I awoke at just about dawn to see glistening white branches out the window. They appeared to be some vision from a snow globe; well, not exactly. This arc of the globe is in reverse; we are staring at it from inside glass, not the other way around. It is -14 outside where those branches glistened; forget about the wind chill, which almost doubles the downward movement from zero.

Of course, we have a warning which basically states: YOU ARE GOING TO FREEZE.

Normally, over the years, I would be sighing and pulling on warm clothes. I might even be happy that it is not snowing or that snowdrifts are not hip high on the two vulnerable spots on my driveway. I would be delighted that there are no piles of snow on each side of my driveway entrance that tower above the car and make entering the drive something like a video game.

For some reason, I am irritated by the fact that autumn toyed with us and then laughed in our faces as it handed the baton to winter. And winter played along, greeting us with the surprise one would experience at walking out a door and falling multiple stories. Let me just say, when I finished falling, I did not make a snow angel.

I did get a new Trane furnace this autumn, beating the frantic rush expected when the temperature started to drop. So I guess I am fortunate; I’m just going to have to work on my attitude.

And, please, powers that be, don’t take this as an invitation to jinx me with all that snow I mentioned above.

My grandson introduced me to Bizarre Foods with Andrew Zimmern on the Travel Channel and I have found my horizons expanding. Since I am descended from Midwestern cooks – although I don’t cook myself – my taste buds have not been challenged. Nor, it seems, has my eyesight. Watching the preparation of moosehead stew and the carving of a goose with the breast RED, not to mention the chunks of bear nostrils with bristles of hair still attached fried and served looking vaguely like croutons, is not like watching Grandma make a lattice crust for a pie. I cringe when I pull the sack of extra pieces out of the neck and belly region of a turkey, if you want to know the truth.

Andrew Zimmern puts food in his mouth and generally declares it delicious, adding sometimes comments such as: The stink gives it that special zing. I can’t quote exactly because I believe my memory is affected when my mouth is hanging open in astonishment at what I have heard. Today, Zimmern was in Sweden and sampled aged fermented herring that is akin to something rotten – really rotten. As the years of storage of the cans increases, the taste becomes stronger. Sometimes the cans swell up. The lady who prepares this culinary delicacy cautioned Zimmern that the smell can get into the furniture and so a lot of people prefer to eat it outdoors.

In his description of the flavor, Zimmern used the word putrid in several sentences . . . and he kept putting it in his mouth. While typing this, I have had to fight the urge to transform his name to Zimmerman because it is more common. Looking at the words together, I see that the letters deleted are M and A. That spells Ma and it makes me think of all the stories of soldiers on the battlefield crying out for their mothers. Perhaps Andrew has had so many battle of the dining table moments, that the “ma” just floated away in the ether of the psychic call for his earliest comfort.

They are now eating reindeer testicles and I just have to stop typing.

I clicked on a link to decorative items and took a close look at TWO wine glasses .

The description of the glasses designed by Steven Weinberg reads:

Make your dining experience a memorable one with this set of two modern and sophisticated white wine glasses. Their stems are filled with clear crystals for a sparkling effect and the base is made of a large faceted clear crystal. Not a toy. Not suitable for children under 15.

I thought paying $1.99 for an acrylic stemmed glass at WalMart was excessive and so I didn’t. Two would have been almost four dollars. Oh, the 2 for $399 ones are really lovely, but I’m clumsier than a 15 year old.

My cousin – the younger one by nine months – sent me an email about an article a member of her family found in the Wall Street Journal. It was written by a young woman who grew up in the town where my father was born and where he is buried. It is the town where he told of the “oldtimers” telling stories of their Indian-fighting days in the Old West to young boys – my dad being one of them.

It had a bandstand; people gathered on Saturday night; when my father was overseas in WWII, neighbors witnessed my grandmother’s regular walk up to the bank to deposit the allotment he had designated the government send her. She never spent a cent and my dad bought his first car with the money.

I slept when I visited in a bed with a portrait of my great-grandfather in his Union Blue watching over me. My father’s family has been in southern and central Indiana for a long, long time.

I have a postcard from 1950 of Kingman’s main street. I guess I’ll find it and scan it and post it.

And I always wanted to live somewhere exciting and sophisticated; but here I am – Cracker Barrel White Trash in the eyes of the city I always wanted to live in. And it’s okay.

Der Bingle and I were talking this morning about Bill Murray, which led to a mention of Dan Ackroyd and some hesitation and then the rather embarrassing, but in unison, question: Is he dead? No, he is not and he is four year younger than we are, which makes me pause.

However, forget all that because it doesn’t relate to the post title, although I suppose, Is he dead? is not all that delicately phrased. Still, what made us think about the recent brouhaha over men making inappropriate remarks, was the recurring skit between Ackroyd and Jane Curtain, portraying news people in a Cross Fire format.

Who can forget “Jane, you ignorant slut.” It became a catchphrase. But, sorry, Dan, I guess now it’s curtains for you.

Just before daylight, out the front door. I see no elf prints; perhaps I should go look under the windows.

I surf the internet in the morning, looking at the news first to see if anything happened that the media feels does not have a Trump twist to it, and then just peeking in nooks and crannies on various sites.This morning one link led me to BuzzFeed, which highlighted a segment on “special” gift-giving.

And that is how I found The Fat Toad Farm and the mention of the special caramel sauces. I immediately sent Der Bingle and LZP a text about it and received back a reply from Der Bingle, asking if we got a family discount. You know, the Fat Toad part, not the caramel mention.

I said that they wanted a picture and would probably put it on their label. Now, I feel Der Bingle is shying away from following up on that, but my money is on LZP who I think can come up with a real winner. After all, he and Der Bingle are both smarter than I am, but when it comes to wicked good cleverness, he truly leaves me in the dust. (Der Bingle is pretty good at that too, but I’d say LZP is a bit more devil may care about it.

So, I am waiting to see if there are any photos showing up . . . Actually, I might just look in the archives and photoshop out the two good-looking sons/nephews of LZP and Der Bingle respectively. That would leave me with uh, Old Kook One and Two?

Oh, there is a codicil I have to had to what may turn out to be my final post and testament: Somewhere along the line, I switched FAT in my mind with OLD and got Old Toad Farm. It was with that in mind that I wrote this post. BUT WHEN I LOOKED CLOSELY, I realized I had a problem: scrub the post or correct it and run for my life? I’m heading for my bolt hole now.

Oh, dear, while checking on a blog to see if there was a new post that would lend itself to whimsical joshing – perhaps a few tongue and cheek verbal tennis ball lobs between another comment leaver and me, I was stopped in my tracks by one of the sections of the frequently changing banner.

YES. THAT. UP THERE. I believe I have seen it before, but apparently simply scanned it because I came away with the snooty cat image as being exasperating to the lovable and loyal with eyes-that-would-melt-your-heart dog image.

Now, that I have let my eyes actually take the whole thing in, I am in a state of reflection; no, no, that’s wrong. I am upset. Do I have the same characteristics as a cat? (And I am skimming over any reference to catty remarks here)

How can I be in a category with cats? All those funny posters and comics that highlight how cats are more like staff than friends. And that book: 101 Things to Do With a Dead Cat. When we lived in Chicago, I bought it and casually mentioned it to a neighbor who was thrilled because her husband had been looking all over for it. He couldn’t find a copy because I assume so many people had swarmed bookstores to buy this tome by a kindred spirit.

It is so much to take in at one time. Shocking, actually. At Christmas time too!!