women. Yes, he has one of those. But ladies you must email him to get it - be patient for a reply as it can take years. Sir Basil's reading list for men is all about blood, horror, tragedy, and death. His reading list for women is about blood, horror, tragedy, and death too : It all just happens differently. On the men's reading list the blood, horror tragedy, and death comes about by reading about war, and conquest. On the women's reading list it comes about by reading about women, and marriage.

I recently completed A View of the Harbour by the leading female English novelist who was also an atheist and communist, Elizabeth Taylor. The aethist and communist aspect of Mrs. Taylor's nature does explain her taste for the blood, horror, tragedy, and death associated with women and marriage, nicely, doesn't it? I'd like to say A View of the Harbour is a great book, but I can't. Not because it isn't a great book. I'm convinced it is a great book as Mrs. Taylor is a great writer. Really, one will have to search the book shelves a long time to find a better writer or more observant woman that she. It's just that her outlook on life was so warped and it can't help but seep through the pages. But, oddly I do like her. A lot. I like her in the same way I like riding the bumper cars. I ride the bumper cars with the intent to kill or, in the very least, to maim : I jump in, put the pedal to the floor and just head straight for Mr. P's bumper car and have at him, preferably while he's entangled with some obnoxious 12 year-old boy and his back is still to me. This way he never sees me coming. But then I must prepare myself for the serious bumping and jarring that will soon be occuring to my own sensitivities because once Mr. P has extracted himself from the death spiral I sent his bumper car into, he always comes after me with a vengeance. And lo, it isn't pretty but boy, is it ever fun. Afterwards, I climb out alive, shaken to the core, and ask him, Can we do it again? Mr. P always says yes. Because oddly, it is fun.

Anyhoo, A View of the Harbour revolves around life in a seaside summer resort town. Mrs. Taylor speaks of daytrippers visiting to partake of crab tea. Crab tea is crabmeat sandwiches accompanied by hot tea in the summer months by the sea. Often while sitting on the beach. Who has crabmeat sandwiches with hot tea in the summer while sitting on the beach? Have they all gone mad in England? Really, is it any wonder England is no longer an empire? Now, in the summer months Americans will and do flock by the tens (if not hundreds) of thousands to have a crabmeat sandwiches, or crab rolls by the sea. But they will pair their sandwiches with an iced cold Coke, root beer, ginger ale, lemonade, or iced tea. If they are intelligent Americans and of age, they will be sensible and enjoy a cold beer or glass of crisp cold white wine. If their tastebuds have been dulled from enjoying life too much, then they almost always select a Bloody Mary garnished with a cold shrimp. Don't even get me started on the bozos who have a Harvey Wallbanger with their crab roll. Anyway, the older I get, I am more and more convinced America is still a super power because of the American peoples' overall superior sense of taste. (The fact that we pack more bombs than the rest of the world doesn't hurt either. Well, it hurts the rest of the world, but I digress.)

However, since it is about 8 degrees outside, I do think the sound of a crabmeat sandwich with hot tea sounds heavenly for lunch today. And I am in luck because my fishmonger here sells fresh Maine crabmeat from a fishing wharf that was once one of my old Maine squeezes. So I can make myself a crabmeat sandwich on a hotdog roll and while I am preparing the crabmeat salad, I can brew a proper pot of tea to serve with it. But I will not be doing this as just like the Catholic priest said about fishing last week, it is too cold to go out. Instead, this afternoon the children and their playdates shall have a proper pot of hot tea (they like peppermint) with gingerbread left over from last night's dinner topped off with lemon curd while I sit in my chair enjoying my newest Elizabeth Taylor novel, Mrs. Palfrey at the Claremount. But if I were to make crab rolls today, this is how I would do it:

1 container of fresh crabmeat from your fishmonger (crabmeat does not come in cans from the supermarket, no matter what your husband from the Middle West says, unless it is the pastuerized blue crab in tins from Maryland and retails for about $35 per tin. And that, you use for crab cakes or crab soup.)

1/2 a dollop of mayonaise

1/2 a dollop of Miracle Whip

finely chopped celery to add the crunch

tiniest squirt of lemon juice, if necessary

Salt & pepper to taste, but do go easy as crabs live in saltwater

Sprinkle of Old Bay if you like Old Bay.

Mix together in a bowl. Fill untoasted and unbuttered hot dog rolls. Serve pickles, chips, and appropriate cold beverages in summer months. Serve with hot tea in winter months, only.

The world's only cribstone bridge is in Maine because the Nazis blew up the other one.

*A note of interest (perhaps) for Patum Peperium's regulars: As a child, we would drive over the bridge made of granite cribstones to the island next door to fetch our crabmeat. We purchased it under the table from a lobsterman's wife who wore her white hair in a bun. Really. She resided in a lovely white clapboard house with black painted shutters dating back to the 1800's with a granite foundation about 6 houses away from Robbo the Llama Butcher's present driveway. She was very pleasant and make a tidy sum each summer cooking and picking the crabs that most mistakenly found their way into her husband's traps. On the top of each container of crabmeat she arranged a star fashioned from the claw meat of the crabs. Her crabmeat was the best crabmeat I ever tasted.

People Used To Do It All The Time

Get rid of abortion, not the babies.

Snow Angels

Madame's Nightshirt
Mrs. Peperium

(Snowstorms in Boston do give the City a most magical quality. If one is young and in the company of a good-looking young man, one can almost believe anything is possible. This story is about possibilites. Any resemblance a character may bear to a person known, or unknown may be purely coincidental. Or not. I shall never tell...)

nce upon a time on a cold snowy night a long, long time ago, a very handsome young prince sat with a not too shabby young princess over pints of Bass ale at a pub on Beacon Hill. The handsome young prince was from a kingdom far away called New York City and he was very, very sad. A wealthy princess, also from the kingdom of New York City, with her own Mercedes, swimming pool, and room for a string of polo ponies had given him the royal raspberry just the afternoon before. Handsome Prince was in Boston that night because he was supposed to have squired the wealthy princess to the ball of the year there. Instead he found himself crying in his beer with his old friend, Not Too Shabby Princess. She, in turn, was trying to cheer him up.

As each pint of ale made the sad prince sadder, Not Too Shabby Princess took to imagining how he looked in tights. "Not too shabby" she sighed as she sipped her second pint. But alas, she knew the two of them would never be in love. She did not have her own Mercedes, swimming pool, and room for a string of polo ponies. And to win the heart and hand of this sad but handsome prince she knew she must. But, this did not mean Not Too Shabby Princess did not possess the power to make the sad prince a happy prince. She did. All she had to do was give him a night he would never forget. If it were a night she would never forget, why so much the better. As Not Too Shabby Princess drained her second pint, she decided it was her royal duty to make the sad prince happy again.

"Handsome Prince" she said, as she had called him this since she was a mere mite of a princess of 16. "Handsome Prince, you came to Boston to go to the ball. To the ball we must go."

"Not Too Shabby Princess" he responded, as he had called her this since he was a handsome prince of 18, "you forget, Wealthy Princess's Three Wicked Sorority Sisters will be there." Unfazed by Three Wicked Sorority Sisters with thick ankles packing monogramed sorority paddles in their purses to use on unspecting princesses in the woman's loo, Not Too Shabby Princess replied, "This is why we must go to the ball. They must see us there... together."

"Not Too Shabby Princess, what do you mean together?" asked the handsome prince, springing to life.

"You know what I mean. We will let The Three Wicked Sorority Sisters think what they want to think. Of course, I will be helping them to think what they want to think."

"You will?" he asked.

"I will." she said.

"Really?" he asked

"Really, my sweet prince." she responded, grinning from ear to ear.

"You are the princess, aren't you?" the no longer sad and now even more Handsome Prince said. Then he sighed and continued, "But we are not dressed for the ball.I am wearing a handknitted reindeer sweater, blue jeans, and Bean boots. You my sweet but still shabby princess, are even worse. Who ever heard of a princess, going to the ball of the year in a over-sized fisherman's sweater, skirt...

"It's a mini-skirt" she said, correcting him.

"Mini-skirt, black cotton tights, rag wool knee socks and Bean boots?" he queried.

"This is après-ski dear Handsome Prince. Why all the royalty in St. Moritz is wearing this tonight over their Alpine cheese fondue and hot apple struedel. You forget, my dear, dear Prince that it is snowing outside. Why, at least 2 inches has fallen since we've been sitting here. Who is to say you and I have not been skiing today? Certainly not The Three Wicked Sorority Sisters. Besides, even royalty cannot be expected to wear their finest in this kind of weather. I have my raccoon coat and if you give the cab driver and extra 20 dollars he'll screech the wheels when he pulls up to the Four Seasons which will make the doormen think we are more important royalty than we really are. But you have forgotten the most important thing of all Handsome Prince : Your name is on the guest list. They have to let us in.

"Your cab awaits." replied the most happy and even more Handsome Prince.

After checking their coats with the Four Season's coat check girl, Handsome Prince gave Not Too Shabby Princess his arm and escorted her into the ballroom. Upon seeing what the two were wearing, the sea of young men dressed like penguins accompanied by young ladies wearing the best Newbury Street had to offer that season parted before them like the Red Sea opening for the escaping Israelites . Seeing their path to the bar was clear, they made a beeline for it. Amid murmurs from the crowd of "Get a load at that!" and "Can you believe it?", Not Too Shabby Princess asked Handsome Prince, in a very low voice, "Do you see The Three Wicked Sorority Sisters anywhere?"

"They're at the end of the bar talking to one of the bartenders. They don't appear to have dates" he replied in an equally low voice.

"Good. Take me over to them."

"Really?"

"Yes. After introducing me, ask me if I want a drink. Then, go to the other end of the bar to get it." she instructed the prince.

"Your wish is my command." replied Handsome Prince. Taking Not Too Shabby Princess by the hand, he led her over to The Three Wicked Sorority Sisters. The tallest one addressed Handsome Prince first, "We did not expect to see you here tonight Handsome Prince."

Smiling he responded, "I know. But my friend Not Too Shabby Princess...oh where are my manners...this is not Not Too Shabby Princess....Not Too Shabby Princess, these are The Three Wicked Sorority Sisters [the ladies all made the slightest of nods towards each other]...we came because Not Too Shabby Princess felt like dancing."

"She did, did she? Dancing in those boots? Can't wait to see that one." piped up the middle-sized Wicked Sorority Sister.

Handsome Prince, bearing no resemblance to Prince Phillip fighting the dragon for the sake of Sleeping Beauty, turned to Not Too Shabby Princess and asked, "Would you like a cocktail?"

"Yes, Sweet Prince. My usual, please." she replied while gazing deeply into his eyes. The Handsome Prince departed from the women faster than a knight shedding his armor trousers at the conclusion of the 100 Years War.

"So...Handsome Prince knows your usual, does he?" asked the smallest and, until then, silent Wicked Sorority Sister.

"Yes...he does. In fact, it is one of his own concoctions...Mount Gay and grapefruit." Not Too Shabby Princess responded, smiling.

"Oh, you know about his fondness for Mount Gay and grapefruit." quizzed the middle-sized Wicked Sorority Sister.

"Yes, I've known most of his fondnesses since we were teenagers."

"You've known Handsome Prince since you were teenagers?" asked the middle-sized Wicked Sorority Sister with open incredulity spreading across her face.

"Yes." Not Too Shabby Prince replied with a bigger smile.

"How well have you known him?" demanded the tallest Wicked Sorority Sister.

"I would have to say, as well as a princess can know a prince." she responded while smiling a smile so bright that glints on her teeth were caught in the chandeliers above. For a second or two, the Three Wicked Sorority Sisters had to shield their eyes to avoid being blinded.

No doubt bucked up by a quick stiffner at the other end of the bar, a smiling Handsome Prince returned amongst the ladies bearing two Mount Gay and grapefruits. In a most seductive Handsome Prince tone, he spoke, "Your usual, Not Too Shabby Princess".

"Thank you darling." she responded with eyes only for him but so wishing she had eyes on the back of her head to the facial expressions of The Three Wicked Sorority Sisters. After taking a sip of her drink, she placed it on the bar and said, "Handsome Prince, you said you were taking me dancing, do let us dance."

The Handsome Prince placed his drink on the bar, politely asked The Three Wicked Sorority Sisters to watch them for him and led Not Too Shabby Princess out into the dance floor. The dancing couples (who were all properly attired) moved away from them, giving them the center of the dance floor to themselves. Thankfully, both Handsome Prince and Not Too Shabby Princess had paid attention in ballroom dancing classes all those years ago and were up to what was about to happen to them next. As the music began, they found themselves at the ball of the year in the middle of the dance floor with all of the other couples stopped and circled around them to watch Handsome Prince in his navy blue hand-knitted reindeer sweater, blue jeans, bean boots and Not Too Shabby Princess in her over-sized fisherman's sweater, mini-skirt, black cotton tights, rag wool knee socks and bean boots do the Continental.

Even a fairy godmother would have to say they rocked.

Then, very early into their second dance, a Fox Trot, the Handsome Prince's shoulder was tapped by one of Boston's most eligible Protestant bachelors. He spoke to the Prince, "I'm sorry to cut in, but I've never danced with a young princess wearing Bean boots on the ballroom dance floor of The Four Seasons. And I don't know when, or if ever, I will get another opportunity to do so."

The Handsome Prince was most regal with his response, "Not at all my good gentleman, just take good care of her." He left Not Too Shabby Princess dancing with one of Boston's most eligible protestant bachelors. After that dance concluded, and another was about to begin, the shoulder of the eligible bachelor was tapped by another one asking if he could have a turn dancing with the Princess in a mini-skirt and Bean boots on the ballroom dance floor of The Four Seasons.

Not Too Shabby Princess's dance card was full for the rest of the evening. As she was twirled around the dance floor she did manage to keep an eye on Handsome Prince. He was at the bar chatting with old friends from college days. It was when she saw The Three Wicked Sorority Sisters with eyes glaring and nostrils flared, making their way across to him that she decided at the end of that dance to thank her dance partner and say she needed a rest. She quickly made her way back to Handsome Prince who was by now surrounded and under seige by the Wicked Sorority Sisters.

"Darling, I've had so much fun." she said as she used both arms (in a most unprincess-like manner) to part her way through two of the Wicked Sorority Sisters. "Do you have a drink for me?"

"Yes, a fresh one." he replied, holding it up.

"Great. I'm so parched from all of that dancing." she responded. Then, she moved in closely on Handsome Prince's shoulder and what had to looked like nuzzling up to him in the eyes of The Three Wicked Sorority Sisters but was in reality an attempt to provide cover from their sorority paddles, she took the drink from Handsome Prince, looked up at him, and said, "I missed you out there." With that, she gave him the slightest of kisses on his lips.

Sensing her more than obvious cue, Handsome Prince looked deeply into Not Too Shabby Princess's eyes and said, "Listen to the band, do you remember that time in Newport?"

Not Too Shabby Princess listened to the music, looked up into Handsome Prince's eyes and asked, "You remember that night?"

"How could I not? Shall we?"

"Yes."

Handsome Prince led Not Too Shabby Princess out onto the dance floor and they began to dance. "How's it going?" she asked him.

"They've fallen for it hook, line, and sinker. How will I ever thank you?"

"It's not over yet. You still have to do your Oscar-winninng love scene."

"I do?" he asked, looking at her with big wide open and, slightly terrified, eyes.

"Yes, you do." she responded.

Just then as almost on cue, the dance was over and the strands of a slow one began.

"Okay Prince, the cameras are rolling. Are you ready for your close-up?"

"Yes." Then Handsome Prince took Not Too Shabby Princess very tightly up in his arms and they began to slow dance. Not Too Shabby Princess had her eyes at half mast on his shoulder but still trained on the movements of The Three Wicked Sorority Sisters. "Get ready Prince." she murmured in his ear.

"I am." he responded.

"They're watching. The end of the song is near. Now, give me the best kiss you've got."

He pulled his head back and looked at Not Too Shabby Princess. She lifted her eyes to meet his. They both smiled at each other slowly. Then he pulled her even tighter and gave her a very long deep kiss while he slowly spun her her around until the song ended. (He spun her at least a half a dozen times and she would have fallen over had he not been holding her so tight.) When the kiss ended at the conclusion of the song, she said, "Our work here is done. Let's go grab our coats."

They emerged from The Four Seasons to see that even more snow had fallen. Handsome Prince suggested walking through the Public Gardens over to the cabstand at Ritz to fetch Not Too Shabby Princess her cab home. The walkways in The Public Gardens had been ploughed and the snowdrifts bordering the paths were nearly 3 feet in height. A most serious mood had fallen over Handsome Prince and he was telling Not Too Shabby Princess how wonderful she was when she saw her opportunity.

"Hip check!" she yelled. And before Handsome Prince could prepare for her assault, she hip checked him right into a snowdrift. As he was extracting himself from the snowdrift and wiping the snow from his eyes and hair with Not Too Shabby Princess almost falling on her knees with laughter, he yelled "You are dead when I catch you."

Not Too Shabby Princess made a jump for it over a snow drift and ran out into the open snow across the flowerbeds. But trying to make a quick getaway in 2 feet of freshly-fallen snow in Bean boots and a raccoon coat was not her best idea of the night. In fact, it was her worst. Handsome Prince was soon close on her tail (literally). He made a lunge for her legs and caught them both with one fell swoop. She fell face down into the freshly-fallen snow. Before she knew it he had flipped her over and climbed on top of her. There was not a thing she could do. Plus he was holding a snowball the bigger than a softball and threatening to smash it into her face.

Right there and then, Not Too Shabby Princess decided to do something she would only ever do, years later, when her husband had her pinned down in a similar fashion...

"UNCLE!!!" she screamed as loud as she could. UNCLE!!!!...I SAID UNCLE!!!!" she screamed again.

Because Handsome Prince was truly a prince, he started laughing. "No you didn"t say Uncle, you screamed Uncle." With that he threw the snowball over in the general direction of the statue of George Washington and rolled off of Not Too Shabby Princess. For a few moments, they both lay on their backs in the freshly-fallen snow looking up at the lit-up hotel rooms of the Ritz Cartlon above until their laughter about the whole ridiculous evening subsided. Then Not Too Shabby Princess called out, "Snow Angels!"

And the two of them did snow angels in the park until they were too tired and too cold to do any more more. Handsome Prince walked Not Too Shabby Princess over to the cabstand at the Ritz and put her in a cab home. But before he handed her into the cab, he drew Not Too Shabby Princess up to him, looked into her eyes and said "Thanks." Then he gave her a long kiss right there under the awning of the Ritz Carlton.

As he kissed her, Not Too Shabby Princess closed her eyes and, for a second or two, believed Handsome Prince was in love with her.

And maybe, for a second or two, he really was.

THE END