Ornesta to the Rescue!


“Hey, Ornesta!  How’s life in da U.P.?”

“Not so bad.  The thermometer hasn’t blown out the bottom end yet, the bears haven’t moved into town to feast on the inhabitants, and I haven’t had to deal with any sneezified menus lately.  How about yourself?”

“Um, well … Ornesta, may I come live at your house for a while?”

“Sure, Sweetie!  We can put you up in the ice shanty out back.  Bud won’t need it until the Gitch* freezes over, and that won’t happen for a few weeks yet.  You’ll have your own private commode too, even if it does have a little moon carved out of the door.  What’s the problem?  Hubby being mean to you?”

“No, no.  The hubby’s always good to me.  I can’t complain — even if he can’t figure out how to use the phones around the house without disconnecting himself.”

“How about the teenager?  Is she running wild all over town?”

“No, not that either.  The closest Beebee ever comes to running wild is to saunter down Main Street in Little Chute with her guitar strapped to her back.”

“Little Chute!  What does she go there for?  It’s full of Hollanders!”

“She’s got a friend that lives there — not Hollander, either.  But — what’s wrong with Hollanders?  We’re all either Hollanders or Krauts down here.  If you stick a bratwurst in each of our fists, you can’t tell us apart. We all talk like Yoopers*.”

“Heeeyyyy!  Well, at least if you come to stay with us no one will know you aren’t the genuine article.  You know, I visited Little Chute once.  Went there for the Kermit Festival — but I didn’t see the little green guy anywhere, or Miss Piggy either — just a lotta folks clomping around in wooden shoes, with tulips stuck in their baseball caps.”

Kermis, not Kermit!  It just means an outdoor festival in Dutch.”

“Yah, whatever. Now, what’s the matter, anyway?”

“(Sigh!) Money doesn’t grow on the bushes out back, BFF’s aren’t always forever, my creative juices seem to have gotten rancid, I should have taken up Dave Barry on his offer after all, and I might as well apply the Christmas cookies directly to my hips, since they’re going to end up there anyway. “

“Yah, those are problems, all right.  But, how is living in the ice shanty going to fix ’em, do you s’pose?”

“Well, I think I just need a change of scenery — new vistas produce new writing fodder, you know?”

“That might take care of the rancid juices, but I don’t know if it will help the cookie-hips problem much. But tell you what: you pack your duffel bag and c’mon up, and I’ll have Merle Haggard singin’ Everybody Gets the Blues and If We Make It Through December on the tape deck in the shanty to cheer you up when you get here.”

“Throw in  Mule Skinner Blues, and I’m on my way!”

*The Gitch — Gitche Gumee; Lake Superior
*Yoopers — people who live in Michigan’s upper peninsula

(For more Ornesta-related adventures see Simply Ornesta! in the sidebar, under Archives.)

Facebook — It’s Addictive


I have revised my opinion about Facebook.  My initial impression was that it was a complete waste of time and about as delightful as eating brussel sprouts.  But I have since discovered that some of my friends do have more interesting things happen to them than, “Nicole is brushing her teeth.”

I discovered that those friends who only leave comments behind about brushing their teeth and backing out of their driveways can be conveniently blocked from appearing on my home page.  By thus editing out the nonessential material, I make it easier to tune in to the soap opera lives of my remaining friends.  This can be most entertaining.

Sometimes it is downright embarrassing, though, as I involuntarily become witness to family spats carried on for all the world to see.  I do wish those who quarrel would do it through their private mailboxes, but I guess the idea is, if you’re mad, defacing the offender’s wall with snide remarks is more fun.  Perhaps by defacing cyber walls, people restrain themselves from taking a can of spray paint to the offender’s real-life siding.

But on to happier thoughts — the entertaining side of Facebook.  I learn the most interesting things there, that no one would otherwise bother to tell me.  I am now aware that my son-in-law carries six-foot-long black snakes around the church parking lot on the end of a stick when he has nothing better to do with his time.  And, that my daughter was tempted to save the state of Pennsylvania years of penal institution costs by personally administering a lethal injection to a defendant there.  She figured he deserved it, and besides, she didn’t want to have to sit on the jury listening to the rest of the gross details of what he had done to deserve life in prison (or lethal injection).  I learned that several people I thought were gentle souls harbor secret desires to murder bunnies in their backyard — all for the sake of saving a few petunias.  (This, however, is probably not as serious as desiring to give the arrested personage a lethal injection.)  I now know the intimate details of certain people’s surgeries, and can only hope they will not upload photos to further enlighten us all on their “procedures.”

I have discovered which of my friends sit down to Facebook at 6:00 a.m. and do not unglue from it until 11:00 p.m.  I also know from the nonstop quizzes they take about themselves

1.)  Which of Jesus’ disciples they are like (so far, no Judases)

2.)  Which celebrities they look like (so far, no Phyllis Dillers or Jimmy Durantes)

3.)  Which cartoon character best fits their personalities (“You are Piglet — a faithful friend to the Pooh Bears in your life, but your voice is rather squeaky, and you have cotton batting where your brains belong.  However, cheer up!  Your congeniality makes up for your intelligence deficiencies, so everyone loves you just the way you are.”)

I know who joined the “Save the Brazilian three-footed pygmy toad from extinction” group, who sprinkles Skittles on her oatmeal, who consults her horoscope and ought to know better, and who slathers ketchup on his shredded wheat.

It’s a strange world.  Thank you, Facebook, for widening my horizons.


Anybody Not Joined Facebook Yet?


I have finally broken down and done what the whole rest of the world had accomplished before me: I have joined Facebook.

My married daughter assured me that it was a must-do.  Only people who live in caves and draw bison on the walls are not on Facebook.  In fact, Facebook has provided an outlet for people who prefer to stay in caves and draw on walls — or people whose mothers  never succeeded in teaching them not to do murals there.  They actually encourage folks to scribble on other people’s walls.  The polite thing to do is not get mad, but get even.  When someone writes on your wall, you just go write on his.  It is hard for me to get used to.  My mother taught  me well.  One episode of Mom skillfully applying a stirring spoon to my behind taught me that crayon masterpieces do not belong on walls.  But times have changed. 

I have noticed that Facebook people are not very literary.  They don’t write or read blog posts.  If you want to know what’s happening in your friends’ lives you have to look at the latest 1,000 pictures they have uploaded and try to guess from those what is happening.  I think it is the modern version of charades.  I have come to a conclusion: everyone but me spends 70% of their time taking pictures of themselves.  How many pictures of the same face can we all endure every forty-eight hours?  But then, that is why we call it Facebook, isn’t it.  The other 30% of a Facebooker’s day is spent equally divided between

1.)  Commenting on everyone else’s pictures,
2.)  Joining this and that fan club or group and trying to get everyone else to do likewise, and
3.)  Letting the world know what one is doing moment-by-moment throughout the day. 

It is Point #3 which I would like to discuss next.  Hardly any of my Facebook friends do interesting things throughout their day.  “Sheba is tired and going to bed.”  “Rodney is eating toast.”  “Dobey is backing his car out of the driveway.”  It is enough to make me post, “Lee Ann is dying of ennui, due to the boring lives of her Facebook friends.”  However, my life is far more interesting than that, so I will break out of the mold and shock Facebook by letting all my cyber friends into my hitherto private world of adventure.  Allow me to give you a preview.

Lee Ann is:

… butchering the hogs right now.  Y’all come on over for headcheese.
… bandaging her toes after dropping a world-record-size eggplant on them.
… reading The Adventures of Richard Hannay for the tenth time.  Who knew WWI could be so much fun?
… stowing away on a steamer for Antarctica.
… heading up the George Barna research team on how many preterists also belong to the Flat Earth Society.
… out of wind from chasing her pet turtle down the street.  Either they move faster than they are given credit for, or Lee Ann needs a date with a treadmill.
… crock pot cooking the penguins she secured in Antarctica. (And the eggs make good omelets.)
… scraping half-cooked Skookie dough off the front of her (once) immaculate white bathrobe.
… wondering why there is an ambulance outside and two men with a stretcher and a straitjacket coming to her front door.  (What has the retired mailman done this time?)

You get the idea.


Fix Your Gallbladder!


Someone just left a comment that he or she had read the definitive book on liver flushes.  It was in response to my post on Mountain Dew Gallbladders.  I can’t imagine why anyone would flush his liver, much less read about doing so!   But it got me thinking about the time I took a friend’s advice  to cleanse my gallbladder.  Maybe she had been reading the same book.  She’s fortunate I didn’t flush the friendship.

I had been having some pain that ominously hinted of gallbladder trouble.  My devoted buddy told me about a “treatment” to get rid of and/or prevent gallstones.  She swore she did it annually.  I think she lied! 

Her cure  involved drinking a mixture of 1/2 cup olive oil and 1/2 cup lemon juice.  Pour it down the hatch, and in the morning you feel wonderful.  I decided to be conservative and drink half the prescribed amount.  It took some doing to get that far.  This concoction does not taste like Gatorade or Starbucks special blend.

I just about upchucked on the spot.  “Mind over matter,” I told myself, while attempting to force my stomach to retain its goods.  Believe me, there was a titanic battle between my mind and the matter for the next hour or two. 

Shortly after I retired for the evening, stabbing abdominal pains set in.  I thought I was going to die, or at the very least be forced to visit the emergency room and ‘fess up to what I’d done.  I had visions of the ER folks employing gastrointestinal roto-rooters to save my life and the insurance company refusing to pay for my rescue from self-mutilation.

Eventually the pain stopped, I fell asleep, and was relieved to wake up the next morning in the same realm I had dozed off in.  I want to see heaven — just not quite yet.

My friend received a bright-and-early phone call that I can only hope got her out of bed.  I hotly suggested that she keep her home remedies to herself in the future.  She was unsympathetic — said it helped her, and she had never experienced the drastic symptoms to which I was testifying.  She dropped the names of a few famous people who all use the treatment.  Good for them!

We have a forty-year friendship, and it has survived.  Yes, I forgave her.  But shhh!  Don’t tell!  I’ve never had the gallbladder issues since. 


True Confessions


I was just looking at my official picture — the one I use on this blog — and I have decided it is time for a confession: I don’t look like that.  First of all, in real life my face is not pumpkin-orange, and my neck is not the color of an embalmed cadaver.  Maybe it doesn’t look that way on your computer, but it does on mine — pumpkin/cadaver.  It is our camera’s fault, and I was too cheap to shell out to Glamour Shots.

Secondly, in real life I wear glasses at least part of the time.  When I was young I always wore them to avoid bumping into walls and other dangerous objects.   But, although old age has not always been kind to me, my eyes have improved.  I can now read without glasses, and I only occasionally bump into things when not wearing them.  We tried taking the picture with the spectacles on, but there were flashes of light showing up in odd places, so I decided the do-it-yourself portrait would be sans glasses.

Thirdly, I brushed out some of the wrinkles with my handy-dandy photo-correcting program.  Nice little tool.  I like the reduced-wrinkle look!  Too bad the software couldn’t do anything for the pumpkin/ cadaver issues.  But people read this blog when they want to laugh, so they might as well laugh at the picture as well.

(I learned the evil little practice of photo enhancement from one of my friends,  but she is more radical than I am.  She wipes out her double chin completely, and replaces her left eye by flipping a copy of her right eye and plopping it in where the left one used to hang out.  She also creates family portraits by taking twenty bazillion pictures of them all and then cutting out each kid’s best shot and pasting them all together.  You’d think she could get one shot out of twenty bazillion where they were all behaving and smiling nicely together, so that she wouldn’t have to do all the pasting, but you don’t know this family.  I do, and I understand.)

I thought about posting a picture of my daughter instead.  She is young and oh, so beautiful!  Everyone would have wondered how many facelifts it took for a woman in her fifties to accomplish that look.  It would have been fun!  But alas.  Susan would not have spoken to her mother ever again.  She would have been embarrassed to have such story-telling associated with her lovely person — even though she spins a good yarn herself.

Someday I will find a way to put together a better picture or else fork out to Glamour Shots, but in the meantime, I had to ease my guilty conscience by confessing.  Now tell me you don’t doctor your pictures a little here and there!


Bah, Humbug!


Not to be an Ebenezer Scrooge, but I don’t like Christmas.  It’s not that I’m a terrible grump, or stingy, or any other of Scrooge’s faults.  No, my reason for disliking the season is that it gets so busy that Jesus gets lost in the shuffle.  Years ago, I used to try to work up some kind of euphoric feeling about Christmas, and I’d do everything in my power to try to make it wrap all around the Lord. 

I have given up.  There is just too much stuff to do — and we keep it simpler than the majority of folks do.  Christmas time does not mean that my schedule lightens up.  We just add more things to the to-do list than we already had before.

I write four Christmas cards — yes, just four.  I know you are feeling waves of sympathy for me right now.  Paul has his own list and does his own newsletter, so between the two of us our Christmas card mailing looks more impressive.  He is very conscientious.  His were mailed just after Thanksgiving. 

Two of my Christmas mailings go all the way to India, to our sponsored children, so they need to be sent out by the first of October to get there on time.  Actual mailing date is about December 1, which means they’ll arrive at the end of February, if the trip goes smoothly.  The kids are used to this by now, I’m sure. 

The other two cards are for a couple of relatives.  There used to be more, but everybody else either became irrelevant or died off.  Once people have become irrelevant or have died, you no longer need to send them Christmas cards.  Those two went out today.  But at least they were personalized for the individuals they were sent to. 

One year I tried to make my life easier by sending my Christmas greetings via e-mail.  I figured, “What’s the difference?  I put a little Christmas border along the side, just like if I snail mail it, and it’s good to go!”  It wasn’t good to go.  There were definite snorts from a couple of folks, and a third suddenly became one of the irrelevant ones that I don’t need to mail to anymore. 

But, we were talking about why Christmas isn’t all that much fun.  Shopping — I hate shopping, 365 days a year.  It’s worse at Christmas.  This year I completely avoided crowds by not going to WalMart at all, so I can’t complain about crowds.  But how do you shop for people who have everything and don’t want anything more that you could possibly buy for them? 

To top it off, we deal with two family birthdays in December, and two more in January, so we have all the birthday and Christmas shopping at once.  My husband likes technology and golf clubs, both of which are incomprehensible subjects to me.  Beebee likes clothes, shoes, and purses, but not the clothes, shoes, and purses that Mom-O would choose for her.  I think I’m going to start giving socks and underwear, like one family I know. 

This year, my husband tried to make it easier for me.  “Just get me braunschweiger.  I love braunschweiger.”  If he’s talked about the braunschweiger once, he’s talked about it with great anticipation twenty times.  He wants a tube of braunschweiger!!!  The stuff is disgusting, and only a German would eat it.  They grind every unmentionable part of the pig into it, and he wants to eat it!  Fine, I will buy him braunschweiger.  But how will that sound when people ask, “So, Paul, what did your wife get you for Christmas?”

But I am doing bunny trails.  Back to why I dislike Christmas.  I must make Christmas cookies and candy.  You are probably thinking, “Big deal.  We all do that.”  Well, maybe you do, and maybe you enjoy it.  I got myself into a trap a few years ago.  Instead of getting socks and underwear for the fringe relatives, I gave them each some of my world-famous Granny’s Grainy Fudge.  I’m going to patent and trademark it someday and sell it for $20.00 a pound to upscale people who love to buy overpriced mail order candy.  It’s that good.  But the friends and relatives came to expect it, and there are quite a few of them, and it became a huge chore.  I’ve cut way back this year.  Some of them just joined the irrelevant list, whether they like it or not. 

But don’t just assume — if you are a friend or relative and you don’t get any candy, it could just be because I’m tired, not because you’re irrelevant.  I’ll clear it with you about January 1, and explain which category you fall into — the “I was just too tired this year to care” category or the “You’ve been selected to be irrelevant” one.  (I’m just being sassy for fun.  I don’t really treat people like this.)   To tell the absolute truth, no one is getting fudge this year.  I made a different kind of candy.  “Granny’s” patience got a little grainy, and there’s no fudge for you!

I have not finished shopping yet.  I still have to do the last minute food gift purchases (such as braunschweiger).  I hope it gets done before the grocery stores close on Christmas Eve.  It looks a little shaky this year.  I have not wrapped a single thing yet.  Beebee and Paul will have pity on me and bail me out as much as they can.  I have not finished making the candy yet (but at least it will be fresh when the folks get it).  I did get the tinsel on the tree, for the first time in ten years.

You are no doubt wondering why, if I am as busy as all that, I am taking time to write this.  It’s a matter of mental health.  If I don’t let it out of my system, the lid might blow off the top of my brain, and that wouldn’t look nice.  Or I might overheat and start manifesting insanity symptoms, like foaming at the mouth and muttering strange phrases in Arabic.  It wouldn’t look good in the Christmas video.  So, I’m doing it for my friends and relatives.  They will thank me in the end.

But I am unhappy that Jesus is not getting the attention that should be all His at Christmas.  It’s His birthday, but I have concluded that it is useless to try to focus on that.  I’m spending as much time with Him as I do all the rest of the year long, but He should have had the extra time this Christmas, and the Christmas must-do’s got it instead.

So, I think I’m with Mr. Scrooge.  We have different reasons, but the same opinion.  Bah, humbug!

Daniel Fast


Our church family just finished a 21-day Daniel fast and time of prayer.  For those of you who may not know, a Daniel fast is patterned after how Daniel in the Bible fasted and prayed:

Daniel 10:2, 3In those days, I Daniel was mourning [probably repentance prayer for his nation] three full weeks.  I ate no pleasant bread, neither came flesh nor wine in my mouth, neither did I anoint myself at all, till three whole weeks were fulfilled.

At the end of the 21 days that Daniel fasted, an angel came with revelation from heaven for Daniel.  His prayers were answered.

It’s amazing what people do with a small passage in the Bible like that.  There are umpteen web sites that will tell you exactly how to do a Daniel fast.  Supposedly, the web site authors have done research, and have discovered exactly what Daniel ate and what he didn’t eat during that time.  But the web sites do not agree with each other, so either several somebodies’ research is faulty, or else they are making it up as they go along.  (Can I say this, and get away with it?)

One web site declares that on a Daniel fast, we must eat all whole-grain bread, fruits and veggies galore, no preservatives, no sugar, no meat, no dairy, no oil of any kind.  Another site allows dairy, including butter (but not margarine).  Another says sugar is bad, but honey is acceptable.  Still another says we cannot eat any bread.

I did not think the verses in the Bible were as hard as all that to understand — No wine and no flesh is pretty straightforward: we weren’t going to be eating meat, and we don’t drink wine anyway.  No pleasant bread tells me just that — the cookies, sweet breads, and goodies of that ilk gotta go.  Some translations say “no pleasant food.”  OK, so fruit is a pleasant food in my book, so shouldn’t that go, too?  (But we ate fruit.  We had to eat something.)

My family obsessed over food for two weeks leading up to the fast.  I never saw my husband and child so preoccupied with their stomachs before!  They were wringing their hands about what in the world they were going to eat.  Now, you have to understand how serious this was to them.  My daughter is a growing teenager, and teenagers need a lot of fuel.  My husband is six feet tall and weighs about 150 pounds on a good day.  He has a high metabolism and a high-energy job.  He eats constantly, just to keep going and maintain weight in the process.  We call him The Hummingbird.  I, on the other hand, do not need more fuel.  Maintaining weight, for me, means not blimping out and breaking the scale.  I saw this fast as a marvelous opportunity to lose a few pounds and not have to cook!

It was very interesting hearing from our church friends how they were doing the fast.  They ran the gamut from hard core fruit-and-veggies-only people to letter-of-the-law types who tried to get as close to the line without stepping over it as possible.  One family in our acquaintance finally decided that cheese pizza would fit the fast criteria, since there wasn’t any meat on it.   They managed to find one with a whole wheat crust.  Hmmm.  Some spent many hours in the kitchen, coming up with gourmet bean delights that were as tasty as any meat dish ever thought of.  I rather thought this might be defeating the purpose.  I thought we were supposed to suffer a little, and use the time we would normally spend preoccupied with eating on prayer.  Well, what do I know?

Several of our people suffered horribly without their Starbucks or Mountain Dew fix.  The caffeine withdrawal was enormous.  My sympathies to them.

My daughter decided she was going to fit into the get-as-close-to-the-line group.  She read all those web sites, and picked the most appealing “acceptable” foods from each.  On the first day of the fast, I caught her eating white bread with honey on it.  I think potato chips (a veggie) would have been next on her agenda, if I hadn’t put my two cents’ worth in.

“This is a fast, after all, Beebee!  It’s supposed to be a little hard for you.  Somehow I don’t think honey bread is fast material.”  I noticed that the next day she was dutifully gagging down the whole grain bread with no sweeties on top.

It was a challenging three weeks.  We were not hardcore.  I would describe our eating patterns as moderate.  We drank milk and ate some butter on our bread.  We popped pounds of popcorn in olive oil.  We ate a few baked potatoes.  We will be paying off the credit card debt for the fruit and veggie grocery bill for the next year!  (Daniel fasts are an expensive way to eat.)  My child refused to eat beans under any circumstances.  We were hungry a lot; the food was just too boring to care about eating it, starved or not.

I reminded my family that things could be much worse.  What if the angel hadn’t come to Daniel at the end of 21 days?  We could have been on this fast for three months, or a year, if the angel had taken that long to get to Daniel!  So, I heard a few thanksgiving prayers from our teenager, “Thank You, Jesus, for not waiting 52 days to send the angel to Daniel!”  It’s amazing the things you can find to be thankful for.

Yesterday was the first day off the fast.  You want to know what we ate, don’t you?  We had been carefully planning the menu for a week, and it was outrageous.  I had a Toaster Strudel for breakfast and potato chips for midmorning snack.  Also part of a chocolate candy bar.  Beebee ate a fat-laden store-bought muffin as big as a softball.  We had milk and an apple, to assuage our consciences. We had Dairy Queen ice cream cake for lunch.  I did not feel well all afternoon.  I prayed my gall bladder would hold up!  This did not stop the excess at suppertime, however.  We indulged in a Little Caesar’s pizza.  We controlled ourselves a teeny bit and did not eat quite the whole thing.

Today, we will climb back out of the abyss of indulgence and eat with more sanity.  The junk we ate yesterday is not typical for us.  I think I’ve bought Toaster Strudels only once before in my whole life, and if the potato chip companies had to depend on people like us, they’d all be bankrupt.  Ditto for Dairy Queen and Little Caesar’s.  It was fun for a day, but will not be a trend.  (And my gall bladder prayers were answered, by the way.)

So yes, thank You Lord, for coming to Daniel after 21 days instead of 60, thank You for the answers to prayer You are sending our way — and thank You for potato chips!

Sequel: Daniel Fast Revisited  
Additional Sequel: Weird Search Terms #4  
(Scroll to bottom) 


My Latest Inspiration


I have been reading Tasha Tudor’s biography, Drawn from New England, and it has inspired me to write a biography of my best friend Peggy–authorized if she is enthused, and unauthorized if she isn’t. She won’t have a choice!

I thought the Tasha Tudor thing had a pretty good title, seeing she was an illustrator (Drawn) and from New England (lived in New England). So I’ve decided to go with a catchy title like that for my buddy’s biography. We want the readers to know she’s an artist (she’s into basketry), and we want them to know she is from Wisconsin, so we’ll call it, A Basket Full of Bratwurst. Isn’t that good??!!!

I haven’t got much material yet–just a great title–so I’ll have to interview Peg (for the authorized version) or those that know her (for the unauthorized version). Better yet, why don’t I just make it up as I go along? Who cares if it has any basis in reality? Hey, Hillary Clinton got away with this, and look how well her book did! Especially for the unauthorized version, we will have to find people who aren’t Peg’s favorite friends and can provide scoops of dirt (isn’t that the way they do it for the celebs?). Maybe, true to the Drawn from New England style, we’ll just stick with my own fond remembrances.

I’d better make this biography sound convincingly positive to Peg, so that she’ll cooperate, because we’ll need lotsa pictures–cute baby ones right up through the awkward years. (No, I’m not referring to adolescence. It’s the latest stage we’re in–the almost Depends generation.) We’ll want to include the colorful pictures of her accomplished artwork–knit sweaters, baskets, paintings, quill boxes, silk banners, grapevine wreaths, beadwork, and any other of her past art passions that I can’t recall right now. I’d just go steal the pics off her web site, but she has them all scientifically sabotaged so that they can’t be swiped.

If I do an unauthorized version, I probably won’t have to pay her anything from the massive profits I make. But then, she probably won’t let me have the pics, and I’d have to rely on dirt. Such a hard decision! Tsk.

This biography brainstorm has just got to be a winner! I figure, with Peg’s colorful, multi-faceted art career, she has at least as much going for her as Tasha Tudor. All Tasha did was create art while living like the pioneers did 100 years before her. Hey, Peg did bugs and butterflies, too! (See Chapter 9–The Lepidoptera Years.) We could add a little extra interest by having her pictured crafting an art piece in an RV with a flat tire out in the woods of Door County. It’s a sure winner. Yes, I like the ring of it–A Basket Full of Bratwurst.

Purchase at Amazon: Drawn from New England


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