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When was the last time you found yourself in the middle of a rhubarb?
The first time I ever remember missing my mother was about a week after she had deposited me and my paraphernalia in a dorm room, said goodbye, and left me to begin my first year at college.
“Oh, nuts; salmon again? Why can’t we have something else once in awhile, maybe hot dogs or a hamburger.”
It's last Friday morning as I’m writing this; you remember last Friday morning, don’t you?
Spam is making headlines again. No, not the unwelcome flow of useless input that constantly pops into your computer; the other Spam, the pink meaty stuff that comes in a can.
Well, what a surprise it was to read in one of those “other” papers that Barack Obama is a smoker.
I’ve been thinking a lot during the past few days about gifts I’d like to give my Dad for Father’s Day. Most of all, however, I wish I could give my Dad the one thing I know would make him happier than anything else, the one thing that could bring back that gleam in his eye and make him forget that he’s old and feeble now. I wish I had the power to give him back my Mom, Joetta, the love of his life for more than 70 years.
Belly fat; if you have it, you could be in for anything from diabetes to dementia to dysfunction. You know the dysfunction I’m talking about, the dreaded ED all those TV ads go on and on about. Belly fat is the current hot health mania, and not just in this country.
After the Father’s Day column about digging geoducks with my Dad, I had several e-mails asking for more information about both digging and cooking ’ducks, as well as a few conversations with acquaintances also curious about ’duck digging.