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Christina the Mausi set her ukulele down for a few hours, put pen to paper and proposed a layout of plants for my previously barren front yard, “Stonehenge.”

After getting the requisite OKs from a select group of VIP(s), I implemented her proposal nearly verbatim.

And thar she blows.

Foreground to background, we have santolina (apparently, a relative of the citronella plant), lavender, sage, rosemary and thyme. The latter three, you can eat. The former two, you can’t–but I’ll try smoking them on Friday night.

So now, my garden is full of herbs. But there’s one that will not–repeat, NOT–ever be found in Stonehenge…

JASEMINE!!!

My grandfather (aka, “Poppie“) died last week at the age of 91.

Because of the distance, location, child-care issues, etc., I wasn’t able to fly over for the wake and funeral.

However, the family allowed me to write the eulogy–which Big Mamma will read at the funeral later this morning. I present the text below, on this Virtual Tribute Bar.

If you like my sense of humor, then you’d have liked Poppie’s.

If you don’t like mine, then you really, *really* wouldn’t have liked his.

Right, Big Mamma? Uncle Sammy? 😉

A EULOGY FOR POPPIE.
May 6, 2007

My Poppie wasn’t the sentimental type. He was a private, introspective man with a biting, sardonic–yet hilarious–wit.

I, as his oldest grandchild, know this as well as anyone. And it presents me with a bit of a dilemma.

If I were tempted to get too sentimental in writing this eulogy, then I could clearly imagine him pulling me aside. And with his left hand clutching a half-eaten chocolate-covered cherry and his right hand balled into a boney-knuckled fist, he’d probably–mockingly–say something like:

“Listen, Harry! I’m not your grandmother. If you get too sentimental on me, I’ll punch you right in the mouth.”

And so, with that threat of karmic revenge hanging over my head, let me offer a few carefully chosen words.

Today is an undeniably sad day for my family and me. But there was nothing sad about Poppie’s life.

He lived 91 years. And during those 91 years, he didn’t have a single serious illness or injury.

He was married for 65 years to the same woman. And that woman was one hell of a good cook.

He had three children, eight grandchildren and twelve great-grandchildren. They all outlived him. Considering Poppie’s Kevlar-coated genetics, that was no small feat.

He served in World War II, during which he was neither wounded nor–to my knowledge–witness to any undue horrors. His service in the US Army’s 183rd Signal Corp was a source of understated–yet so plainly obvious–pride throughout the rest of his life.

Sooner or later, the ride always comes to an end. In Poppie’s case, the ride was very long and very smooth. What more can you ask for?

Still, however, a lot of us are feeling a lot of sadness. That’s Ok. Sadness is both rational and healthy on a day like today.

With regard to the sadness, I’d like to offer an analogy. And in deference to my Nonnie , it’s a food analogy.

The human cycle of life and death is like the baking of sourdough bread. An old loaf may disappear from the countertop…but you’ll find a bit of its “sourdough starter” in each new, subsequent loaf.

And, so…for so long as there’s an Inés loaf…or a Nicholas loaf…or a Mia loaf…or a Ryan loaf…or a Kira loaf…or the two Tony loaves—that crusty old Poppie loaf hasn’t really left the kitchen.

Oh, damn! That was a bit sentimental, wasn’t it?

Sorry, Poppie. Fifty or so years from now, you can punch me right in the mouth.

BEFORE

AFTER

Still needs plants, but that can wait for another day…preferably, one in which my muscles have recovered.

Yeah, yeah, yeah…I know that none of you really care about the landscaping of my front yard. This post is mostly intended for my parents.

– Acme Low-carb Tongue Depressors, Inc. sent me to Stockholm, Sweden earlier this week. It was my first time there. But that was only part of the excitement. The other part is that my old Oktoberfest-stalking friend, “Anders the Viking,” made his triumphant return to Acme’s payroll. Anders and I are pictured above, in front of the Royal Palace. Yeah, they have a royal family in Sweden…and it’s not Benny and Agnetha.

– My friend Jesper was there, too. He played semi-pro hockey in his younger years, yet seems to have all his teeth. That, or he has a talented dentist. Say “Hello” to Jesper.

– Hey! They eat herring for breakfast in Sweden. And so did I. Man-oh-man, did I! About ten kilos of it. Every morning.

– Had herring for the last night’s dinner, too. I’m still pissed-off that there was no herring for lunch.

– And now for a short primer on herring. The pickled stuff is great all by itself. Non-pickled (i.e., red) herring is eaten with minced red onions and creme fresh (sp?). In both cases, a bit of Aquavit goes well. Right, Trac?

– My first night in Stockholm was a free night, so Anders, Jesper and I went downtown in search of dinner. We surveyed countless restaurants and after compiling all the data, I was able to isolate and identify the three pillars of Swedish gastronomy (beyond herring, that is). Those three pillars are the following: (1) French bistros; (2) Mongolian Barbeque; and (3) TGI Fridays. Huh! Who woulda thunk?

– Methinks I’ll keep my observations on Swedish obesity to myself. Why? Well, let’s just say that Scandinavia isn’t the only place where trolls lurk.

– If anyone should offer you a ride on a RIB, don’t pass it up.

– Here’s some good advice from the April 2007 issue of Iberia Airline’s in-flight magazine:

“When the aircraft has attained cruising altitude, the atmospheric conditions inside are the same as those encountered in mountainous regions at a height of 1500 to 2000 meters, and there is less air pressure than there was in the airport. This favors the expansion of the gases and liquids in the body, leading to swelling of the extremities–especially the lower ones–and, in some cases, bowel discomforts and flatulence. It is therefore advisable to avoid heavy or flatulent food from the day before the flight.”

– Oh?! So *that’s* why my lower extremities swelled during yesterday’s flight. Gee…I naively assumed that it was because of those Swedish girls in seats 34 A-D.

– And now for a public service announcement…

– Guns don’t kill people; people kill people. However…it’s a bit harder for one guy to kill thirty-two people using only his bare hands. For more on this topic, please see THIS EDITORIAL from my friend and uke guru, Pam the Nerdy.

– And finally…Happy Third Anniversary to my virtual BBQ buddy, Colin Minion. Sing with me peoples…”And many mooooooooooore!”

The Big Finn’s write-up on last Saturday’s Madrid tapas crawl is now posted.

Click HERE.

Who says that the blogosphere is a vast wasteland of social misfits? A sorry substitute for real human interaction? Who said it? Bring him here, because I’m in possession of a roundhouse kick with his name on it.

Following on the heels of my excellent Madrid outing with Ang–Indiana’s most trusted journalist–and her boyfriend, “The Boyfriend,” I had the opportunity to meet another set of long-time blogger buddies.

That’s right! Yesterday, in Madrid, I met The Royal Family–Mr. and Mrs. The Big Finn.

We hadn’t previously met. Or spoken. To be honest, it’s not clear that either of us was truly convinced that the other existed. It was a bit like “Santa Claus meets the Easter Bunny.”

But at 2pm yesterday afternoon, I rounded the corner of the Melia Gran Fénix Hotel near Plaza Colon, and there they were! Live, in the flesh and just as cute and cuddly as they seem on the computer screen.

It hardly felt like a first meeting at all. It was more like getting together with old college roommates. They were friendly. They were interesting. They were funny. They were visibly very much in love with each other. And…most importantly…they brought gifts!

Yes, that’s a floating COCONUT candle. Just what every bathtub needs–or, at least, just what mine needs. How long must Basel Airport security have stared at this sphere-shaped object with attached wick before finally deciding to let it pass onto the airplane?

But–moving into the “I’m not worthy” category–there was another gift. You see it above, but you probably don’t believe it. Yep…I am now the proud owner of The Big Finn’s legendary–and much-coveted–Gorilla Tripod!

I sprout goosebumps just thinking about it.

This is the same Gorilla Tripod that nearly got TBF bounced from a cathedral in Italy. And now it’s mine! All mine! As if this VTB isn’t already clogged enough with self-photos of my crow’s feet and receding hairline.

BTW…TBF has a new, even more impressive tripod (see photo above). This one doubles as a back-scratcher.

Wiping the tears from my eyes and stiffening my spine, we commenced our tapas crawl. And in this respect, the Finns were good sports. Not only did they walk about a hundred kilometers (many of which were walked in circles, thanks to my hopeless navigational skills), but they ate anything and everything.

Snails, sweetbreads, cod, foie, pig ears (yes, pig ears!)–they tasted it all, and they did so without any peer pressure from me.

“TBF? Are you suuuuuure you want me to order the pig ears?”

“Yeah, Tragger! Bring it on!!!”

In case you’re wondering, we did not–repeat, NOT–drink any absinthe yesterday. Not because we were behaving; but rather, because none of the bars had any. Doh!!!

Even without an absinthe hangover, I expect that both Mr. and Mrs. TBF awoke this morning remembering only 20% of what they ate yesterday. So, as a humanitarian gesture, I list below in chronological order exactly what we ate and drank, and where we ate and drank ’em.

BAR TEMPRANILLO (Cava Baja, 38)
– Slice of chorizo sausage on a round of bread.
– Pincho (i.e., slice of bread topped with…) of duck jamon and eggplant.
– Pincho of tuna belly with “stirfried” vegetables.
– Pincho of smoked bacalao with…uhhhh, help, TBFs?!
– Pincho of duck sweetbreads and pate.
– Wine: Les Terrasses (Priorat)

BAR REVUELTA (Cava Baja, near the Plaza off of Calle Toledo)
– We walked in hoping to order deep-fried bacalao hunks, but they stopped serving. We immediately left.

MATRITUM (Cava Alta, 17)
– Tomato bread with slices of jamón iberico.
– Croquettes stuffed with jamón.
– Kind of a crunchy, shrimpy, creamy, toasty thingee.
– Wine: Viñas del Vero Syrah (Somontano).

CASA DE AMADEO (Plaza Cascorro, 18)
– The bastard was closed. We felt dejected; deprived of our obligatory glasses of snail juice. But just when things seemed hopeless, Mr. TBF steered us into…

SOME RUSTIC, NEIGHBORHOOD BAR A FEW DOORS DOWN FROM AMADEO (see above photos)
– Pimientos de Padrón (little fried Galician green peppers with sea salt; some spicy, some not).
– Snails in a paprika broth.
– Calf sweetbreads sauted in olive oil and lots of garlic.
– Deep-fried cubes of pig ear (salty, crunchy and well-received by Mr. TBF).
– Navajas (i.e., razor clams).
– Cañas (i.e., little glasses) of Mahou beer.

TXACOLI (Cava Baja, 26)
– Wine: Glasses of Txacoli (a young, tart, white wine–similar to Portuguese Vinho Verde–from the Basque Country served in squat little Basque glasses).

LA CASTELA (Doctor Castela, 22–My favorite tapas bar in Madrid, BTW)
– Fried chistorra sausages with french fries.
– Chipirones Encebolladas (i.e., small calamari with sauted onions and drizzled with a nuclear green olive oil and squid ink). Personally, I think this was the best dish of the day.
– Pincho of apple puree, mushroom and foie.
– Pincho of bacalao with tomato “foam.”
– Wine: Albariño (a tart white from northwest Spain).
– Glasses of sweet, red vermouth for Mr. and Mrs. TBF.

LA MONTERÍA (Lope de Rueda, 35)
– At this point, none of us were hungry and all of us were tired. So, Mr. TBF had a final caña of Mahou, Mrs. TBF has a glass of manzanilla sherry, and I had a caña of Laiker non-alcoholic beer. We watched a bit of the Real Madrid vs. FC Barcelona game on TV.

It was a fantastic day (IMO). Hey TBF’s, let’s do another crawl soon. But let’s do it in Chicago, eh?

Kiitos for the visit. I had a blast.