Columns-Cooking in the Nude to Lemonade and a Time Machine!

Cupid's post-Valentine's Day rescue plan

Feb 19, 2010
By Gale Hammond


You think the economy is hurting? Oh, friends, you have no idea. The troubled financial system is nothing compared to the poor guy who forgot his wife or girlfriend on the recent Valentine's holiday. C'mon, guys, you know who you are, and if you blew it big time this year, I have a way out of that doghouse you've been occupying the last few days all by your lonesome.

Now if your name is John Edwards or Mark "I'm hiking the Appalachian Trail" Sanford, I can't help you. No, I'm afraid your love life is dead in a ditch. But for the "Average Joe," I have a sure-fire solution certain to sweep your incensed sweetheart off her feet. It's called "Cooking in the Nude," and no, I am not making this up.

It's the title of a largely unknown recipe book I found the other day at the bottom of a long-forgotten heap of cookbooks in my kitchen. It was time to discard some of the old ones, you see. I've collected cookbooks for years, and frankly I haven't carted out some of the old "go-to" 1970s recipes since approximately the Carter administration. I mean, how long has it been since YOU made Chicken Divan?

This tome would have been trashed, too, had it not been for the recent Valentine's Day holiday and what I've learned from Valentine's Day disasters in years gone by. Now don't misunderstand me here. I am not talking about my spouse. Oh, no. He learned waaaaaay long ago that girls have a thing about being remembered on Valentine's Day. And he got with the program. But some guys take longer than others to get the hang of it, so as a valuable public service I am sharing this sage advice with the poor, Valentine-afflicted sufferers who blew it big time this year.

"So what's the plan?" you're probably saying. "Let's get to the good stuff." Yes, I know, it's hard to be patient when I tease you with such a saucy subject, if you'll pardon the pun.

Major alert: The author isn't suggesting you actually broil your burgers while cavorting about completely starkers unless you don't mind a few pops of hot grease getting into all that chest hair. Not that you can't take it, of course, you big, manly ... ummm, wait. Where was I?

Oh, yes. Before you can begin getting back into your sweetie's good graces, you must formulate a plan. This, according to the author, includes preparing a "Quickie Kit." OK, this sounds a little crass, but who knows? Being prepared is possibly ... not just for Boy Scouts anymore.

I mean, you just never know when you're going to get swept away with the desire to present a fabulous, romantically-conceived dinner for that special someone, right? Yep. Happens to me all the time. And presentation is everything. For example, you can't just rip off a hunk of paper towel and call it a napkin, now can you? No, no, no. This is the kind of thing that got you into trouble in the first place. So in your "Quickie Kit" you will store lovely cloth napkins complete with napkin rings. Now, wasn't that easy? You're well on your way back into your beloved's good graces already.

So after building your Quickie Kit containing such amorous items as wine, candles, "sensuous" music, bubble bath (bubble bath?) and the like, you'll need to plan your menu. And the cookbook doesn't disappoint. Here you can take your choice of passionate menu starters like "Suggestive Salad" or "Caesar and Please Her" and honestly, how long has it been since you've dressed your salad in "Voulez-Vouz Vinaigrette?"

Since an entree is imperative and if your passion is seafood, this book has you covered. Tempt your sweetheart with "Halibut My Place" or "Promiscuous Prawns," and if you want to get wild and crazy there's sole stuffed with scallops, crab and shrimp aptly named - you got it - "Menage a Trois."

Not a seafood fan? No problem. "Chicken Porno Bleu" or "Fowl Play" should please those poultry people in your life while "It had to be Ewe" and "Tempting Tenderloins" cover the red meat crowd.

A word about table etiquette: if you're a fan of the wildly lecherous "Tom Jones" movie scene of Tom and Mrs. Waters sitting opposite each other lustfully tearing into large turkey legs, banish that thought immediately! It's just not that appealing if, at the end of the feast, your plate appears to have been torn apart by wolves.

So I hope you and your sweetie are soon feeling the love, but should you decide to re-ignite those flames by "Cooking in the Nude," be careful out there. I certainly don't advise that you attempt a "moon landing" on your sizzling hot stove. Ouch!

Have some lemonade and a slice of life

Feb 3, 2010
By Gale Hammond


Recently a New Year's greeting came in the mail from my friend Susan. It was a photo card of Susan and her hubby with their four grandchildren. The message said, "A picture is worth a thousand Happy New Year greetings." Oh, you got that one right, sister!

Now I know your mind's eye is visualizing a picture-perfect family composed and beaming at the camera. Right? Ha! Your mind's eye is hallucinating because what Susan's picture conveys is a "real" slice of life, which brings an old adage to mind ... "When life hands you lemons, make lemonade."

I'm sure this platitude wasn't initially on Susan's mind when she began preparing for that fateful portrait. Because she tried. She really, really tried. Just like you or me, Susan was intent on getting the family photo picture perfect. No slacker in the planning department, Susan had ordered attractive red plaid shirts for herself and her hubby with matching hats for each of the grandkids. Now how cute is that?

Well, I'll tell you. It is cute and then some. In a snowy mountain scene, Susan, Les and their grandchildren are grouped in perfect Martha-Stewart-like-ambiance. At least THAT part went right. Les looks stoically into the distance (thinking, perhaps, about the long drive home?) as he holds Bella, 3, who apparently didn't get the memo regarding the color scheme, mysteriously electing to wear pink with her red plaid hat. Bella stares calmly at the camera, her tiny forefinger thrust into her mouth.

Next to Les and Bella, Susan holds baby Kess, but Kess wants down and seems most determined to get there. Something is askew with Kess's hat and Susan is attempting to squash the hat down into place, her outstretched arm obliterating her own face, allowing us just the teeniest glimpse of the laughter she's unable to contain.

In front of Les, Riley, nearly 9, is messing with his hat, apparently trying to get the thing on or off - it's not clear which - while younger brother Logan has rotated a quarter turn away from the camera where he does what comes naturally to 6-year-old boys: demonstrate his impressive "razzberries" technique, spewing out at no one in particular.

The photo is legendary, which is why Susan is one of those girlfriends who's a real keeper. I am blessed with several of those good kinds of girlfriends. That's right; they're the ones who let loose and laugh when life starts lobbing those lemons.

Maybe I gravitate toward folks who find humor in tough situations because I inherited this gene from my mom. Now there was a lady who took life's bitter lemons and not only make lemonade, she twisted the peel into fancy twirls and plopped them into a dry martini. Well, no, I just made that up about the martini. She was more of a whisky sour girl, but you get my drift.

So when my mother was diagnosed at the tender age of 64 with early onset Alzheimer's disease, a very unfunny illness, she sucked it up like any rational person would and concluded her doctor was nuts. "I don't like him very much," she sniffed as we exited his office. "And besides that, he doesn't know very much about medicine."

And although my mother did have Alzheimer's, she rode it out with grace and and good humor. Handed the bitterest of lemons she still found the tiniest kernel of humor in her predicament. "I don't care about getting older anymore," she told me once. "I can't remember how old I am anyway, so who cares?"

But it was when she was getting ready to attend her 50th high school class reunion that she really shined. She needed a new dress. Just in case. If her previously high-functioning brain threw her a curve at the reunion, she wanted to be looking good.

So we went shopping. Mom picked a couple of prospects off the rack, and we headed to the fitting rooms where I waited on a chair outside her cubicle. After some rustling around, she opened the door. She looked fantastic in a jazzy little black number with vibrant slashes of red and purple running throughout the fabric. And she loved it. Retreating back inside to try on the other dress, more rustling of hangers and fabric ensued. A few moments later the dressing room door popped open again, and there stood my mother - wearing the exact same dress! Huh???

"I don't think I like this dress as much as the first one," she declared, checking herself in the mirror. "Um, Mom, that IS the first one," I ventured nervously, whereupon she exploded with laughter at her mistake. Now that, my friends, is how to make some incredibly good lemonade.

Time for a ride in the 'way-back' machine

Jan 22, 2010
By Gale Hammond


Recently scientist and inventor Dean Kamen, creator of the mind-controlled prosthetic robot arm and the more-familiar Segway Transportation System, was interviewed on a cable news program about the technologies he couldn't live without. Interestingly, his first choice was an item that hasn't even been invented yet.

Kamen wants a time machine. "Life is short," he reminds us. "... I'd like to be able to travel at near instantaneous speed to get from one place to another."

You've read that right, friends. Yes, a brilliant guy like Kamen wants an apparatus peculiar to science-fiction novels and - who knows - perhaps such a mechanism actually lurks out there somewhere on the horizon.

Now this is intriguing. If a time machine allowed us to travel at "near instantaneous speed," perhaps it would let us do other things ... such as living the past all over again. Haven't you wished that at least once? Oh, come on - of course you have! How about all those times when you've thought, "Dang! If only I'd ..." after it's too late?

This would be your chance to set right the old wrongs and injustices; those times when somebody gave you major attitude and you were too stunned to come up with a good retort. With a time machine, you'd certainly come up with something snappier than spluttering pathetically all over yourself and shooting back

with the ultra clever, "Gahhaaeuhkjp nmmmph!" Oh, yeah! That really cut your tormenters off at the knees.

Or consider this: what if you could have a "do-over" of those crappy high school years when you were such a dweeb? This would be your ticket to being cool, friends. Being "with it." I mean, guys: if you had it to do all over again, wouldn't you abort that old buzz haircut that still haunts you from the pages of your yearbook and instead sport one of those smooth hairstyles that all the girls can't wait to run their fingers through? Or, girls: do-overs would mean you'd have cute shoes to match every outfit in your closet. Am I right? Yeah. You'd be a rock star.

And how about the really rotten times such as your entire freshmen and sophomore years? Those tragic days when the world was spinning out of control. With a time machine, you could re-write history.

For example: How about when your One True Love showed up at the prom with your BFF Marsha even when everyone agreed to go "stag" to the prom and there she was dancing with YOUR guy and to make matters worse the little @**$& was wearing your best bracelet on her skinny arm and she had simply BEGGED to borrow it so she could wear it to CHURCH for Pete's sake and then they left the prom together and you never found out exactly what happened because it was WAY too mortifying to go back to school for three whole days and you were so violently ill over the whole thing and by the time you did go back to school everybody was STILL talking about it. Huh? Wouldn't you love a chance to go back and fix that? No, me neither.

And let's say you decide (wisely, no doubt) to bypass high school and continue on back to when you were a little tyke. Now those were some fun times! Playing kick-the-can with your pals, putting on plays in the park, running through the sprinklers on a hot summer day, riding your bike until the street lights came on. Could a time machine take you back to that fun-in-the-sun childhood you left behind?

Sure, that would be great, but here's my problem: I am SO not a mechanical genius. And it goes without saying that a time-traveler would have to know how to operate that machine without a flaw. No approximations when it comes to the time where you are traveling, right? For instance, when I was little, my grandpa would lift me up on his lap where he would read to me. I'd ask him meaningful questions such as why did he have skin like a turkey on his neck? Now Grandpa thought this was cute when I was three. Not so cute if I was, say, 12 or 14. So if I chose to go back in time and sit on Grandpa's lap, I would have to hit that old time-travel nail square on the head.

But the A-number-one most important thing about a time machine would be getting back to the present where you belong. Except what if you hit the wrong button and you wound up a newborn baby? Sure, back to the womb would be interesting, although then what? I don't know about you, but I don't think I would want to relive ALL those years again. Seriously. Would you?

Column: We just won't abide a rude attitude!

We just won't abide a rude attitude

Jan 6, 2010
By Gale Hammond




It was a very rude year. In fact, 2009 was so discourteous that a grassroots effort is under way to help us clean up our act.

It's called the Civility Project - an endeavor put together by two gentlemen with dissimilar backgrounds who came together and yelled, "We're as mad as hell and we're not going to take this anymore." Well, no, I don't think they actually did that since doing so would be, well ... rude.

These gentlemen, Mark DeMoss and Lanny Davis are friends who, with others, founded the Civility Project. DeMoss describes himself as a conservative, evangelical Southern Baptist while Davis is of the Jewish faith. Politically and religiously they are poles apart; DeMoss supported Mitt Romney (who is Mormon) for president and Davis has been affiliated with Bill and Hillary Clinton. Other project originators are more aligned with Barack Obama and still others worked to elect a fellow Republican to follow George Bush.

You would think folks with such diverse points of view would get along about as well as a barn full of feral cats, right? Well, you would think. But get along they do - so much so that they launched an effort to return civility not only to politics but also to everyday life and discourse.

And why not? I mean, in a year when we saw so many impolite acts in one little 12-month span, I think these fellows might be on to something. For example:

The political arena was rudeness run amok in 2009. The ink on the Obamas' change-of-address form was hardly dry before Republicans and Democrats were again going at it full tilt. So much for change. The stinky stuff really hit the fan last fall when South Carolina Representative Joe Wilson hollered, "You lie!" during the commander-in-chief's health care address to Congress. Rude? Hmm ... do ya think?

Such a mess! Town hall meetings where elected representatives faced rude and angry mobs over health care reform. Illinois Governor Rod Blagojevich removed from office for audaciously peddling President Obama's vacated Senate seat. Brazen gatecrashers breaking into a White House state dinner. Gov. Sarah Palin brashly bailing on Alaska.

And how bad-mannered was it that Palin's new grandson's father, what's-his-name, dropped his drawers for Playgirl magazine? C'mon, dude. We prefer those denims remain firmly buttoned about your backside.

But my personal Rudeness-Loser-of-the-Year award goes to "religion and family values" endorser, Gov. Mark "I'm hiking the Appalachian Trail" Sanford who not only wasn't trekking the trail to clear his head after a "tough economic session," but was tumbling in the hay with his paramour in Argentina - disappearing from even his staff's radar for a very inappropriate - and rudely - long time. I don't know about you, but I hope Mrs. S. dumped that snake's belongings on the front lawn and started one heck of a bonfire. At least she didn't show up for his pathetically self-serving press conferences with the infamous stand-by-your-man attitude.

Uncouth behavior wasn't limited to political figures. A few Hollywood celebs simply soared on the rudeness meter. Remember when Taylor Swift won her Video Music Award and Kanye West went all Joe Wilson on her by jumping on stage and launching off on his tangent? Or when Carrie Prejean, the dumped Miss USA beauty queen, appeared on CNN's Larry King show to hawk her new book and called HIM inappropriate? Hey, honey, unless Larry made one more sex tape than you reportedly did, I'd be careful about who I called inappropriate.

And wasn't the Christmas Day arrest of Charlie Sheen a festive addition to the holiday season? Call me old fashioned but a little domestic violence on Christmas isn't my first choice of family holiday traditions. The good news about Charlie's arrest was that it - temporarily - removed the media circus from the front doorstep of Tiger Woods, who so impolitely forgot his marriage vows like, maybe ... a few hundred times.

So what do you say, friends? Are you up for the Civility Pledge? With all of this rude and unbecoming behavior, perhaps it's time to come together, agreeing to disagree, but hopefully without the boorishness. We can all do with less screaming and cheating and throwing stuff at one another, right?

Here, then, is the oath: "I will be civil in my public discourse and behavior. I will be respectful of others whether or not I agree with them. I will stand against incivility when I see it."

Now I could get all hardnosed and say if you know what's good for you, you'll take this oath. Right now. Because I'm as mad as hell about incivility and I'm not going to take this anymore. But I hate to go all Joe Wilson on you. It just wouldn't be right. And I wouldn't want you to see me as being, well ... rude.

Column: Quirky Snow Friends a Fast Track to Fun

This is the space where I would ordinarily post my column. Unfortunately, the "copy/paste" function of this blog seems to have gone down the tubes. And two days before Christmas means there is no time to re-copy 800 words...

Hopefully this is a temporary glitch. However, if you would like to keep up with the latest, just click here: http://www.morganhilltimes.com/lifestyles/261534-quirky-snow-friends-a-fast-track-to-fun.

Column: Waffling at Breakfast is no laughing matter

If you managed to survive Thanksgiving dinner with your elastic waistband intact, congratulations. And just because you stuffed yourself silly with turkey and all those trimmings doesn't mean that you aren't popping out of bed these chilly mornings ready for a hearty breakfast - which brings me to some tragic news.

This just in: perhaps you were hoping those rumors you heard were all a cruel hoax, but alas. Today I am here on a mission of humanitarianism, putting your worst fears to rest. Yes, friends, there is an Eggo Waffle shortage.
Now I hate being the bearer of bad news so soon after Thanksgiving when we, a grateful nation, were appreciating our good fortunes, our abundant blessings, our toaster waffles. And what, exactly, are we supposed to do about breakfast now? Break out our actual waffle irons and - egad - mix up our own batter? I hardly think so. But there they are: our toasters, lying cold and empty on our counter tops, cruel reminders that a day without an Eggo is just another, well ... day.

Kellogg's, the makers of Eggo Waffles, is taking drastic action. With two of their plants closed down they are threatening to - yes - ration our waffles. Do you hear that, South County shoppers? I mean, what's next? Black Market Eggos? Greedy Eggo hoarders positioning their frozen stockpiles of Eggos on eBay?

But rest assured that Kellogg's is making this appalling shortage a "top priority." What's more, the "Eggo team" (Eggo has a "team?") is "working around the clock to bring everyone's favorite waffles back to store shelves as quickly as possible." Well. I don't know about you, but I feel A LOT better now.

So what brought about this alarming shortage, you are probably wondering. Because there's nothing like a stoppage of waffle making to bring a country down. If you, like myself, thought nothing short of a terrorist attack could crush a Kellogg's waffle manufacturing plant, think again. It was all a matter of a little flood damage. I mean, really, people. What kind of country of wimps are we becoming here? Good thing our forefathers didn't mind a little water damage. They'd never have made it across the Atlantic with such feeble moral fiber.

So, friends, it looks like we will have to "leggo" of our Eggos for a few months, which means there are going to be an awful lot of broken-hearted waffle eaters out there. But for heaven's sake, let's not panic, people. There are still, of course, many ways to combat this Eggo Waffle shortage and find "comfort food" when we need it.

Take for example, movie popcorn. Now there's some real comfort in a tub if there ever was any. With the approaching holiday season comes the latest blockbuster movies at your local theater, and what better way to enjoy a new release than by bellying-up to the snack bar for your favorite mega barrel of buttered popcorn? Except, um ... no.

That's right; a recent food police buzz kill concludes that you might just as well shoot yourself as consume that staple of the movie theater, popcorn. The madcap funsters at The Center for Science in the Public Interest released a study saying that consuming movie popcorn assures you an imminent engagement with the triple bypass professionals. Even before adorning your popcorn with "butter" - that runny, orange-ish, not-found-in-nature stuff that comes out of the little spigot at the snack counter - your medium-sized movie popcorn at some theaters comes accessorized with more than 1,600 calories and 60 grams of saturated fat.

Now that's fine providing you intend to share your popcorn with all the moviegoers in your row, which would be a little, well ... weird. But this is a major bummer because I don't know about you, but movies just aren't the same without a stop at the snack bar for a bit of heart-attack-in-a-tub. Yet you might as well make it easier on yourself and simply consume a couple of sticks of butter. I'm just saying.

So if all this dire news about the foods you love makes you want to curl up in a fetal position, we might just as well throw in the towel and haul out the old Häagen-Dazs, right? Well, no, I don't think so. Listed as "Extreme Ice Cream" by the CSPI, half a cup of strawberry cheesecake, for example, slams half a day's saturated fat and a third of a day's cholesterol into your arteries with nary a look back.

Well. I don't know about you, but all this food talk has left me with a hunger for something "simply delicioso" for breakfast. Let's see, what's it going to be ... Aha! I'm going to pull out all the stops and gorge myself on this mouthwatering ... celery. See? Tastes just like crunchy green roof shingles. Yum.

Column: Give me just a few more days in Fantasyland

We've come to that time of year that is my personal favorite. After leaving the screams and howls of Halloween behind but before making the Thanksgiving commitment of baking the dressing outside of the turkey or stuffed inside, we can kick back, put up our feet and catch some reruns of "Dancing with the Stars."Hahaha - just kidding about the reruns. That's because there are, seriously, gazillions of first-run episodes left of this season's reality show featuring "Stars" you haven't heard of in approximately 50 years. But I digress.

The reason I love this time of year is because it allows me to shine. At least inside my own head. Christmas preparation is in its infancy, and the freight train of holiday derailment hasn't yet entered my consciousness. Because as surely as I know my own name, I know that THIS VERY YEAR my holiday celebration will be perfect. That's right, Martha Stewart, eat your heart out.

First I will grab up and pore over the obligatory holiday magazines, all promising that this very issue guarantees "Your Best Holiday Season Ever" and "Christmas in Connecticut is OK but Wait 'til the Folks Back Home Take a Gander at your Goose."

But I won't stop there. I'll make gingerbread likenesses of the White House; whip up a fabulously towering croque-en-bouche for open house on Christmas Eve; perhaps I will even order snow-making equipment to sprinkle the outside of our home with flurries of frozen flakes, ensuring a perfect White Christmas. ANYTHING is possible.

It is only mid-November and right now I can go shopping and park in the same zip code as the mall. This is vital because next month parking becomes life threatening. One year was so hazardous that if they suspected you were going to beat them out of a parking place, drivers employed the use of harpoons. I know because it happened to me. That's right; I was harpooned. Or possibly I drove my vehicle too near a bicycle rack thoughtlessly placed there by people who should be designing parking lots in Siberia.

If you're lucky enough to find a parking space in December, wannabe Christmas shoppers stalk you as you exit the store, their large SUVs nipping your heels. But I have a fail-proof payback to those rude drivers. Carrying my mountain of shopping bags, I purposely walk right past my car. Don't be fooled, people; I will carry 50 pounds of bags for miles. I don't care if those bags weigh me down to the point of needing reconstructive surgery. If I don't like the attitude of the driver following me, I might just walk all the way home.

Another great thing about this time of year is that you know you'll find the perfect gift for everyone on your list because you have scads of time to shop selectively. You'll leisurely wrap your offerings in beautiful paper while featuring perfectly folded corners on every box. And you'll tie your gifts in the most fetching manner with yards of lovely ribbon artfully draped around each one.Of course reality hits Christmas Eve when you realize every gift you purchased is so bulky that wrapping it requires assistance from the tent and awning people. I mean, let's see YOU wrap a large tricycle. And speaking of tricycles ...

This year I found a pink tricycle. Not just any pink tricycle, mind you. The ad says this tricycle will make my little princess feel like royalty and is a "true classic!" Designed after a 1930s model trike, the "Sky Princess Tricycle in Pink" is the ultimate in style replete with handlebar tassels and fenders - that's right: fenders - on all three wheels.

Now the Martha in me thinks this is the perfect Christmas gift for Granddaughter #1, Gracie Elizabeth. I can visualize her now, hair flying in the wind as she pedals down the sidewalk on her adjustable coil spring seat, her functional headlight dazzling in the gathering twilight. The smooth ride from the solid rubber tires and sealed ball bearings will make her feel like a princess for sure. Not to mention the long-lasting lead-free powder coat paint that will bring out the apple pink of her cheeks. The Sky Princess Tricycle will look stunning beneath the Christmas tree!

And OK, her mother thinks the tricycle is atrocious. Plus Gracie is only 2; her feet wouldn't reach the pedals. And unless it comes standard with a detailing person, a few mornings of lawn sprinklers drowning the "long-lasting lead-free powder coat paint" with gallons of hard water, that trike will be thrashed before you can say "Holy-cow-what-was-I-thinking-this-thing-cost-more-than-my-first car!!!"

So yeah, no. I'll dream on. Today I'll believe that this Christmas will be a wondrous marvel of miracles and joy. Seriously. Denial is a beautiful thing.

Halloween custom reveals a mixed bag of treats

Call me crazy but there is a definite flair for Halloween trick-or-treating that comes to us straight out of the gene pool. Nope, our mamas didn't raise no dummies.

Back when I was a little trick-or-treater, we knew which homes on our block insured a good haul, and we beat feet to those houses straight out of the chute. And then there were the homes we stayed away from at all costs regardless of how great the candy might be. These were the homes of the neighborhood legends.

Yes, every neighborhood had a legend or two. In my day this included the old spinster at the end of the block, Edna Greebhauser. Even in the middle of summer she dressed in crinkly black dresses and black lace-up-old-maid-school-teacher shoes. It was rumored that she ate her cats. Poor old Edna was the neighborhood's resident witch and WAY too scary to approach on Halloween.

Then there was crazy Mr. Calhoun. Rumor had it that one year he flung open the door to trick-or-treaters wearing only his wife's Sunday-Going-to-Church hat secured in a, um ... strategic location. It was reported that everybody bolted when he hollered, "Say, kids, what do you think of that?!!!" It was also rumored that it was his wife's good hat. The opulent one with lots of feathers and beading.

But the Holy Grail of Halloween night is the candy. So when I bought this year's stash of Halloween "fun-size" treats and found a small tear in the bottom of the bag, I decided to do some research. Pulling out three or four candy bars I noted that, yes indeed, these bars resembled in miniature their full-sized counterparts. Research over, I proceeded to document ... oh, all right. I ate the research.

Now this was not a bad thing because I had purchased Gobbledygook Bars - the "healthy" alternative candy bar. A little less fat and calories. But will the kids that come to the door know I am helping their health needs, and if they do, will they hold that against me? Which brings me to the actual size of these "fun" bars.

Who said anything about "fun?" These bars are TEENY. In my day we'd have thrown them back because they are clearly too small to have been considered a proper catch because we carried mega bags such as pillowcases. These came with our mothers' admonishment that we dare not "drag it in the mud and get it dirty." Or perhaps we scored an actual paper bag from the grocery store. And that left us with lots of empty real estate to fill with candy, my friend.

So if we were savvy trick-or-treaters back in those days of yore, imagine the mindset of the kids you encounter nowadays. Halloween night brings trick-or-treaters to your door these days with their critical thinking skills on full major alert. And as you deliver precisely one healthy "fun" bar to their waiting containers, they may just counter back with a searing critique of your contribution. So make sure you're doling out the good stuff - and lots of it - because the older the kid, the more risk of a run-in due to the candy quality control factor.

Now the first kids to appear on your porch are easy because they are the babies. Charming little cuties, whose mom or dad bring them around the second it gets dark because with any luck parents can be through with the doorbell ringing and back home where little Fifi or Dweezil are hustled out of their costumes and into their footy p.j.'s by 7 p.m. That's right; the first round of little ones are so caught up with the novelty of trick-or-treating, you can pretty much throw an old gym sock into their containers and they'll go away happy.

But the hypercritical thinkers come late, and you'll recognize them immediately. No good ever comes from the late arrival trick-or-treaters:

8:27 p.m.: Doorbell rings. You open the door. Standing before you are two 37-year-old males who could stand a shave wearing "costumes" that can only be described as Dog the Bounty Hunter and Borat at the Beach.

Trick-or-Treaters: "Trick-or-Treat, smell my feet, give me something good to eat!!"

Me: "What? What kind of thing is that to say? And aren't you a little OLD to be trick-or-treating? Oh, well, here you go," (plunking a requisite fun-size bar into their, um ... backpacks??). "This is your lucky day, boys, because I'm giving you a Gobbledygook Bar - do you realize they are the HEALTHIEST candy bar out there?"

Trick-or-Treaters: "Who are you, the Surgeon General?"

Me: "You'd better show some respect, young man, or I'll call my friend the Attorney General and sue your smelly socks off!"

So you see what we're up against these days. And yes, folks, it can get ugly.