Pennsylvanian Born and Fed

Two of my wife's favorite features about my home state are that many grocery stores have an entire isle devoted to pickles and that Pennsylvania leads the nation in sales of extra large coffins. Though some would prefer to fault the need for jumbo coffins on environmental or gravitational anomalies, it doesn't take Michael Pollan to figure out that perhaps the Pennsylvania diet is to blame. This would be the diet that recommends that fries be served with gravy and considers a B.L.T. a form of salad.

I grew up eating from this butter-gilded food pyramid. And when we are lucky enough to return home, it is not just a list of friends and family who we must visit; there is also a list of food that must be consumed. Having been calling Madagascar home for the past year and more importantly calling rice breakfast, lunch and dinner for just as long, the must-eat list for this trip has grown to leg-length proportions.

Having recently trimmed down to college weight, it took several days to get back into eating form. But thanks to a steady diet of pie, macaroni and cheese and all manner of preserved meats, I was back in shape just in time to do justice to several gravy-blanketed Thanksgiving feasts.

But even Pennsylvanians know their limits. And after a post-Thanksgiving breakfast of scrapple and fried stuffing, I fear I had reached mine. That is when I resorted to health food. Or rather Pennsylvania health food.

I mean it is "0 trans fat". I think they even keep a bowl of these beside all the treadmills at the Harrisburg Curves.

A little reminder for those of you who eat with the intention of seeing the far side eighty (you people!), lard is pure rendered pig fat. White as freshly fallen snow and thick as axle grease. Though gone the way of the dodo in many of the skinny states, you can still pick up a thick pound brick of it at most grocery stores in Pennsylvania anytime your slowly-beating heart desires.

Here's Something to be Thankful for this Thanksgiving

Be thankful turkeys aren't about 10 feet tall and hold grudges. I think we would all be in for a dark December come the Great Turkey Rebellion.

This lovely bird is from my sister's lovely farm. The leader of her 3 turkey army...err flock is aptly named George, at least for short. His full name is George Washington. There is also Nellie Washington. And there used to a Martha, but Martha turned out to have some unMartha parts and had to be re-christened the Marquis de Lafayette.

The Marquis is plotting something. I can feel it.

My adorable niece, Maisy, getting in a little practice before the quarter finals of the Greater Philadelphia Turkey "Wrastlin'" Championships.

Don't take them for Granite: The Statues of Versailles

Napoleon's autocracy knew no bounds. Fearing no one would perform to his exacting standards of perfection, he chose instead to be his own "right hand man".

Striking fear deep into the hearts of all unwelcome intruders, the King Louis XV attack turtles tirelessly, albeit slowly, roamed the grounds.

Dr. Cindy may have identified yet another species, Vitus indecentitus. Simliar to the sunflower's urge to grow towards the sun, the leaves of the Vitus indecentitus vine reach out and cover any nearby indecency. Upon the announcement of her discovery, she was immediately contacted by several eager scientists at the plant biology department of Oral Roberts University.

The infamous inbreeding of European royal families does have a dark side. Let me present Duke Francis the Webbed.

"Don't worry, mom. I got this one."

In an attempt to summon support, as all elk are taught at an early age, Edmund sounded the attack kazoo. But alas, it was too late.

Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Seine

En route to a sadly thwarted picnic in a park, we descending from the roasted chestnut aroma of Paris streets in November and headed into the subway system. Or so we thought...

Scuffing down the final set of stairs brought us not face to face with the normal array of movie posters and expensive handbag ads, but rather before our perplexed eyes loomed large brass portholes and an acre or so of riveted copper sheathing.

Lucky for us, Captain Nemo was a most gracious host. Though he did tend to go on and on about Atlantis and his ongoing copyright suit against "those bastards over at Pixar".

All was going just swimmingly until the Captain felt a sudden and rather overwhelming urge for a Nutella crepe and suddenly surfaced smack in the middle of the Champs-Elysées. Alas, they are a tasty treat.

* On a real note, Captain Nemo's Nautilus is actually the Arts et Métiers metro stop and the large vent is one of many poking and prickling about the spectacular Centre Pompidou modern art museum.

Gilty Pleasures: Travel Tips from the Palace of Versailles

One can forgive Mr. Shakespeare for misspeaking when he penned "all that glitters is not gold." After all, the bard was four decades into a very long nap when renovations at the King's quant little hunting cottage in Versailles began in 1661. But when those renovations were finally wrapped up and all the dust settled, the Château de Versailles did stand as one glorious glaring exception to Shakespeare's notion.

Indeed, in this royal house, all the glitters is gold.

And at 16 euros a pop to see the whole shindig, they are quite able to keep all the gold shiny and new. So despite our cheaper natures, we bit the golden bullet and took a tour of this palace of palaces.

Opulence is not really a word one readily associates with my wife or me (our regular "fancy" restaurant serves a wonderful grilled steak with sautéed vegetables for just under $3), but we did feel the urge to visit. I mean you don't go to Arizona and say, "I don't know, how GRAND can that canyon really be?" Versailles is just one of those things you have to do.

So we did. And here are a few of the tips we can now knowingly offer if you come to France and have to go to Versailles.

Tip Une: When choosing which RER C train to board, Versailles and Versailles-Chantiers are not the same destination. Close, but no champagne as they might say here. One line ends at a giant shiny palace. The other, as we now know, ends in a town with all the interest and pizzaz of a Tuesday afternoon in Akron. If you do make the same mistake as us, no worries. There is an inconvenient and infrequent bus available that can take you to where you thought you were going in the first place.

Tip Deux: Unless you enjoy waiting in lines longer than say the average tributary of the Nile, buy a ticket before you get there. We would tell you where, but as we enjoyed incalculable queueing pleasures for over an hour on a "slow" day, we obviously don't know where that would be.

Tip Trois: It's a big place. Get a complimentary map before you begin your ramblings. Even better, get a complimentary in your native language. We did eventually pick up a map ourselves. Meaning while hunting for Marie Antoinette's little village, we literally reached down into a half-dried mud puddle and picked up a discarded complimentary map. And for the most part, the map was rather serviceable for general directions. Our Russian being a tad rusty though, it was a bit tough to work out if the next left would take us to the Neptune fountain or a bathroom.

Tip Quatre: Mind your shoes if you do somehow manage to figure out how to flush the urinals in the garden restrooms. Trust me.

Tip Cinq: You may have come to see the big house, but don't leave unless you see the little ones too. Unless you're only really into throat-choking displays of wealth, the real jewel of Versailles is the Marie Antoinette's covey of cottages in the far corner of the grounds. Not even Disneyland could do a medieval village better. Marketing tie-ins and worldwide distribution, sure, but not the perfectly thatched roofs and duck-dotted ponds of her own fantasy world she had created to escape the other-worldly opulence and pomp of the chateau proper.

Well, be honest. If you put a few billion into refurnishing your place, you might put a little plastic down too. I mean good lord, who knows where the Duke's been!

The Versailles Home for Wayward Elves. Not quite. This storybook cottage is from Marie Antoinette's village.

A little bit further down the path, we saw the Top Hat and the Battleship out for their afternoon jog as well. (Monopoly joke in case you are completely lost.)

One King-sized bed. It would take an Olympic high jumper or a step ladder to get into this bed. But knowing Louis the XIV had about 20,000 hangers-on and staff around, there were probably 4 house dwarves dedicated just to putting the King to bed.

King-sized alarm clock to complete the suite. It took a good whack on top to shut it off. It was actually an early clock/radio as there was ample room for a fifth dwarf and violin inside. His name was actually Snooze. Thus giving us the saying, "Hitting Snooze."

One ram, a few dozen ewes and only about 2/3 of the palace. I did mention it was big didn't I?

"Get thee to a shrubbery!" (That's a bad one, I know.)

Some French headers we may not get a chance to use. Here we have more of Marie Antoinette's getaway.

If only I could keep my toenails this manicured.

There may be "I love Paris" t-shirts on every corner from here to Notre Dame, but that's not the way Cindy feels. She's got a little thing against France. And that face says it all.

Chicken Soup for the Sole

Foot Parasite Update: All is quiet on the parasite front. The 5 little piggies do not seem to have 5 little wigglies to go with them at present. For photos and more please pop on over to www.mrlebo.blogspot.com.

You Travel to Exotic Places Like Paris and This is Bound to Happen Sooner or Later

Quick survey: Raise your hand if you had something hatch from the sole of your foot last night.

No? Fine, maybe it's just me, but Cindy and I did get to witness one of nature's little wonders last night as we discovered and surgically removed a nest of eggs that appeared on the bottom of my left foot. As to which of nature's little wonders they were, we don't know yet. We do know that we will have to do some serious disinfecting of our toenail clippers tomorrow. Those would be the "surgical" toenail clippers which, as Cindy just pointed out, I afterwards put disturbingly close to our chocolate.

More on this later after some intense Googling and/or a visit to tropical medicine specialist.

Enjoy your dinner.

Paris Reports Dramatic Drop in "Mimer" Crimes

— November 10, 2009, Paris, France

As part of the nationwide program to reduce negative French stereotypes, Parisian police have begun to sweep the streets clear of mimes.

"Operation Land Mime has been an overwhelming success," claimed Baptiste Gregradeau, assistant intern to the director of the National Office of Terrorism and Mimery. "France's image is our main concern and we have enough to deal with--what with all the snail eating and the lingering Jerry Lewis issues."

This reporter can only guess at the angry red faces that must be hiding beneath the white stage makeup of the city's mimes.

Tuesday of last week, a large pro-mime rally was held beneath the heights of the Eiffel Tower. In the largest gathering of French mimes since the 1979 "It's Mime Time in Marseilles!" convention, over 5,000 mimes simultaneously pulled a large-diameter imaginary rope in an effort to topple the iconic edifice in protest.

Despite the ensuing 38 un-imaginary hernias, the Tower remained upright. The protest was soon cut short by an elite SWAT unit of the National Police collectively wielding an enourmous pair of make-believe scissors.

Immediately following the protest, an ordinance was issued by the Bureau of Mime Safety outlawing all public "stuck-inside-a-glass-box" displays.

Undersecretary Liselette of the B.M.S's Street Performance branch clarified the ordinance. "If those mimes want to sully France's good name by smudging their little white-gloved theater fingers up against fake glass, let 'em. But then we'll toss 'em in a real glass box for a few days and see how they like it!"

Known on the street as "The Box", this transparent solitary confinement cell houses convicted mimes for their 72 hour sentences. Police officials have guaranteed that several "more than adequate" air holes are provided.

Though some of the Undersecretary's aggression is no doubt due to the tragic loss of both her parents in a miming accident during a cave in at the aforementioned "It's Mime Time in Marseilles!", the threat to mime rights is undeniable.

When asked about the French Mime Society's response to this threat, their president, known simply as M, had this to say, " -----------------."

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I risked offending the Holy Roman See; I may as take on the mimes too. And here's a few statues to round out our little field trip to Paris as well.

The dim and drizzle of a Parisian November even gets the statuary down. Thankfully, acupuncture offers some relief.

"I recommend the braised wren spleens on a bed of steamed urchin quills."

— Menuius, Greek god of haughty waiters

"Democracy. Fine. Aqueducts. Great. But why, Gods, why? Why can't someone just invent pants!"

Maybe it's just me, but when I'm driving a stampeding four-horse team over my enemies, I like to keep my hands on the reins and a little something over my personal bits. Like I said, maybe it's just me.

Diderot, son of the Enlightenment, father of the modern encyclopedia, and inventor of the Text Message:

OMG. If it isn't Louis, it's the Pope. WTF!

XOXO Diderot

Pope Pierre the XXIII Says Enough is Enough

— Nov. 7, 2009, Notre Dame Cathedral, Paris, France

At a last minute press conference, the statue of Pope Pierre the XXIII reached out to fellow Catholics and statuary alike as he roundly denounced the vile fecal habits of pigeons, or "God's one mistake" as he continually referred to them.

"The indignity of it all! This city is crawling with abstract Devil-art and yet these flying vermin return to my mitre day after day," proclaimed the Pontif. "I've had it up to here!" he sputtered, adding a particularly un-papal-like one-fingered gesture.

Jean-Guillaumet, spokesbird for the Parisian Pigeon Society (a.k.a The PP Society), remained seemingly indifferent to the Pope's remarks, bloated, but indifferent.

He then excused himself and flew towards a nervous Saint Paul on the west façade.

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Well, I guess we'll see if all those "get out of hell" points from the children's home are worth it. I sauntered on over to Notre Dame yesterday and had a wee look-see. It is a marvelous structure and worth all the hoopla heaped upon it, but that's no reason not to have a little fun at its expense too.

So, here we go then.

It's known for gruesome gargoyles and such, but there is also the softer and much cuter side.

Even if two feet to the right is a saint very properly holding his own severed head. This would be Saint Denis whose head was given a separate address in the 3rd century. Not as big a problem as you might imagine, since according to legend he simply picked up his head and walked for a few miles all the while still delivering a sermon.

The Church is certainly known for caring about the little people.

And for good reason. If not for the little people, where would the saints rest their walking staves?

I used to think of monks as a bit cultish, but this poster certainly alleviates that worry. The image really gets at the monks' caring and sacrificial side. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go warn all the lambs and virgins of Paris.

The devote come to the cathedral to lift their prayers onward (for a mere 5 euros per candle). But in case that devotion gets a bit out of hand, there is no need to worry...

...there are Shadrack-and Meshack-approved Prayer Fire Shrouds at the ready (Abendnego apparently split years ago citing creative differences).

Instructions: 1) Remove Prayer Fire Shroud from case. 2) Apologize for the interruption and kindly inform the devoted that he/she is presently engulfed in flames and may require some assistance. 3) Ask the engulfed to assume the international "human Roman candle" position, head bowed slightly and hands calmly in pockets while you gently pat and smooth out the flames.

And one nice unsacrilegious shot to end on. Just a few of the 7,800 pipes of the grand organ of Notre Dame.

(Wow, there's a good title for a bawdy historical romance novel, The Grand Organ of Notre Dame. Sorry, I just couldn't help myself. And can you blame me? I'm not the one who officially calls the head keyboardist at Notre Dame the Titular Organist. I'm just saying.)

May Have Done the Math Wrong on That One

Why you shouldn't take an eleven hour flight, drink the equivalent of 32 demitasses of espresso in 12 hours and then realize, " Hey, I have good internet for a change. I should be Skyping!":

You end up calling your brother's house at 2:45 in the morning to ask your beloved and understanding sister-in-law if she has your brother's work phone number. 

Hey, in my head it all seemed perfectly fine. France is two hours behind Madagascar time. It's 9:45 here in Paris, so it's two hours different again in the US. That makes it 7:45 am in Chicago. Yeah, they'll be up; they have three kids.

Yes, I know there are a thousand things wrong with the calculations. I point you once again to the 32 equivalent cups of espresso. 

Now, if you don't mind I'm going to go run up and down the Eiffel tower a couple of times until this buzz wears off.