Not a Peanut Butter Sandwich

"Put it down and run away!" Cary screamed. "That's not a peanut-butter sandwich, it's a..."

...smearing of supercrema gianduja!

"It's WHAT?" Carefully peeling back the top slice, I half expect to see a slab of C4 explosive residing on whole wheat.

Nothing but the aroma of filberts and chocolate assaults my nose. My gnawing stomach kicks into a growl. "WHAT is it?" I ask.

Peering around the kitchen door jamb, Cary whispers in a voice oozing venom, "Supercrema gianduja! They made me eat that stuff that summer with Rosa's family. Remember? I broke out in a nasty rash all over my body? My throat swelled up?"

Cary is so dramatic. She's also selectively forgetful. While gathering a roadside bouquet for Rosa's mamma, Sandrina, she'd accidentally harvested some Italian version of poison oak.

I sigh. "You mean Nutella?"

"Yes, NUTELLA," she hisses back at me.

"I'm not offering you any, Cary. This is MY lunch. Go make your own sandwich."

Different perspective from Ric Hardson:

...video tape of Charade!"

Curious about what caused today's outburst, Harlen turned the brown paper parcel over, taking a closer look. Spiky handwriting spelled out five names, one below the other: Mr. Grant, aka Peter Joshua, aka Alexander Dyle, aka Adam Canfield, aka Brian Cruikshank. No address. No return address. Three tired looking stamps were affixed to the upper right corner.

Laying the package with the rest of today's mail on the bed, Harlen walked around behind the wheelchair. "C'mon, Cary. Let's head out for the day room. Lawrence Welk is on this afternoon."

"Lawrence Welk?" His panicky breathing now back to normal, Cary began humming some old dance tune Harlen didn't recognize.

"Yep, good ol' Lawrence." Harlen chuckled. "I bet that cute little Norma Zimmer will be on today, too."

Still humming, the old man wearing big, black-framed glasses closed his eyes and smiled.

source: http://www.scribesvalley.com/uwriteitweek275.html

Telescope Tales

Rick stared hard into the telescope and said, "I think it's signaling us that we have to..."
...toss out another turkey carcass."

"Really?" I focused my binoculars toward the barn.

Sure enough, that scrawny, tawny coyote was tracking. Shoving his nose close to the ground, he vacuumed the high desert lake bottom dust in search of another bone. Every once in awhile he'd lift his head to snort out a sneeze.

"Our own Nature Channel. Big screen. Right out the dining room window. I LOVE it here."

Rick said this a lot watching bald eagles, jack rabbits, cottontails, quails, and magpies. He said it marveling at clear blue-skied days, and breathing in clean, sage-scented air.

I loved it here, too:

No water bill.

No cable bill.

No sirens.

A million bright stars.

But, most of all: that unexplainably wonderful release each Thanksgiving, when from the kitchen door I'd fling that turkey carcass out across the sparkling snow.

Different point of view by Ric Hardson:

Rick stared hard into the telescope and said, "I think it's signaling us that we have to..."
...take the popcorn out of the microwave."

The silence that follows is broken by another beep. I look up from my book. "What?"

Tearing his gaze from the eyepiece Rick turns to glare at me. Impatiently.

Dang. Caught me again. I just don't seem to hear him when Rick starts rattling off species names: burnt-billed toeheads, yellow-bellied mattress thrashers, cinnamon-tufted deals. Whatever.

"Popcorn." He points at the microwave.

"Right." Sighing not quite loudly enough for him to hear, I open the microwave.

The unpopped packet's right-angled grimace evens the score.

"Rick?"

Silence.

I wait.

Finally, he looks up. "What?"

I smile. Patiently. "You set the timer instead of hitting the popcorn button."

source: http://www.scribesvalley.com/uwriteitweek276.html

A Little Bit Irish

For St. Patrick's Day this year I'm joining in the fun.

My change of heart came when I heard the newscaster say, "Everyone's a little bit Irish on St. Patrick's Day." Before that, I'd never given much thought to where I came from. I am who I am. I'm certainly thankful the grand sires had twinkles in their eyes and my branch of the tree flourished. But, I never gave much thought as to what kind of tree gave me roots. I have different issues concerning trees.

Certain that there's a little Irish in me somewhere, I peer closely at my reflection. Cocking my head, the light brings out some fiery red highlights. Maybe two or three. Hairs, that is. On my face.

Well, I'm pretty sure I'm a big fan of potatoes. Smothered in gravy. Oh, who am I kidding? I'll eat anything, with or without gravy.

Green? I like green. There's a lovely patch of green grass in front of my house. With a few bleached spots. That may be my fault.

I'm heading out for the parade anyway. Taking a big drink, my reflection ripples. Just for today, this chihuahua's a little bit Irish Setter!

source: http://www.childrencomefirst.com/littleirish.shtml