Making memories......whether you want to or not

I think I've finally mastered the skill of not making an all-out assault on a major holiday.

It has taken quite awhile, considering I've been responsible in some way or another for family holidays since I was in my 20s. I admit that the weight of that responsibility is all my own. Back in the day, I had a soul-sucking habit of attributing too much sentimentality and piling too much food into one single day. This resulted in an entire week of a misery that, I was convinced, was never fully appreciated by those who benefitted from my martyrdom. By the evening of Thanksgiving, I'd be cross, cranky and ready for bed by 5 o'clock.

I had come by my holiday obsessions honestly. There was no such thing as a "quiet Thanksgiving" for my mother. Like every good Italian, it was required that there be approximately 50 percent more food than necessary for the number of people invited -- and the number of people invited was always inflated  because my mother invited anybody and everybody and, unless they told her "no" in so uncertain terms, they were counted as a definite. My mother, though, had both my grandmother and me helping out.

So the bar was set and every year I would frantically try to incorporate any and all traditions and even concocted some of my own. I would cram my kids with so much rich food and heartwarming ritual they would feel positively miserable if they had to spend the holiday anywhere other than with their perfect mother.

The first clue I had that I was missing the mark in the building memories department was the year that I made homemade cinnamon buns for Thanksgiving day breakfast. I got up at 6 a.m. to make sure they had enough time to rise and that they'd be hot and ready when everyone got up. They were absolutely wonderful and I couldn't help puffing up at my domestic derring-do...until one of the Heirs sighed, "But I sure miss those ones you used to make that popped out of the can."

Goodness knows, I tried to deliver the homey holiday Hallmark is convinced we're all supposed to have. I've tried the tradition of going around the table and saying one thing we're thankful for -- this dissolves into chaos pretty quickly when participants list "not having a gaping head wound" or "tequila." I had to hold up the Official Lighting of the Creche so the Bethlehem stable could be festooned with prayerfully and properly respectful, but anachronistic, action figures. I only tried a sing-a-long once -- it's amazing how quickly my family can come up with alternative lyrics...and I'm not talking about the kids, either. I gave up trying to inject tradition into holidays two decades ago.

Let me tell you something about traditions, particularly ones you concoct yourself -- they're never the ones your kids remember anyway. They pick their own favorites, thankyouverymuch, and the more embarrassing they are to you, the better.

Toppergetdown

For instance, we now have a tradition of guessing what dish I made that I forgot to put out. It's usually salad, but one year I woke up Friday morning to find the tiny nubs of brussels sprouts drying in the oven. Another favorite is guessing what time it will be when I'm finally so distracted by cooking that I forget to push food far enough back so our Australian Shepherd can't countersurf the cheese.

Heir 2 began a tradition of seeing how many times he could program the stereo to play "What's New Pussycat?" before it pisses someone off (he'll usually stick in one "It's Not Unusual," just to hear someone say, "Thank goodness!" to a song like "It's Not Unusual" -- which is then followed again by more "What's New Pussycat?").

And, once again, I will dig out the basket of nuts for Heir 1. So he can look at them and know they are there. (Do not eat any of the nuts in the basket, should you visit us during the holidays. The boys weren't even in high school when I bought those nuts. But it just isn't the holiday season without the basket of nuts.)

So, I've learned to let go of the control of the holidays. I no longer wear myself out cooking a huge, complicated menu. Wonder of wonders: no one cares. Do I still fuss and cook on Thursday? You bet I do! Well, until it gets tedious. Then I stop, have a martini and enjoy myself. No one ever left my house hungry.

So Martha Stewart would probably cringe at the haphazard delivery of turkey right off the cutting board and self-serve dessert, not to mention my lumpy mashed potatoes. The wine is probably wrong and I never remember to put on my "nice clothes" after doing all the cooking.

And Topper will probably eat all the leftover Doritos out of the bowl someone leaves on the coffee table. Just like he did last year. And the year before that.

Apparently, it's tradition.

Picnicking with the Linguinis

You must understand this: We Linguinis NEVER take picnics lightly.

Well...until yesterday...

However, you must understand our background of picnicking before you can truly be amazed at yesterday's excursion to Lost River State Park in West Virginia.

Growing up, there were always several picnic excursions throughout the summer and they were always hours away. My father always liked to be traveling in the opposite direction of the traffic; so, though we lived near the shore, with a beautiful state parks 10 to 30 minutes away, we were always heading "against traffic" to the "mountains" of New Jersey (High Point State Park has what New Jerseyans call "mountains"). This required leaving at 6 o'clock in the morning and dragging in at 9 o'clock at night -- but not a single second was spent sitting in traffic (though Pa would look at the line of cars going in the opposite direction and comment on how ridiculous it was to be sitting in traffic like that).

I realize the purpose of a picnic is to eat -- A. Meal.

One. Meal.

Remember, though: We arrive at 8 o'clock in the morning. So breakfast, lunch and dinner all have to be arranged and carted. There were bags of Mrs. Obco's Donuts and thermoses of coffee (my parents had an official coffee thermos bag specifically for this) for breakfast, deli for lunch with a complete selection of cold cuts, rolls, bread, condiments and salads, and then a variety of meats to barbecue for dinner.

On top of this, were the rare treats of junk food -- this was the one time my mother would buy us any sweet crap the television has convinced us was the end-all in desserts. And she wouldn't just buy a package -- she'd buy an entire BOX; boxes of Twinkies, boxes of TastyKake pies, boxes of chocolate grahams, boxes and boxes and boxes of sugar! (We won't discuss the long-range ramifications of this practice; right now I choose to make this a happy memory...in her heart, Ma meant well -- though when I tell this to my kids now, they're really bummed.)

Okay. That was just the food. Now we had to load the car with things to occupy us for 12 hours, both in the car and at the picnic site. John Boy had his maps and pamphlets, Dark Garden had his assortment of recreational equipment (fishing rod, basketball, swim gear), I had a pile of books, my mother had her crossword puzzles, and Pa had his beer (though, in all fairness, he was the one who took DG fishing, swimming and to the playground, not to mention he did all the barbecuing).

Oh...did I mention the assorted relatives? Grandma, aunts, cousins -- sometimes it spilled over into a second vehicle, particularly since a dog or two also had to be accommodated.

Whenever we'd arrive at the park, if it was crowded, my mother used to moan about there being so many people around that it wouldn't be relaxing. It occurs to me that, upon seeing our parade enter the picnic area, most of the other people were thinking the same thing.

Nowadays, my generation is in charge of the picnicking and, while we've streamlined a few things, it is still and event requiring more planning than the Normandy Invasion. Everything is up for discussion, from the venue to the menu.

JB makes lists and, while I've never actually seen his list, it must look like this: beer, bratwurst, bottle opener.

DG brings all the meat, barbecue stuff...and cleaning products; lots and lots of cleaning products. We always have the cleanest picnic site in the park. No roll of paper towels and damp cloth for him -- no! He's got spray disinfectant and cloths and wipes.

I bring the stuff that has to be cooked ahead -- salads, side dishes and...yes...dessert; one dessert. ONE.

Yes, we've pretty much got this picnic thing down, though I will admit, all the advance planning a prep can get stressful until we decide on everything.

Well, until yesterday...

It all came together too easily -- which should have warned me. We immediately agreed on the venue, we each stated what we were bringing (admittedly, we do turn into the Atkins family on picnics) and we generally coordinated a time (cell phones don't work at Lost River).

I have to admit, it was coming together so nicely that all week long I hardly gave it a thought. I did my usual grocery shopping and only threw in a few items that were picnic-related (instead of doing my usual pre-picnic shopping blast I can ill-afford). I did a few prep things the night before, slept in the day of (unprecedented!), and loading the car consisted of one cooler and Zsa Zsa's water bowl and tie-out chain (which we only use if we see park rangers driving around -- I try to spare her the indignity of being in chains when there is no need).

So here is how it went down:

DG was bummed because my nephews both had to work that day and couldn't come. Dirtman was also working, so he wasn't there. Heir2 couldn't make it home from Roanoke for the holiday weekend, so he wasn't there.

No one brought paper plates.

No one brought tongs to barbecue.

No one brought paper towels.

JB blamed it all on the fact that for the first time, he hadn't made a list (he never put these things on his stupid list and, besides, when he makes a list, he always forgets to put something on the list anyway, rendering the list useless).

However (and everyone else may disagree, I'll admit):

I had a wonderful, relaxing time. We had a nice, secluded spot next to a brook. I could sit on a rock and put my feet in the water. It wasn't too hot or too cold.

All the other stuff?

We made do.

Note the dishes made from aluminum foil, the knife doubling as "tongs" and our site-side cleaning system (actually, we only washed our hands in the stream).

The food was great. It was a beautiful day. But, more importantly...

...Zsa Zsa was happy.

In which Dirtman gets older

What would it take to get two college-age kids on break to agree to spend an entire day with their parents and allow said parents to choose the movie they would go to?

Don't worry -- neither of us is dying.

It's Dirtman's birthday.

Dirtman, Visionary*

So the four of us met up at one of our favorite treats, Alamo Drafthouse, to see the movie Red (Which was good, as what it was; we're not talking To Kill a Mockingbird here...). And we have the photographic evidence to prove it.

I would like to say a few things about this photographic evidence: I get very little cooperation from my subjects and I'm not fond of having my own picture taken.

So, if you want to see current Linguini photos, you pretty much have to take what you can get -- except in the case of Heir 2, who will pretty much pose for anything but a serious photo.

As for me, no matter what happens, I always look ticked off. I truly am not angry -- I just seem to have a face that looks that way (although I will admit that, while Dirtman is taking my photo, I'm usually barking instructions out of the corner of my mouth).
I caught Heir 1 on his way in -- very quickly, since all the time I'm taking the shot, he's nattering, "Why do we always have to make a scene?" You'd think he'd know the answer to that by now...








Never did get a good shot of Heir 2...but we do have a nice, blurry photo of this guy...



...but you all know what Heir 2 looks like, right?





*Have you noticed the re-emergence of Dirtman's neck? He's lost a whole lot of weight and looks great...and very impressive when he dons his business khakis and arranges free stuff for the farm -- like an agricultural well so that when we suffer a drought like we did this year, we can still provide the food banks with lots of vegetables. He did that this week!

A Mother of a Day

As some of you already know, I have this love/hate relationship with Mothers Day.

On one hand I'm thinking: "Hell yeah...I spent 596 hours popping you out; you damn well better bring me weak coffee, burnt toast and a wilted flower in bed this morning."

On the other hand I'm thinking this is a sort of life style choice and no one else gets an entire day to honor their lifestyle choice (except, you know...fathers). You know who deserves a day? People who clean public toilets in bus stations. Now those are people who deserve a free dinner.

I am of the firm belief that no one's job is more important than anyone else's and income in certainly no reflections of a task's function to society; otherwise those annoying Kardashian people would be living in a van down by the river. (Why are those Kardashian people creeping out of the sewer of inane cable television into places like the Washington Correspondents Dinner? Shouldn't someone set out traps or something to prevent such infestation?)

That being said, I never feel entitled to too much hoopla when it comes to Mothers Day because I'm a little reluctant to celebrate merely doing my job. Mothers Day is like saying: "Hooray! The human relegated to your care isn't dead! Good job!"

So, I'm always happy with whatever is planned in my honor on Mothers Day, lest someone find out I'm not quite as saintly as Hallmark would have you believe. So I have a few confessions to make:

• My kids always had a consistent bedtime, not because I was a good mother, but because I was tired.
• I listened to audio books and knitted during Little League games.
• If we were in the pediatrician's office, there had to be a limb dangling or someone's brains seeping out of their ear; I couldn't see paying a doctor to tell me "it's a virus that's going around."
• All while my kids were growing up I told them that Disney World was a huge, poorly-run amusement park where people stand in line all day long for a thrill lasting a cumulative half-hour; I told them Disney spends all it's money on marketing, which is why everyone thinks it's this great place to go. (In short -- I told them the truth.) Consequently, they not only have no desire to go to Disney World -- they have an active dislike of anything related to it. That's right -- I stole Mickey Mouse from my children.
• I ate some of their Teddy Grahams. Okay, I ate a lot of their Teddy Grahams. Okay, so a few times I ate so many of their Teddy Grahams that they were forced to have toast for a snack (hey -- I put cinnamon and sugar on it...).

So there you have it. And through it all, I still received this yesterday from Heir 1 (it's good to have a kid who works for Panera):



And this from Dirtman (this is one of six):



And was treated to dinner and a movie by Heir 2 (accompanied by Caisee, who was treating her mom, Carol, too!) and a trip to The State Arboretum at Blandy Farm by Dirtman.

Lunch

All this in spite of everything.

So I'm not even angry that I woke up this morning to a sink full of dirty dishes. Well, not too angry...

How I Spent My Summer Vacation*

I stared out at this*2:



Tried to ignore this (not for the faint of heart or stomach).

Did this:

Read these:

Came home to this*3:



(Sigh)

*Summer vacation generously supplied by Mr. and Mrs. Dark Garden, to whom we are eternally grateful, but not so much as to adopt their TV viewing habit (Oh, yes. I saw you two watching wrestling and I tried to convince myself that you were doing it so I would comment on it until I actually heard you discussing the program like you watch this on a regular basis at which point I immediately took up smoking, binge drinking and hard drugs because now I realize there is absolutely no hope for the world and I might as well die young {ish}.)

*2 Believe it or not, we were at Outerbanks -- nice North Carolina beaches. I will not take my camera to the beach. But you all know what a beach looks like, right?

*3 Our neighbor IH across the street naively took a dozen. She told Dirtman, "no more for awhile," not realizing that her acceptance of said cucumbers has automatically contractually obligated her to receive cucumbers every day until the end of the growing season -- unless, of course, she sends back the card we mail her to opt out for a days' worth, which I have a feeling will probably get lost in the mail. IH suggest we put out a table with the extra produce, but I have a feeling that's a good way to lose a table and not much else.

*4 We would also like to acknowledge Heir 1 for staying home and taking care of all the animals and plants without making me feel guilty about it, even though Zsa Zsa was on one of her yogurt and farina diets, Topper gets the runs whenever I leave, Abbey was finishing being in heat and Salt continuously slipped off to peruse the neighborhood. Miraculously, dogs and cats are all happy and healthy and one, in particular, still qualifies to enter a convent (were she not canine, I guess...).

There were no aliens in New Jersey...at least not in 1938

When you are the baker in the family, you usually don't expect a cake on your own birthday unless you're motivated to make it yourself. So I haven't had a birthday cake for quite awhile.

Until now.

Heir 1's birthday gift to me.

Heir 2 has discovered antique and thrift shops -- happily. This was his gift.

There is a story that goes with this (that the Heirs have, of course, heard ad nauseum).

This is a recording of the original Orson Welles 1938 radio broadcast of War of the Worlds. The legendary radio play caused widespread panic among people who thought what they were hearing was authentic.

In the' radio version, H.G. Wells' fictitious aliens land in, of all places, New Jersey -- which would have placed them within linguini-throwing distance of adolescent versions of my wacky aunts and uncles.

As the story goes, my uncle was doing his homework and listening to the radio. He heard the broadcast from the very beginning with the radio play was introduced.

My two aunts, however, came in the middle of it and, as Italians tend to do, overreacted a bit. They began running in circles and screaming.

Now at this point my uncle had a few choices. The obvious course of action would have been to say, simply, "Don't panic." But Douglas Adams wasn't even born yet. Just as effective would have been something to the effect of, "It's just a radio play. There are no aliens landing in New Jersey."

Perhaps not as effective, but certainly more humane, he could have urged them to listen to the radio, which eventually began announcing that what everyone was hearing was a dramatization.

But you know my uncle didn't do that -- not with such a great performance going on in his own livingroom, which by this time involved his two sisters throwing things into suitcases and boxes while screaming at him to help. He calmly continued on with his homework.

In fact, the play was wrapping up just as my grandmother was coming home from work* and he still had not calmed down his sisters and the house was torn up from them throwing everything into whatever they could find.

My uncle, as he has a tendency to do, simply looked up with that "What? I didn't do anything" look. And, technically, he hadn't.

My grandmother, as family legend has it, was not angry over my uncle not telling my aunts about the play; she wasn't even angry that all their stuff was strewn about the livingroom. She simply did one of those Sicilian back-of-the-head slaps to my aunts, called them both "Stupido" and sent everyone to bed.

Somewhere in our communal family archives (probably in John Boy's Basement of Doom) is yet another recording of a (overly) dramatic version of War of the Worlds containing that line that we all repeat to this day (but I'll bet I'm the only one who remembers this is where it came from): "I.............survived."

*My grandfather had died a few years earlier of pneumonia. My grandmother worked in a millinery factory to support herself and her six children (well, five, since my oldest aunt had already married at this point).

Lost in Lost River

John Boy was to arrive at Lost River State Park much earlier than the rest of us in order to go on a hike and then would meet us for a picnic.

A (sort of) direct quote from John Boy, after sitting a half hour in the general parking area while we had already set up the site and having arrived, via his car, after searching the whole park:

"I thought you'd probably leave a note or something on my windshield..."



"...but I got distracted."

Did I mention Linguinis have a focusing prob...

Oh, look! Zsa Zsa!

Up to speed

Ahhhh! Back on my usual computer. The laptop is okay for just working in Word, but doing anything else is a nuisance -- and will be until I get myself a mouse.

Things have been truly buzzing around here; so much good news, I'm wondering if perhaps the universe is tilting in a strange direction or maybe I've fallen through some black hole to a parallel universe -- one that isn't out to get us.

Or maybe my Year of Grief has come to an end, even though I didn't know I was experiencing a Year of Grief because I was...well...experiencing a Year of Grief. What is the psycho babble phrase? I found my New Normal?

First of all, NO MORE CISTERN!!!! Our landlord/neighbor hooked us up to his well. What this means is no more turning on the kitchen sink, hearing a telltale thunk that means "rinse what you got and quick;" or waking up at night when someone uses the bathroom and hearing an ominous hiss that means no one else will be able to use the toilet until water is delivered. Turns out the cistern still had a leak, which I wish we knew, like, eight expensive loads of water ago...

Second: Dirtman has quit tobacco! The Heirs are particularly happy about this since they envisioned a future of having to be the caregiver to a father with half a face. I'm just relieved he got rid of the health risk. Oh, and now I don't have to run away when he tries to kiss me.

Some minor positive notes: The thyroid meds have finally kicked in completely and, while I wouldn't say the pounds are "melting" away, I feel like I'm back on track and am fitting in clothes I haven't seen since two summers ago. My energy has returned and my joints aren't screaming every time I put forth a little exertion. My hair has stopped falling out and my nails grow again.

So we've been busy. Landlord/neighbor plowed a section in the back of the yard (beyond the fence) for a communal vegetable garden. As soon as it dries up a little he's going to have it tilled. So we started a compost pile because...yea...we've got a lot to compost.

Mothers' Day was spent at Dark Garden's house, where I was -- against my will -- entered into a dip contest. Had I known this was a contest, I would not have brought hummus, which was, technically, in violation of the "dip theme" of the gathering. The dip was supposed to go with tortilla chips, but since I was trying not to eat tortilla chips, I brought hummus and carrot and celery sticks.

Do I need to tell you I lost miserably -- even to Dirtman's dip, which was...well, if you have a strong stomach and aren't eating anything, you can read about Dirtman's dip. First of all, men don't like hummus. They say they do to appease women attempting to get them to eating healthily, but they don't. Second, I can't think of anything more disgusting than hummus on a tortilla chip. And, finally, this batch didn't turn out as well as usual because for the first time in my life I made something with not enough garlic and, I think, my tahini might have been too old. (Dark Garden will make a comment about that last phrase.)

Additionally, Dark Garden will say I'm taking this way too seriously, which is what the person who sets up such competition always says when he purposely sabotaged the entry of the competition he feared. It ended up being a draw between his and John Boy's salsas, but only statistically. Each dip had its own merit and it's hard to compare, say, a cheese-based dip with a salsa because sometimes you want cheese and sometimes you want salsa.

And sometimes you don't want either because you want fresh vegetables and hummus.

I think that catches us up.

Oh, except for this, which we found next to Abbey's favorite gnome:

A puzzlement

Yea for snow days!

Though around here, it's more like ice days. I'd give anything for a lovely snowfall.

But any housebound day is a good day in my book. I did a slow-cooker pork roast for dinner so I wouldn't be stuck in the kitchen and broke out a jigsaw puzzle. This made Heir 2 happy and Heir 1 dizzy.

Heir 2 got a double-sided puzzle of the Beatles' White Album on one side and a picture of each vinyl record (all four sides) on the other. He completed the picture of the vinyl side, but was never able to complete the puzzle on the total white side. But that's not the puzzle we're working on now because it's supposed to be fun...not give you a nervous breakdown.

We do like a challenge, though. So we're doing a 2,000-piece puzzle of a famous painting, which you should be able to make out by just the colors...if not, Heir 2 swears we'll have this done by the end of the week. (Notice he said "the week," not "this week.")

The Christmas Spirit

As most of you know, this Christmas didn't promise to be all that wonderful and I was sort of dreading the holidays -- all that forced joviality and focus on churning out seasonal wonderfulness. It seemed no matter how "frugal" the project, it entailed running to the store and buying something and we choose our expenses very carefully these days.

This year at some point I realized that our spirit was about the only thing we could always afford to ... um ... decorate. So that has been our focus.

I say this because Heir 2, having read my blog, came to me and said he felt readers were getting the wrong idea about the atmosphere around here. Because, in spite of the constant disasters that have been cropping up on a regular basis*, we're really a pretty jolly bunch for the most part.

Lately the focus has been on cookie baking and, fortunately, Heir 2 and Caisee have been on hand to help out in the decorating department. I'm afraid by the time it comes to the decorative cookies, the most I can muster in the way of artistic design amounts to shaking one color on every cookie.




We've been having pretty regular game nights, even on weekdays. Heir 2 and I love board games. Dirtman and Heir 1 -- too much focus required. So I made it a contingency that no one was allowed to eat Christmas cookies unless they play a game. Somehow this helped Dirtman's focus. Heir 1 -- not so much. But he's near by in the living room (this is a small house -- everywhere is near by) and pops in now and again and I even deign to give him a cookie.


And we attended Heir 2's Christmas ("Holiday") concert.

Guess which one is Heir 2...
Yeah, that's him with the Santa hat.
A true Linguini, through and through

*Today's disaster du jour is that Heir 1 hit a deer -- with his vehicle, I mean. He's fine. The deer? Not so much. His truck? Driveable...sigh.

And, apparently, they're never too old to look ridiculous

Did some random Muslim woman wander in here?

No -- it's NINJOE! (Who insists that some of you will enjoy this.) He was on his way to help Caisee and her family at a Halloween party at the fire hall.

Not to be outdone by RoboChar (or Charbot -- whatever)...

...who was on his way to help Torie hand out candy. (Heir 1 has had this costume ready for over a month. He picked the components out of the trash at Food Lion -- except for one of the antennae, which we had on hand).

As for Dirtman and me -- we hung around for our one trick-or-treater -- well, one family. Then I went to bed and watched House. Yippee.

Never too old to maul a pumpkin

All I needed, I told Heir 2, was a jack 'o' lantern to put next to the door where I want the trick or treaters to go tomorrow. He was too old for this sort of thing, I admitted to him, but if he didn't do it, I was going to have to do it and I still hadn't cooked dinner or vacuumed or given his brother a haircut yet.

I was happy when he agreed pleasantly enough and I made a point of baking a batch of chocolate chip cookies by way of gratitude.

According to our neighbor/landlord, we do get a few trick-or-treaters and this is a first for us. We were always in an area too rural. When the Heirs were little, we had to drive to an official "neighborhood" to trick-or-treat, causing resentment among a few of the residents -- okay, one crabby old lady -- who felt she should only have to supply candy to the kids in her neighborhood. Were she flooded with kids I would have agreed, but the subdivision was so small, even with the added rural kids, she probably didn't even finish a bag of candy. She complained about the neighborhood kids too: they didn't ask politely enough or were too loud or their costume didn't show enough initiative. Pretty soon all the parents learned to avoid her house. All she had to do was keep her outside lights out and no one would have bothered her to begin with.

Anyway, apparently we will be visited upon this year and, since we technically have two front doors, I'm setting up Gnigel with a tiny pumpkin in his lap and the jack 'o' lantern next to the one most accessible.

But...

He was having way too much fun... um...

carving...

...I'm pretty sure there's a scene like this in the movie "Hannibal."

Just call Heir 2 Mr. Sluggo.

Rumor has it, also according to our neighbor/landlord, that one of the guys who has a farm around our little village dresses up as the Headless Horseman and rides his horse through Mt. Olive. I hope to get a photo now that I've figured out how to work the aperture on my camera. I'm not very good at it yet, though, so he'll probably be a mile down the road before I get the setting right. I don't want to spoil the effect for everyone by having the poor guy pose for me.

See? I thought Halloween was going to be just another day now that the Heirs are grown and now it's becoming A Thing. I just may go out tomorrow and buy some good apple cider at Rinkers and our traditional Halloween treat (at least when I was a kid): Hostess donuts* -- the box with four powdered, four plain and four cinnamon donuts. It's just not Halloween without the Hostess donuts.

*I don't know if Hostess is available around here. Dirtman insists they sold that portion of the business to Little Debbie. It's immaterial. They must be variety donuts.