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In a fit of post-divorce redecorating, I bought a new dining room table.

Why am I telling you this? Well, there are several reasons:

1. My brain—and in particular, that creative hunk of it with the Latin name—is barely running on fumes these days. Tossing-off an unspeakably banal post about an article of furniture seemed like an easy way to fulfill my semi-weekly publishing obligation.

2. This table spurred an interesting conversation with the woman who sold it to me. I bought it at a plant/tree nursery in town. They had no mosaic tables in stock, but agreed to place an order with the distributor. The saleswoman informed that they sell very, very few mosaic tables. I asked why? She said that Spaniards much prefer those hideous, molded-concrete table/bench combinations for their outdoor patios. But, I said, this table isn’t for my outdoor patio. It’s for my dining room. She looked at me as if I had offered to cook and eat her first-born child. Then she said, “Oh, no…nobody puts these tables indoors.” Go figure!

3. I have the same table—albeit, a smaller, round version—in my kitchen…and Angie has mentioned several times how much she loves it. So…there, Ang. This one’s for you.

4. And finally….that hairy little brown sphere in the middle of the table provides me with the perfect segway to say something of great importance: COCONUT!

OK! Now I can enter the weekend with a clear conscience.

Wow! The past week has been incredibly busy, but at least I can’t complain that I’ve been deprived of US culture. Or partying!

For starters, my daughter’s fourth birthday was Sunday. But that’s a deceptive statement, since the birthday celebration actually started last August when my family—in what is becoming an annual tradition—threw Inés a way, way early birthday party while we were in Chicago.

But party train hit full steam last week.

We had a birthday party for Inés’s friends and classmates on Thursday at the local kiddieland park. You know…it’s one of those storefronts in which 700 toddlers jump into a pit filled with 700,000 plastic balls and remain merrily submerged for 7-8 hours.

The only difference between US kiddie parks and Spanish ones is that the Spanish ones all have bars serving beer to the parents. No joke.

The next day (Friday), Inés had another birthday party with exactly the same kids attending—but this time, it was *in* school. Yes, Daddy dropped Inés off at school…along with an arm-load of grocery bags filled with pastries and juice boxes.

When Daddy picked-up Inés, she was wearing a large, cardboard crown and a even larger smile.

Then on Friday night, we were invited to a “Fall Harvest Festival” at an American-run, English-language, evangelical school a couple of towns over. Here’s where the American culture bit really kicked-in.

It was like stepping into Mayberry—only with much better weather. This Festival had everything that a homesick American boy could ask for. Bobbing for apples. Tractor-pulled hay rides through the moonlit corn fields. Face painting. Country line dancing (not for me, of course!). Apple pies. Pumpkin pies. And hot dogs and s’mores roasted over a campfire.

Do you know how long it’s been since I had last seen a God-damned marshmallow?! Let alone, setting one ablaze and stuffing the entire black-encrusted ball of molten napalm into my mouth. I almost wept with joy.

After the Fall Harvest Festival, I put Inés to bed and started cooking for Sunday’s Birthday BBQ.

Actually, that’s not true. I started cooking the previous Sunday, when I dusted off The Salivator and spent twelve hours smoking 11 lbs. of pulled pork—which I then froze, because I know that the art of smoking has no respect for tight deadlines.

But, anyway…on Friday night, I made the sauces—both a vinegar-based Carolina sauce and a tomato-based Kansas City sauce.

On Saturday night (again, after Inés went to bed), I made the salads—creamy coleslaw and a macaroni salad that nearly everybody on earth seems crazy about, except me.

Sunday morning was a whirl of activity. After weeks of waiting, I was finally able to give Inés her IKEA drafting table—which she put to good use by covering every square inch of it (and much of the floor) with masking tape.

Then, the manic cooking phase began.

Thawed pulled pork moistened with apple juice went into the 220ºF oven to gently warm. Beer went into the ice-filled cooler. Green beans, pimientos de padrón and bananas were tossed with olive oil, salt and pepper (and, in the case of the bananas, sprinkled with curry powder) and tossed onto the grill. Chicken thighs (for the kids) were brined in a salt and sugar solution and also grilled. And all the while…Inés appeared in the kitchen every seven minutes wanting my help stringing plastic beads onto pipe cleaners.

The guests arrived at 2pm—which was 50 minutes before I finished cooking. But still, that’s a much better on-time performance than I’ve exhibited in past BBQ’s.

We had two families over for the birthday BBQ. A British family whose son is in Inés’s class. And an American family from Pittsburgh that lives down the street.

The Americans are not only incredibly nice people and the closest thing that I have to a family over here—but they’ve also proven to be an invaluable source of peanut butter.

And thank God for the mother…who saved me from certain exhaustion by volunteering to bake the birthday cake. Yellow cake with chocolate frosting and sprinkles.

And then, just when I thought it was safe to rest…today was Halloween.

I’ve mentioned in past blog posts that Halloween is still a fledgling holiday here in Spain. But a Spanish family down the street seems hell-bent on changing that. They threw an incredibly ambitious, well-organized Halloween party this afternoon for all of the neighborhood kids (and for quite a few adults, also). Inés went as Superman. I went as Michael Myers.

After the party, the kids went trick or treating—which, judging by the perplexed-yet-horrified looks on the faces of seven out of every ten neighborhood homeowners, has not yet gained a foothold in the collective Spanish consciousness.

At least I was prepared. I had a bushel-basket full of chocolate chip and COCONUT granola bars sitting in my foyer.

And now that birthday and Halloween season is over, it really is time to rest. Inés is with her mother for the week. Thanksgiving is still a month away. And I’ve got 2/3 a bushel-basket full of chocolate chip and COCONUT granola bars vying for my attention.

BTW…does anybody want the chocolate chips?

In a late-blooming effort to take slightly more care with my appearance, I bought contact lenses last June.

That, in and of itself, was an interesting experience. If the US is the country of “contact lenses in an hour,” then Spain apparently is the country of “contact lenses in three and a half weeks.”

But I’m not here to complain about that. I’m here to talk about mathematics.

I bought a six month supply of monthly-wear contact lenses. They’re called “monthly-wear” because you’re supposed to wear them for thirty days, toss them into the trash and then break-open a fresh pair.

It’s now nearly November. And as I was drinking my coffee this morning, I realized something startling.

I’m still wearing the *same* pair of contact lenses that I was wearing when I first left the optometrist’s office.

That’s right…my thirty day lenses have completed 150 days of service. And you know what? They’re still as comfortable today as they were on Day 1. I can’t feel them in my eyes as I type these words.

So, the mathematics problem for today is the following.

Is 30>150, as the marketers claim? Or—as my experience has shown—is 30=150? If the latter, then it seems to me that this monthly-wear thing is a bit of a scam.

I mean…Bausch & Lomb would have you believe that the damn things turn into locusts on Day 31.

And before I forget, let me make the most important point of all: COCONUT!

The International Handbook of Bloggers’ Etiquette is clear on the matter.

If one blogger publishes a post of astounding cleverness, then another blogger shall direct his readers’ attention to the original post by means of a link. He shall NOT steal the clever post and re-publish it for his own selfish purposes.

This rule is especially true when the original blogger has, in fact, dedicated her astoundingly clever post to the other.

[Pause]

Ohhhhhhhhh, screw it!

Over the weekend, our friend Kath published an astoundingly clever video on her Blah, Blah, Blah Blog and dedicated it to me.

Indeed, it is precisely the video that I would’ve/could’ve/should’ve unearthed myself…were I not curled under the bedsheets wallowing in depression thanks to seven miserable days of non-stop rain here in Spain.

I am therefore pleased to re-publish it above for my own selfish purposes. Why? Because it features two of my four favorite things: Michael Palin…and COCONUT!

Lovely plummage, that COCONUT. Norwegian Blue.

The doorbell rang yesterday and there, again, was the smiling face of my DHL guy. He was holding two large boxes.

“Anders?” was my first thought.

But that seemed unlikely, since my 2006 Oktoberfest care-package had already been received, devoured and the bottles recycled.

I signed for the delivery, brought the boxes upstairs and tore them open. They were, in fact, from my Irish friend, Kathleen (a.k.a., Lisa Marie).

And when I saw the contents, my head spun. My hands trembled. And my tongue? Well…let’s just say that “The Salivator” no longer applies just to my smoker.

And what, you may be wondering, were in these two boxes?

Well…one contained a plastic bag with six hundred (600!) Irish tea bags. That’s enough tea for three months!

The other box contained…COCONUT!!!

The most mind-blowing array of highly-processed, intensely-sugared vehicles for COCONUT that I had ever laid eyes on! It was absolutely stunning. This crazy Irish chick must’ve cleaned-out the entire COCONUT aisle at Tesco’s!

Here’s a precise inventory of my blessed booty:

Wow! Talk about the stuff of teenaged dreams. And do you know what’s the best part?

It’s Friday. I have an inventory of COCONUT cookies that resembles that government warehouse in the last scene of “Raiders of the Lost Ark.” And I have *six hundred* tea bags.

Yes, yes, yes…I have big plans for this weekend—and those plans don’t involve sleep.

My unwavering love for COCONUT may be the strongest in the land; but it’s not exclusive.

COCONUT-fever is, in fact, sweeping through Europe—and signs of the epidemic have now appeared in the south of France.

The photo above is provided courtesy of our new friend and vampiress, Calamity Tat.

You can tell that she (and not I) is responsible, because this COCONUT is (a) female, and (b) flanked by a 150€/ounce bottle of Coco Chanel perfume…rather than a 10€/quart jug of Old Spice.

Impressive, indeed…and a most welcome addition to our ever-expanding COCONUT Hall of Fame. But, you may be wondering, what makes Tat a vampiress?

To the best of my knowledge and belief, she doesn’t drink human blood—although I remain suspicious as to what she uses as a thickener for Coq au Vin.

No…“vampire/vampiress” is my now-official term for any blogger who is too chicken to post a Profile photo.

And in this respect, my sidebar is full of vampires [cough, cough, cough…Trac]—although The Big Finn certainly isn’t one of them. 😉

So…c’mon vampires! Don’t be a Coq! Grab a glass of Vin, loosen-up…and then go grab that digital camera.

You’re all amongst friends. And believe me…none of us are getting any younger, thinner or better-looking.

Except for The Big Finn, of course.