Important Cooking Tip!

Gracie Allen's recipe for Roast Beef:

Put a big rib roast and a small rib roast in two separate pans into the oven at 450 degrees.

When the little one burns, the big one is done.

Your Life at Home Depot

Thanks for another beauty, Maureen.


You are in the middle of some project around the house - - mowing the lawn, putting in a new fence, painting the living room, whatever.

You are hot and sweaty, covered in dirt or paint. You're wearing your old work clothes You know the outfit - - shorts with the hole in the crotch, old T-shirt stained from who knows what, old tennis shoes.

You realize you need to run to Home Depot to get something to complete the job.

In your 20s:
Stop what you're doing. Shave, shower, blow dry your hair, brush your teeth, floss, put on clean clothes. Check yourself in the mirror and flex. Add a dab of your favorite cologne because you just might meet some hot chick in the checkout lane. And you went to school with the pretty girl running the register.

In your 30s:
Stop what you're doing, put on clean shorts and shirt. Change shoes. You married the hot chick, so no need for much else. Wash your hands and comb your hair. Check yourself in the mirror. Still got it. Add a shot of your favorite cologne to cover the smell. The cute girl running the register is the kid sister of someone you went to school with.

In your 40's:
Stop what you're doing. Put on a sweatshirt long enough to cover the hole in your shorts. Put on different shoes and a hat. Wash your hands. Your bottle of Brute Cologne is almost empty, so you don't want to waste any of it on a trip to Home Depot. Check yourself in the mirror and do more sucking in than flexing. The spicy young thing running the register is your daughter's age, and you feel weird thinking she's spicy.

In your 50s:
Stop what you're doing. Put a hat on; wipe your hands on your shirt. Change shoes because you don't want to get dog doo-doo in your new sports car. Check yourself in the mirror and swear not to wear that shirt any more because it makes you look fat. The cutie running the register smiles when she sees you coming. You think you've still got it. Then you remember the hat you're wearing is from Buddy's Bait & Beer Bar and says, 'I Got Worms.'

In your 60s:
Stop what you're doing. No need for a hat any more. Hose the dog doo-doo off your shoes. The mirror was shattered when you were in your 50s. You hope you're wearing underwear so nothing hangs out the hole in your shorts. The girl running the register may be cute. But you don't have your glasses on, so you're not sure.

In your 70s:
Stop what you're doing. Wait to go to Home Depot until the drug store has your prescriptions ready. Don't even notice the dog doo-doo on your shoes. The young thing at the register smiles because you remind her of her grandfather.

In your 80s:
Stop what you're doing. Start again. Then stop again. Now you remember you needed to go to Home Depot. Go to Wal-Mart instead. Wander around trying to remember what you are looking for. You went to school with the old lady who greeted you at the front door.

In your 90's & beyond:
What's a home deep hoe? Something for my garden? Where am I? Who am I? Why am I reading this? Did I send it? Did you?

Showing Up

If you're trying to scare a president by throwing a book at him, you're one president too late.

Isn't this great? It's from my old friend, Maureen, who hates to be an "old" friend, as if that describes her age and not the age of our friendship. I can write all about her because she adamantly refuses to read blogs. Any blog, not just my blog. She don't say why.

Somehow this reminds me of the time last June when my grandson, visiting from the east coast, came in for supper. it's lovely to have a grandling in the house.

"Chicken and rice for dinner," I announced happily.

"I don't eat rice," he said in a sullen, twelve-year old tone.

"Then you won't get anything to eat," I snapped in a crabby sixty-nine year old tone.

He's not so picky these days.

Sigh. That was months ago and now I'd gladly take a little remorse on my rice. Gimme another chance. Maybe spaghetti?

I'd sure love Maureen to read this before I get too old to show up here.

Oh, Sad and Sorry Tale

Please join me in remembering a great icon of the entertainment community. The Pillsbury Doughboy died yesterday of a yeast infection and trauma complications from repeated pokes in the belly. He was 71.

Doughboy was buried in a lightly greased coffin. Dozens of celebrities turned out to pay their respects, including Mrs. Butterworth, Hungry Jack, the California Raisins, Betty Crocker, the Hostess Twinkies and Captain Crunch. The grave site was piled high with flours.

Aunt Jemima delivered the eulogy and lovingly described Doughboy as a man who never knew how much he was kneaded. Doughboy rose quickly in show business, but his later life was filled with turnovers. He was not considered a very smart cookie, wasting much of his dough on half-baked schemes. Despite being a little flaky at times, he still was a crusty old man and was considered a positive roll model for millions.

Doughboy is survived by his wife, Play Dough, three children, John Dough, Jane Dough and Dosey Dough, plus they had one in the oven. He is also survived by his elderly father, Pop Tart. The funeral was held at 3:50 for about 20 minutes.


If this made you smile for even a brief second, please rise to the occasion and take time to pass it on and share that smile with someone else who may be having a crumby day and kneads a lift.

Thanks to my friend Jaya Salsman.