Happy Thanksgiving

Well, it's Thanksgiving Day, and I'm so full I can barely reach across my groaning belly to type. We've had a steady stream of people here eating this afternoon, and El Jeffe has sent every one of them away fat & happy. My mother-in-law arrived first, with the younger brother-in-law at around 2pm. B.I.L upset Tater a little - Tater is only six months old, and he's a bit shy around people who get too close too quick - but then my father-in-law turned up. Tater likes him (he looked after Tater for a week when we first got him home) so things quietened down a lot. Never one to miss out on a good pud, my other brother-in-law, together with his wife and two daughters turned up some time later, notwithstanding the fact that they had already eaten one Thanksgiving dinner at her parents' house earlier today.

The food. My God, the food. To say El Jeffe is a good cook is like saying Michelangelo was a decent housepainter. Let me list it all for you. We had turkey; prime rib; stuffing; creamed spinach; Southern style green beans (put'em in water with a slice of bacon and boil the living daylights out of 'em for 45 minutes); gravy; potatoes mashed AND potatoes timbales; corn pudding; yeast rolls; cranberry and walnut relish; pretzel and strawberry salad; and banana pie. Was it all home-made? Why, yes it was. Magnificent.

Being English and all, I am still unfamiliar with Thanksgiving dinner, although judging by today's display of abject gluttony I could get used to it pretty fast. We don't do it in Britain, but do a similar thing at Christmas. Up around 8am, off to Church, then home by 10am. Eat at around 1pm - and I mean eat - to finish around 2.45, leaving plenty of time for the Queen's Speech on TV at 3pm. Then we can lie around in a turkey-induced haze while the big Xmas movie comes on, and you can bet it'll be either Ice Station Zebra, The Poseidon Adventure or The Great Escape. Sounds a lot like Thanksgiving, doesn't it?

So I'm doing my best to fit in with all yall's celebrations, with help from El Jeffe, and I think I'm doing a pretty grand job too. Now if you'll excuse me a moment, I'm going to see if I can make room for just one more piece of banana pie.

Thought for the day - be thankful. Night, all.

Brunhilde goes under the knife

Well, I had to leave my beloved Ford Expedition, Brunhilde, at the menders tonight. The dreaded 'service engine' light came on this morning, which means it's something complicated, and probably expensive. Usually I can do my own repairs on mechanical stuff. I spent many years running cheap cars with no money to spend on them, and so I learned to fix them myself. Also, I had a couple of old motorcycles that I restored to good condition in my garage and shed, which taught me a lot about vehicles.

It used to be that working on cars, and bikes, for that matter, was relatively simple. Not exactly easy, mind - it was still hard, dirty work, usually costing me some skin and blood - but it was something your average hump with a little sense could do. Breakdowns meant exactly that - something had either worn away or broken, and it was a matter of taking off the old part and putting in a new one to get things running again. Sometimes it wasn't even as hard as that - one of my cars, a 1976 Triumph Dolomite, had sills (rocker panels to you, Uncle Sam) that were made mostly from concrete and chicken wire. And while I've never actually replaced a broken fan belt with a pair of nylon hose, as in the urban legend, I can vouch for the 'raw egg in the radiator' trick to get a car - a 1978 Mini 1000 - drivable, so it can limp home to be fixed properly.

But technology has moved on since then. I first experienced this with my first 'proper' car, a 1989 Toyota MR2. Fantastic car, 40mpg, looked like a little Ferrari, handled like a go kart, and fast, for a 1.6 engine. The speedo went to 140mph but I could never get more than 134 out of it. But to work on it ? Worse than the Mini. No room in the engine bay (it was behind the seats) and it was so low you couldn't get the jack beneath it.

Likewise my Expedition. Everything on it is so damned BIG !!!! I had a flat on it a couple of months back, and the spare was so heavy I could barely pick it up. The hood is level with my chest. And that engine (wonderful engine by the way, V8 5.4 litre, smooth, bags of torque) is tucked right down beneath the bulkhead, safely away from the owner. Apparently, Ford recommend that if their mechanic needs to work on the cylinder heads, it's easier to raise the body - yes, to detach the entire car from the chassis and jack it up a bit - than to remove bits and pieces to get access to the engine.

So my Brunhilde is spending the night at the repair garage. Yes, I know modern cars are cleaner and more efficient, and it's easier to have the car talk to the computer about OBD codes and all that jazz, but I do miss the smell of hot metal and Castol R sometimes.

Thought for the day - the whole can be more than the sum of the parts. Night, all.

Tykes on a plane...

Well, I see from the news that those brave souls in charge of protecting our airports and aircraft from attack have been a little to zealous again. The newspaper 'Emirates Today' details an event at Dubai Airport, in which Suhail Saleh,a two-year-old boy was prevented from boarding a United Arab Emirates plane bound for Turkey. Apparently his name appeared on an arrest warrant. Not only that, but his eye colour and hair colour also matched those detailed in the warrant. The newspaper neglected to mention if the suspect's estimated height, weight or age were also close matches to those of little Suhail. Fortunately, a 'probe' into the circumstances satisfied officials that the tiny terror was indeed merely a tourist, and fears were eased further when it was discovered that he was travelling with his Dad, Abdullah. The little feller was allowed to fly at last, but the potential threat had been noted - a possible security procedure update will alert airport staff to detain for questioning anyone acting suspiciously and trying to board a flight wearing a vomit-stained romper suit.

Tater and Poppy have gotten quite used to sleeping on our bed, and at a combined weight of around 115 pounds, they take up a lot of room. So El Jeffe and I have come up with a solution. Make them sleep on the floor ? Not on your life. We're buying a king-sized bed. I just hope the dogs like the mattress - the salesperson in the bed store wouldn't let them try any beds out.

Thought for the day - you can't be too careful. Night, all.

Drop Sam Colt, cowboy !!

Well, it's almost time for the mid-term elections, and I won't be sorry to see the end of the campaigning. There are four candidates in Virginia, and they've all been running campaign ads on TV for what seems like months now. Trouble is, they're all so negative. We have Thelma Drake - Phil Kellum is the Devil's doughboy; James Webb - George Allen wears Beelzebub's sports bra etc. etc. And so it's been every evening for weeks. Come on, people, we need to see some positive campaigning. I mean, I'm not going to vote for you just because you tell me Thelma Drake eats live babies, or that Phil Kellum is Satan's spawn or whatever. Where do you stand on, say, immigration, or education, or (dare I say it) foreign policy ? Alright, I can't actually vote anyway as I'm not a citizen yet, but please, let's have some grown-up politicking on things like taxes, or law & order, not this mud-slinging competition.

Speaking of law and order, El Jeffe and myself celebrated Halloween last night with Poppy & Tater. El Jeffe bought them an outfit each to go trick-or-treating in. I personally think that dogs wearing clothes is very, very wrong, but there you go. And it has to be said, the Boy did look cute in his sheriff's outfit.

Thought for the day - people in glass house shouldn't throw stones. Night, all.