Last night, I went to a party.
It started out as a summer social for my professional organization, but ended up as a Jody Party - a different level of guaranteed fun. Jody has a permanent love affair with humanity and a rather awe-inspiring zest for life, and as we drove up to Jody and Jorge's home, Arline, Jane, and I knew to expect three things: a warm welcome, great food, and interesting people.
Jorge had made his deservedly famous fajitas and guacamole and the rest of us were to bring desserts and side-dishes. I was assigned a dessert. "A fruit bowl," I thought. "Everyone else will bring exotic desserts, but I'll bring fruit."
Our hosts welcomed us warmly (see Expectation No. 1), and I added my fruit bowl to the table that held brownies and a pistachio cake. The fresh strawberries, blueberries and grapes looked rather virtuous, sitting there next to decadence.
The other table held a variety of intriguing salads, casseroles and, of course, there were the aforementioned fajitas and guacamole (check Expectation No. 2)
People began arriving. And as per Expectation No. 3, they fit no uniform mold. There was 84-year-old Marilyn, who just finished her sophomore year at SMU on scholarship. Sam, who took over the open microphone to belt out Spanish love songs to his wife. Mike, a translator and artist, whose version of a "side dish" was one of his paintings.
There were translators and interpreters from the USA, half of Europe and all points of the Spanish-speaking world. There was a county judge. There were a bevy of school teachers, the gardener who built the phenomenal new deck, neighbors and friends. We filled the house, spilled out onto both decks, and down into the beautiful garden. There was laughter and conversation in every corner.
I hate labels as much as my granddaughter does; only she dislikes the kind that come in your clothing and scratch the back of your neck. The labels guaranteed to turn me off are phrases like "their kind", "right-wing nuts", "lunatic liberals", and "those people". And that's one of the reasons I dearly love Jody Parties. Everyone's label gets left at the door and we mix and mingle as individuals, as unique and interesting as the foods and gifts we bring: each one different, each one adding their own special flavor and perspective.
However, in the interest of honesty I should also mention that sometime during the evening, on my way to sample the decadence on the dessert table, I ran into the judge. "Good desserts," he said, his plate piled high. "Of course, I just brought a fruit bowl..."
And there behind him stood the dessert table, now filled to overflowing. There were Brazilian flan, French cream puffs, cookies, oreo pie - and a total of eight fruit bowls.
Mine was the only one with grapes, though.
Sunday, June 6, 2010
Monday, May 24, 2010
PB in the Gears
The difference between my childhood and that of my granddaughters is more a matter of alternate realities, than of simple time:
For them, televisions have always been in color; I didn't watch my first episode of Scooby-Doo until I was nearly ten, and that was only because we were on furlough in the USA.
My granddaughters don't remember a world without cell phones; until I was in boarding school, the closest telephone was at our neighbor's house. He kept a lock on the dial to discourage unauthorized use.
The girls each have an entire town of Barbies and friends; my first Barbie was a gift from my sister, when I was nine. I promptly renamed her Jean the Lone Rangerette and used an indelible marker to paint a mask on her face.
On the other hand, my granddaughters have never swung out on a vine over a banana patch nor had a pet tarantula.
Even our childhood foods are different. For my granddaughters, the jury is still out on natural peanut butter. For me, that's the only "real" kind - like what I would eat as a child. It was a family affair: Dad would bring the enormous bag of peanuts home, Mom toasted them, and then we kids would sit on the back porch, blowing away the chaff to leave little bare toasted peanuts, and then pouring them carefully into the hopper of the grinder. I was the littlest and therefore usually exempt from grinding duty.
All of this is of great fascination to the girls. On Earth Day, they love turning out all the lights, helping me set up candles, and playing card games in the dark. In this age of ever-present technology, it's as close as to my childhood as I can take them for an hour.
This past Earth Day, I was reminded that technology is more pervasive than ever. A die rolled off the table and under a bookshelf. The candle light didn't reach, and I commented, "If we had a flashlight, I could see it" - to which both girls immediately pointed to my iPhone and said, "Don't you have an app for that?"
It isn’t that I bear a grudge against technology. It's just that sometimes I miss the softer rhythms of life. Usually, all I hear is the manic whir of my personal hamster wheel.
The other day, I made myself a folded peanut butter sandwich. It was a moment of rebellion: work was piled up, there was no time to stop for lunch, but I could and would have an extra-stuffed peanut butter sandwich. As I finished each page of the medical report I was translating, I put the sheet of paper in a pile for the shredder and took a bite of my sandwich.
When the job was finally done, my foggy brain remembered - standard operating procedure: always shred medical reports as soon as I'm done with them. I turned the shredder on and began to feed it. The whine rose and fell as metal teeth chewed noisily.
All of a sudden, the whine got louder and a little desperate. Instead of "wah-wah-wah", it was more like "Wowarowa-wowarowa". The paper was through, but the poor shredder kept howling. I turned it off and peered into its teeth like a piranha dentist. Peanut butter. There was peanut butter on the teeth and in the gears. I looked back at the rest of the papers waiting to be shredded: a tell-tale blob of ground peanuts still clung to one of the pages. It seems I had laid my fat little sandwich on the stack of papers to be shredded, and it lost some of its stuffing.
This is a good time to thank everyone for their helpful suggestions on de-peanut-buttering my shredder. In the end, I simply called it a day. As I walked outside laughing, it occurred to me that my siblings and I would have seen great possibilities in that shredder. Imagine how many pounds of peanuts those little metal teeth could turn into paste, all without kid-powered grinding!
The shredder recovered. I did not; I was left hungry to hop off the hamster wheel more often and listen to the elemental sounds of life. I may even may pack a peanut butter sandwich for the road.
For them, televisions have always been in color; I didn't watch my first episode of Scooby-Doo until I was nearly ten, and that was only because we were on furlough in the USA.
My granddaughters don't remember a world without cell phones; until I was in boarding school, the closest telephone was at our neighbor's house. He kept a lock on the dial to discourage unauthorized use.
The girls each have an entire town of Barbies and friends; my first Barbie was a gift from my sister, when I was nine. I promptly renamed her Jean the Lone Rangerette and used an indelible marker to paint a mask on her face.
On the other hand, my granddaughters have never swung out on a vine over a banana patch nor had a pet tarantula.
Even our childhood foods are different. For my granddaughters, the jury is still out on natural peanut butter. For me, that's the only "real" kind - like what I would eat as a child. It was a family affair: Dad would bring the enormous bag of peanuts home, Mom toasted them, and then we kids would sit on the back porch, blowing away the chaff to leave little bare toasted peanuts, and then pouring them carefully into the hopper of the grinder. I was the littlest and therefore usually exempt from grinding duty.
All of this is of great fascination to the girls. On Earth Day, they love turning out all the lights, helping me set up candles, and playing card games in the dark. In this age of ever-present technology, it's as close as to my childhood as I can take them for an hour.
This past Earth Day, I was reminded that technology is more pervasive than ever. A die rolled off the table and under a bookshelf. The candle light didn't reach, and I commented, "If we had a flashlight, I could see it" - to which both girls immediately pointed to my iPhone and said, "Don't you have an app for that?"
It isn’t that I bear a grudge against technology. It's just that sometimes I miss the softer rhythms of life. Usually, all I hear is the manic whir of my personal hamster wheel.
The other day, I made myself a folded peanut butter sandwich. It was a moment of rebellion: work was piled up, there was no time to stop for lunch, but I could and would have an extra-stuffed peanut butter sandwich. As I finished each page of the medical report I was translating, I put the sheet of paper in a pile for the shredder and took a bite of my sandwich.
When the job was finally done, my foggy brain remembered - standard operating procedure: always shred medical reports as soon as I'm done with them. I turned the shredder on and began to feed it. The whine rose and fell as metal teeth chewed noisily.
All of a sudden, the whine got louder and a little desperate. Instead of "wah-wah-wah", it was more like "Wowarowa-wowarowa". The paper was through, but the poor shredder kept howling. I turned it off and peered into its teeth like a piranha dentist. Peanut butter. There was peanut butter on the teeth and in the gears. I looked back at the rest of the papers waiting to be shredded: a tell-tale blob of ground peanuts still clung to one of the pages. It seems I had laid my fat little sandwich on the stack of papers to be shredded, and it lost some of its stuffing.
This is a good time to thank everyone for their helpful suggestions on de-peanut-buttering my shredder. In the end, I simply called it a day. As I walked outside laughing, it occurred to me that my siblings and I would have seen great possibilities in that shredder. Imagine how many pounds of peanuts those little metal teeth could turn into paste, all without kid-powered grinding!
The shredder recovered. I did not; I was left hungry to hop off the hamster wheel more often and listen to the elemental sounds of life. I may even may pack a peanut butter sandwich for the road.
Saturday, April 10, 2010
The Company We Keep
If we are the company we keep, then I am often old, arthritic and make weird sounds when I walk around the house. I also flap my lips in my sleep, have fur between my toes, and sniff strange things in the grass. (My children could tell you which of these apply - but I have them bribed.)
My ancient Goofy Pooch is my most frequent companion. She snoozes behind me while I work at my desk. If I move to another room, she heaves herself up, mumbling, and follows me. Once there, she again flops down to nap. Days when I clean house and go from room to room are a marathon for the poor dear, and she eventually opts for going outside to lie under the crepe myrtle bush. She can spend hours wallowing in the dust and leaves, intermittently sleeping and enjoying her friends, i.e. the local squirrels, birds and other wildlife who seem to know that she would never do them any harm (a moot point at her age, but true nonetheless.) Every so often, she'll stir long enough to get a drink or check out the contents of her food dish.
She is nearly 16. This is what she does.
That is, until the leash comes off the hook. At the first hint that a walk might be in order, my geriatric canine channels her inner puppy. Her mumbling becomes an excited whine punctuated by an occasional rusty bark. She dances from side to side. Her head bobs up and down. More energy is expended getting ready for a walk than during the walk itself.
We have two routes, mapped out for their relatively flat terrain and sidewalk ramps. Goofy Pooch can no longer navigate curbs. Both routes take us beside a neighborhood pond. The other day, as I walked in slow motion beside my dog, I noticed a slight movement on the shore of the pond. A large bird (a heron perhaps?) stood alert in the shallow water a little ahead of us. If GP had seen him, she would have instantly wanted to add him to her collection of pets. She was distracted, however, by children playing on the other side of the street. The Ancient One dearly loves children, especially from a safe distance.
I, on the other hand, watched the bird. He seemed like a courtly old gentleman. As I took a step, he turned and slowly began to move ahead of us, down the side of the pond, keeping perfect pace with my dog and me. I took out my cell phone camera and got one shot (not that he's very visible in it - unlike some of my friends, I'm not a very good photographer.) He hesitated. But when I took another step forward, so did he. So did Goofy Pooch, still intent on the children. We must have been an odd sight, me facing the bird, my dog facing the people, slowly making our way up the sidewalk. Just as we got to the end of the pond, there was a burst of laughter from across the street. I turned my head - just a split second glance - but when I looked back, my stately companion had disappeared.
As we meandered back to the house, it occurred to me that I am blessed by the company I keep. Even when that company is a geriatric canine whose snores could rattle windows, or we share an unexpected walk with a dignified old bird.
My ancient Goofy Pooch is my most frequent companion. She snoozes behind me while I work at my desk. If I move to another room, she heaves herself up, mumbling, and follows me. Once there, she again flops down to nap. Days when I clean house and go from room to room are a marathon for the poor dear, and she eventually opts for going outside to lie under the crepe myrtle bush. She can spend hours wallowing in the dust and leaves, intermittently sleeping and enjoying her friends, i.e. the local squirrels, birds and other wildlife who seem to know that she would never do them any harm (a moot point at her age, but true nonetheless.) Every so often, she'll stir long enough to get a drink or check out the contents of her food dish.
She is nearly 16. This is what she does.
That is, until the leash comes off the hook. At the first hint that a walk might be in order, my geriatric canine channels her inner puppy. Her mumbling becomes an excited whine punctuated by an occasional rusty bark. She dances from side to side. Her head bobs up and down. More energy is expended getting ready for a walk than during the walk itself.
We have two routes, mapped out for their relatively flat terrain and sidewalk ramps. Goofy Pooch can no longer navigate curbs. Both routes take us beside a neighborhood pond. The other day, as I walked in slow motion beside my dog, I noticed a slight movement on the shore of the pond. A large bird (a heron perhaps?) stood alert in the shallow water a little ahead of us. If GP had seen him, she would have instantly wanted to add him to her collection of pets. She was distracted, however, by children playing on the other side of the street. The Ancient One dearly loves children, especially from a safe distance.
I, on the other hand, watched the bird. He seemed like a courtly old gentleman. As I took a step, he turned and slowly began to move ahead of us, down the side of the pond, keeping perfect pace with my dog and me. I took out my cell phone camera and got one shot (not that he's very visible in it - unlike some of my friends, I'm not a very good photographer.) He hesitated. But when I took another step forward, so did he. So did Goofy Pooch, still intent on the children. We must have been an odd sight, me facing the bird, my dog facing the people, slowly making our way up the sidewalk. Just as we got to the end of the pond, there was a burst of laughter from across the street. I turned my head - just a split second glance - but when I looked back, my stately companion had disappeared.
As we meandered back to the house, it occurred to me that I am blessed by the company I keep. Even when that company is a geriatric canine whose snores could rattle windows, or we share an unexpected walk with a dignified old bird.
Friday, April 2, 2010
The End of Lent
I have to be honest: giving up bread as my Lenten sacrifice didn't turn out quite like I expected it to.
At first, the sacrifice was indeed sacrificial. Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches are pretty lame (not to mention messy) without bread. No french toast, no hot cornbread, no bread pudding. I had to change my shopping routines. And occasionally the smell of fresh bread at a restaurant made me salivate like a Pavlovian dog.
But who knew that just beyond those well-worn patterns lay a whole new comfort zone waiting to be explored?
It started out in little things. Trying new dishes that didn't need bread. Getting a little more creative in the kitchen. (This, from the woman who put a home-baked cake in front of her children once only to hear them exclaim, "You mean you don't HAVE to buy them?")
Then it became deeper, as I reflected on how the smallest of changes can offer new possibilities. Or realized that I am more a creature of habit than I would ever have wished to admit.
And finally, during this past Easter week as I pondered events from long ago, I realized that the absence of bread had become as significant to me as its presence.
Lent did not end for me this year at sunrise on Easter morning. It came to a close during the Eucharist later that day with the pastor's words, "The bread of life - take and eat..." And I did and the circle was closed.
But in the continued interest of honesty, I should also admit that Monday morning found me at the store, feverishly stocking up on sourdough rolls...
At first, the sacrifice was indeed sacrificial. Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches are pretty lame (not to mention messy) without bread. No french toast, no hot cornbread, no bread pudding. I had to change my shopping routines. And occasionally the smell of fresh bread at a restaurant made me salivate like a Pavlovian dog.
But who knew that just beyond those well-worn patterns lay a whole new comfort zone waiting to be explored?
It started out in little things. Trying new dishes that didn't need bread. Getting a little more creative in the kitchen. (This, from the woman who put a home-baked cake in front of her children once only to hear them exclaim, "You mean you don't HAVE to buy them?")
Then it became deeper, as I reflected on how the smallest of changes can offer new possibilities. Or realized that I am more a creature of habit than I would ever have wished to admit.
And finally, during this past Easter week as I pondered events from long ago, I realized that the absence of bread had become as significant to me as its presence.
Lent did not end for me this year at sunrise on Easter morning. It came to a close during the Eucharist later that day with the pastor's words, "The bread of life - take and eat..." And I did and the circle was closed.
But in the continued interest of honesty, I should also admit that Monday morning found me at the store, feverishly stocking up on sourdough rolls...
Thursday, April 1, 2010
Reflection
In honor of National Poetry Month, I thought I'd recycle an old one of mine to which I can still relate:
Looking through the glass,
I find you backlit by the setting sun:
the far-off breeze
that gently
lifts the skirts
of willow trees
rustles pages of your
half-read book,
touches on your picnic
packed for one.
The early evening calls of
nesting birds -
the quiet murmur
from a pond;
the picture-polished
peace
tears an ache inside
and leaves no room for words.
“Mom, did you sew -?”
“Where’s my shoe?”
“Honey, I invited- ”
“Didn’t you pick up-?”
“Can you finish-?”
“Why didn’t you-?”
“I’m sorry”
“I need you”
“Hold me”
“Hear me”
“I-promised-you’d-make-two-dozen-
chocolate-chip-muffins-for-school-
tomorrow”
“I love you”
“Good-night”
You look at me and wipe a tear:
I look at you and in my
chaos, sigh.
But who is in the glass-suspended wish?
and is the Dreamer you -
or is it I?
C. Shaw copyright 2001
Looking through the glass,
I find you backlit by the setting sun:
the far-off breeze
that gently
lifts the skirts
of willow trees
rustles pages of your
half-read book,
touches on your picnic
packed for one.
The early evening calls of
nesting birds -
the quiet murmur
from a pond;
the picture-polished
peace
tears an ache inside
and leaves no room for words.
“Mom, did you sew -?”
“Where’s my shoe?”
“Honey, I invited- ”
“Didn’t you pick up-?”
“Can you finish-?”
“Why didn’t you-?”
“I’m sorry”
“I need you”
“Hold me”
“Hear me”
“I-promised-you’d-make-two-dozen-
chocolate-chip-muffins-for-school-
tomorrow”
“I love you”
“Good-night”
You look at me and wipe a tear:
I look at you and in my
chaos, sigh.
But who is in the glass-suspended wish?
and is the Dreamer you -
or is it I?
C. Shaw copyright 2001
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
How Not to Throw Stones
I appreciate opposition. This is handy, as I seem to have a knack for running into it. At its best, opposition makes us stop and think. It's good to have stones tossed, from time to time, into our streams of consciousness. Our worlds expand with their ripples.
So, in the interest of constructive stone-tossing, I decided to share what I've learned about the stones of opposition.
* Any argument based on anger or fear - or designed to spark anger or fear in someone else - is automatically suspect. Stones must be tossed gently and never thrown. At anyone.
* A certain genre of talk-show and media specializes in stirring anger and fear in their followers. This is not good stone-tossing. Fear and anger are blunt instruments, and the messy result is usually a population that is scared, mad, and sometimes out of control.
* At its best, politics is full of healthy stone-tossing. When done properly, the tug-of-war between right and left, conservative and liberal, provides us all with stability and momentum. History always tips toward change: to think that a mere hundred years ago, women's suffrage was considered a shockingly liberal idea. This tension caused by the flow of history should probably inspire a lame analogy involving rolling stones and moss, but one eludes me at the moment.
Note: We have heard it said that "if a man is not a liberal at 20, he has no heart and if he is not a conservative at 30, he has no brain." The quote varies with each repetition, but the original came from François Guizot (1787-1874), not Winston Churchill as some believe. Since Mr. Guizot was also known for seeking to ban political meetings and limiting suffrage to propertied men only, this is rather an odd stone to throw.
* Stones should be used as building blocks, not for stoning. Unfortunately - thanks in part to pundits, chain emails and questionable websites - we are in danger of forgetting how to toss stones constructively in this country. Anything that can be spun, is. If there is a fear that can possibly be sparked, the fires are lit. And the idea that two people can love the same country, want the best for it, and yet see things differently, is being eroded.
If I were wiser and more insightful, I might find a cure for this pervasive ill. But a Jewish carpenter soon facing death already did that. As he sat in the temple court one fine afternoon, the mob of well-dressed, upstanding citizens found their way to him. "Teacher," they said, throwing a woman to the ground before him, "she was caught in adultery. The law says we should stone her. Whaddaya say?" And Jesus didn't argue with the hatred and fear behind their broken theology. He just quietly plunked a little stone into the stream of their angry consciousness: "OK," he said, "but first pitch goes to the guy who's never done anything wrong himself." Most of us know the rest of the story.
And so, it seems, the true secret to handling the stones of opposition is not mine: it lies in the mercy with which we make our toss. Anything less will leave us angry, confused, and on the rocks.
So, in the interest of constructive stone-tossing, I decided to share what I've learned about the stones of opposition.
* Any argument based on anger or fear - or designed to spark anger or fear in someone else - is automatically suspect. Stones must be tossed gently and never thrown. At anyone.
* A certain genre of talk-show and media specializes in stirring anger and fear in their followers. This is not good stone-tossing. Fear and anger are blunt instruments, and the messy result is usually a population that is scared, mad, and sometimes out of control.
* At its best, politics is full of healthy stone-tossing. When done properly, the tug-of-war between right and left, conservative and liberal, provides us all with stability and momentum. History always tips toward change: to think that a mere hundred years ago, women's suffrage was considered a shockingly liberal idea. This tension caused by the flow of history should probably inspire a lame analogy involving rolling stones and moss, but one eludes me at the moment.
Note: We have heard it said that "if a man is not a liberal at 20, he has no heart and if he is not a conservative at 30, he has no brain." The quote varies with each repetition, but the original came from François Guizot (1787-1874), not Winston Churchill as some believe. Since Mr. Guizot was also known for seeking to ban political meetings and limiting suffrage to propertied men only, this is rather an odd stone to throw.
* Stones should be used as building blocks, not for stoning. Unfortunately - thanks in part to pundits, chain emails and questionable websites - we are in danger of forgetting how to toss stones constructively in this country. Anything that can be spun, is. If there is a fear that can possibly be sparked, the fires are lit. And the idea that two people can love the same country, want the best for it, and yet see things differently, is being eroded.
If I were wiser and more insightful, I might find a cure for this pervasive ill. But a Jewish carpenter soon facing death already did that. As he sat in the temple court one fine afternoon, the mob of well-dressed, upstanding citizens found their way to him. "Teacher," they said, throwing a woman to the ground before him, "she was caught in adultery. The law says we should stone her. Whaddaya say?" And Jesus didn't argue with the hatred and fear behind their broken theology. He just quietly plunked a little stone into the stream of their angry consciousness: "OK," he said, "but first pitch goes to the guy who's never done anything wrong himself." Most of us know the rest of the story.
And so, it seems, the true secret to handling the stones of opposition is not mine: it lies in the mercy with which we make our toss. Anything less will leave us angry, confused, and on the rocks.
Sunday, March 14, 2010
Of Bread and Temptation
It's been a surprise, this business of going without bread. I had no idea how far its yeasty little tentacles reached.
My pantry has suffered. I have nothing on which to put my peanut butter. The honey has been relegated to saving space on the shelf. And that's just the start.
My friends are getting dirty looks from restaurant staff. The other night, my friend Arline and I went out to eat. When the server brought the bread, Arline immediately reached out and pulled the basket out of my reach. As the wave of shock and disapproval crossed the server's face, we both jumped to explain that it was Lent, I had given up bread, and Arline was just removing temptation.
It's affecting my kid-time. My youngest son stopped by last week and went into the kitchen to make a sandwich to eat while we visited. There was meat and cheese - but no bread. He left to get some supper elsewhere, taking our visit with him.
Goofy Pooch usually has her medicine tucked into a bit of bread each night. Turns out, doggy biscuits aren't so good at absorbing liquid medicine.
I had dinner with my parents on Friday night. Do you know how hard it is to pass up a piece of fresh, warm cornbread on a chilly evening?
There's a whole aisle at the grocery store I don't go down now; I've had to change my route.
This seemingly endless ripple-effect caused by no bread casts a new light for me on the description of Jesus as the "bread of life". Not just a most basic food; not just the comfort of warmth and fragrance: but a part of all those other, simple areas of life we never really consciously think about.
And even after Lent is over, and I can go back to enjoying bread, there's one more thing I've learned this season: it's a true friend who will pull temptation out of your reach.
My pantry has suffered. I have nothing on which to put my peanut butter. The honey has been relegated to saving space on the shelf. And that's just the start.
My friends are getting dirty looks from restaurant staff. The other night, my friend Arline and I went out to eat. When the server brought the bread, Arline immediately reached out and pulled the basket out of my reach. As the wave of shock and disapproval crossed the server's face, we both jumped to explain that it was Lent, I had given up bread, and Arline was just removing temptation.
It's affecting my kid-time. My youngest son stopped by last week and went into the kitchen to make a sandwich to eat while we visited. There was meat and cheese - but no bread. He left to get some supper elsewhere, taking our visit with him.
Goofy Pooch usually has her medicine tucked into a bit of bread each night. Turns out, doggy biscuits aren't so good at absorbing liquid medicine.
I had dinner with my parents on Friday night. Do you know how hard it is to pass up a piece of fresh, warm cornbread on a chilly evening?
There's a whole aisle at the grocery store I don't go down now; I've had to change my route.
This seemingly endless ripple-effect caused by no bread casts a new light for me on the description of Jesus as the "bread of life". Not just a most basic food; not just the comfort of warmth and fragrance: but a part of all those other, simple areas of life we never really consciously think about.
And even after Lent is over, and I can go back to enjoying bread, there's one more thing I've learned this season: it's a true friend who will pull temptation out of your reach.
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