I love Mexican food. Not Taco Bell. Not the frozen taquitos that you can buy in bulk at Sam’s Club. Not the lard-infused, deep-fried (not that I have anything against greasy food necessarily) Mexi-slop that you get at some dives that masquerade as real Mexican restaurants. But the honest to goodness, fresh, texture-taste layered food that I adore.
When we lived in San Diego, you could get the most delectable swordfish tacos—the fish was firm yet tender with a hint of charcoal and lime. (Okay, I’ve mentioned it before so I'll move on.) But here in Chattanooga, we struggled to get good Mexican food. Until we found a place near the mall called El Meson. Mall-area restaurants tend to suck. But we tried it anyway. They made their own tortillas, always a good sign. The food wasn’t bad, but it was Southern-American Mexican food, i.e. mildly spicy enchiladas, tacos, and burritos. Boring. We noticed a lot of Hispanic people in the restaurant, but they all ate in a different section. Cal said, “I bet they have a different menu.”
The next time we went, Cal met the manager. He and Cal lived up near the same place in California. Then, we got a Hispanic waitress who didn’t speak much English. And I asked her, “What do you recommend?” She asked, "You like spicy?" I said, “Of course, we’re from San Diego area—we’ve spent time in Tijuana.” She pointed to Jalisco Shrimp Enchiladas. I ordered it. (Cal ordered something else.) I took one bite (imagine the flavor of luscious shrimp, jalapeños, and fresh veggies—wrapped in a warm tortilla and covered with melted cheese and what I think was a tomatillo sauce) and knew I’d found real Mexican food. I gave Cal a bite. Euphoria. His fork hovered over my food.
Me: “No way.” I pulled my plate out of reach. “Eat your own dinner.”
Cal: “But you always get the good food when we go out for dinner.”
Me: “Yeah, because I always ask the waitress what she likes.”
Cal: “You can have a bite of mine.
Me: “I don’t want yours.”
Cal: “Yeah. It’s not as good as yours.”
Me: “Duh... How about if I give you my leftovers?”
Cal: “Okay.”
The only thing they don’t have is killer salsa. They served two kinds, which were okay—once again Southern-American inspired stuff. Although I did spy a leaf of cilantro, but alas it was the only one. I have a peculiar palate for salsa. It’s got to be fresh with herbs, spices, and freshly chopped cilantro and diced onions. And it’s got to have jalapenos. It should leave a nice sizzle on your tongue. I make homemade salsa every Saturday for taco night at our house. And I make it for College Mafia Night (aka Prayer and Fellowship Time). Once I tried to make something else—there was much groaning and gnashing of teeth among the college students, especially those hailing from California. Never again have I forgotten the Killer Salsa—otherwise I’m sure I’ll be the first one killed off in Mafia. “Mrs. Keller was killed during the night by irate college students who didn’t get their salsa fix!”
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Monday, March 2, 2009
She was right!
Today, Ariel threw open the front door, glided into the living room and announced, “I was right!” Cal, Matt, Jacob, and I looked up from our lunch of leftover spaghetti and murmured, “Great…” Ariel flounced into her seat and proceeded to give us all the grim details of her “rightness.”
Now, before I translate, I should inform you that before I became a homeschooling mom I worked at a huge publishing company as a technical writer. A science technical writer. Ponder that for a moment—my degree is in English literature. Anyway, I wrote summaries of the articles for the reference materials of published research journals. Among the journals I wrote for: Journal of Solid State Chemistry, Icarus (an astrophysics journal, at least that’s what I thought it was), Genomics, Virology, Biochemical and Biophysical Research Communications, and the Journal of Computational Mathematics. Thus, despite my aversion to mathematics, I should be competent to explain this to you. (I was also assigned to summarize all the articles that came in that were written in languages no one else could read, including Japanese and some language that used the Cyrillic alphabet. They told me it was because I was so good at explaining things I didn’t understand. Sure. Personally, I think it was because I complained the least.)
Sorry for the digression. Back to Ariel’s “rightness.” Apparently, she found a shortcut to calculating area between curved surfaces based on the y-axis. Ariel pointed it out last Friday to her professor. Her professor told her that while it would seem to be accurate and does occasionally work (other students had mentioned it in the past), it couldn’t work all the time. Ariel explained, “But it must—you just do a transformational rotation of 90 degrees, redefine all the variables, run the calculations, and then re-redefine all the variables back to their original definitions.” I guess the professor spent the weekend verifying Ariel’s theory—what a waste of a dreary, wet, miserable weekend! At any rate, the professor announced that the transformational-redefining-thingy did indeed work and that Ariel (and her friend) could use it on the exams, but only if they included a note explaining what they were doing so the professor would be able to follow their calculations. But, she went on to say, that she would NOT be using it in class because she didn’t want to confuse anyone.
Personally, I’m not sure why this is even exciting. I mean, I understand that it’s very cool to “be right.” But it seems to me that with all this rotation, transformation, and redefinition, it’s probably faster to do it the “hard” way. But that’s just me.
Now, before I translate, I should inform you that before I became a homeschooling mom I worked at a huge publishing company as a technical writer. A science technical writer. Ponder that for a moment—my degree is in English literature. Anyway, I wrote summaries of the articles for the reference materials of published research journals. Among the journals I wrote for: Journal of Solid State Chemistry, Icarus (an astrophysics journal, at least that’s what I thought it was), Genomics, Virology, Biochemical and Biophysical Research Communications, and the Journal of Computational Mathematics. Thus, despite my aversion to mathematics, I should be competent to explain this to you. (I was also assigned to summarize all the articles that came in that were written in languages no one else could read, including Japanese and some language that used the Cyrillic alphabet. They told me it was because I was so good at explaining things I didn’t understand. Sure. Personally, I think it was because I complained the least.)
Sorry for the digression. Back to Ariel’s “rightness.” Apparently, she found a shortcut to calculating area between curved surfaces based on the y-axis. Ariel pointed it out last Friday to her professor. Her professor told her that while it would seem to be accurate and does occasionally work (other students had mentioned it in the past), it couldn’t work all the time. Ariel explained, “But it must—you just do a transformational rotation of 90 degrees, redefine all the variables, run the calculations, and then re-redefine all the variables back to their original definitions.” I guess the professor spent the weekend verifying Ariel’s theory—what a waste of a dreary, wet, miserable weekend! At any rate, the professor announced that the transformational-redefining-thingy did indeed work and that Ariel (and her friend) could use it on the exams, but only if they included a note explaining what they were doing so the professor would be able to follow their calculations. But, she went on to say, that she would NOT be using it in class because she didn’t want to confuse anyone.
Personally, I’m not sure why this is even exciting. I mean, I understand that it’s very cool to “be right.” But it seems to me that with all this rotation, transformation, and redefinition, it’s probably faster to do it the “hard” way. But that’s just me.
Guest Blog
A writing friend of mine, Adele Annesi, invited me to guest blog at her blog. So, I've included the publicity notice, which has site links, in case you'd like to read the posts.
Here it is:
I'm pleased to announce guest blogger for March, writer and essayist Connie Keller on the subject of "Take Down Your Scaffolding, Reveal Your Art" for my writing and editing blog, "Word for Words" http://wordforwords.blogspot.com.
Connie won the Tassy Walden New Voices in Children's Literature “Honorable Mention Award” for young adult fiction, and founded the Wellspring Writers Workshop. She hails from the University of California , and was a writer at Harcourt. She’s currently editing her historical fiction novel Dark Mercy, and her YA novel Screwing Up Time. Her humorous and serious essays have been published in various journals, and she writes the popular YA and adult blog "A Merry Heart," http://connies-pen.blogspot.com.
To see Connie's piece entitled, "Take Down Your Scaffolding, Reveal Your Art," visit "Word for Words" http://wordforwords.blogspot.com.
Here it is:
I'm pleased to announce guest blogger for March, writer and essayist Connie Keller on the subject of "Take Down Your Scaffolding, Reveal Your Art" for my writing and editing blog, "Word for Words" http://wordforwords.blogspot.com.
Connie won the Tassy Walden New Voices in Children's Literature “Honorable Mention Award” for young adult fiction, and founded the Wellspring Writers Workshop. She hails from the University of California , and was a writer at Harcourt. She’s currently editing her historical fiction novel Dark Mercy, and her YA novel Screwing Up Time. Her humorous and serious essays have been published in various journals, and she writes the popular YA and adult blog "A Merry Heart," http://connies-pen.blogspot.com.
To see Connie's piece entitled, "Take Down Your Scaffolding, Reveal Your Art," visit "Word for Words" http://wordforwords.blogspot.com.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Non Inanimate Object
Inanimate objects are supposed to be, well, non-animate. The word is a combination, part of which is derived from the Latin word animus, which means spirit. (I know this is much more than you care to know, but be patient.) So, inanimate objects are supposed to be things without the breath of life in them—things without will or volition. Did you notice how many times I used the words “supposed to”? Guess what that means.
It means that we have an inanimate object that has will and discrimination. Our treadmill. It likes me. It hates Calvin. The treadmill runs for me. It stops for Calvin.
For example, I power up the treadmill, balance my glass of iced lemon water on one side, slip a brainless library thriller in the book rack (it’s my treat for exercising even though I despise exercise), and run. I adjust the speed up and down during my two miles and sometimes adjust the incline. The treadmill obeys all my requests perfectly and immediately.
Calvin powers up the treadmill. It runs happily at whatever speed or incline he turns it to. Until he steps on—then it stops. If he steps off, it runs again. He calls me, and we adjust the various belt pulleys, etc. It still stops whenever he gets on. So, he asks me to run. I step on and the treadmill runs perfectly for as long as I’m on. Then, he tries. It stops. It also runs perfectly for each of the children, including Luke whose weight is similar to Calvin’s. You might think it’s a glitch, but it’s been doing this for months—ever since Calvin broke its hydraulic arm (see blog post, Son of Samson). Our treadmill is punishing Calvin. “Bad Son of Samson—I won’t work for you anymore.” I wonder if it will ever forget what Calvin did to it. Or is a treadmill like an elephant?
It means that we have an inanimate object that has will and discrimination. Our treadmill. It likes me. It hates Calvin. The treadmill runs for me. It stops for Calvin.
For example, I power up the treadmill, balance my glass of iced lemon water on one side, slip a brainless library thriller in the book rack (it’s my treat for exercising even though I despise exercise), and run. I adjust the speed up and down during my two miles and sometimes adjust the incline. The treadmill obeys all my requests perfectly and immediately.
Calvin powers up the treadmill. It runs happily at whatever speed or incline he turns it to. Until he steps on—then it stops. If he steps off, it runs again. He calls me, and we adjust the various belt pulleys, etc. It still stops whenever he gets on. So, he asks me to run. I step on and the treadmill runs perfectly for as long as I’m on. Then, he tries. It stops. It also runs perfectly for each of the children, including Luke whose weight is similar to Calvin’s. You might think it’s a glitch, but it’s been doing this for months—ever since Calvin broke its hydraulic arm (see blog post, Son of Samson). Our treadmill is punishing Calvin. “Bad Son of Samson—I won’t work for you anymore.” I wonder if it will ever forget what Calvin did to it. Or is a treadmill like an elephant?
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Plagiarism, Classics Style
Since Virgil is dead, and I can’t be sued for libel (slander is spoken, libel is in print—I’m not sure which one a blog falls under, but I’m covered), I’ve decided to speak my mind about The Aeneid. For those of you who don’t know, Virgil wrote the epic poem The Aeneid. Something I’m forcing my children to read, much against their will (imagine me smiling—my kids don’t call me the “mean parent” for nothing).
Caesar Augustus supported the writing of the poem in the hopes that it would revive Roman ideals of self-sacrifice, dedication to the state, etc. Apparently, these ideals had deteriorated, no kidding. Augustus becoming emperor might have contributed to that.
At any rate, Virgil decided that Aeneas from The Iliad was the ancestor to the Romans. Why did he decide that? My guess is propaganda. Anyway, Virgil wrote the poem but died before he finished editing. (That explains some things, doesn’t it?) He directed that the poem be burned after his death (and you thought Emily Dickenson came up with that on her own.). Of course, Augustus wasn’t going to waste all the money he put into getting this epic written so he had it “published.”
Some people think that Virgil wanted it burned because he no longer supported Augustus’ policies. (Others think he wanted it burned because it sucked.) But the real reason—remember, you read it here first—is because he’s such a massive plagiarist.
I mean hello, whole chunks are taken out of Homer’s The Iliad. Compare the “shield scene” of Aeneas in (book 8) with Achilleus’ shield in (book 18, Iliad). Pretty similar. How about Odysseus/Diomedes Raid (Iliad, book 10) with the Nisus/Euryalus Raid (Book 9)? Yep, plagiarism, pure and simple. Granted the Dido episode is quite cool and is a lesson to women everywhere to make sure you’re really married and did not just undergo a fake promise/ceremony.
Yes, yes, I know imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. Consider this: Imagine I wrote about a boy who discovers he’s a wizard and goes to wizard high school. But instead of calling him “Harry” I called him “Bob the boy Wizard,” and instead of going to Hogwarts he went to Omaha High School, do you think JK Rowling wouldn’t sue? Of course, she would. And she’d get a whole pile of money because it’s plagiarism! The only reason Virgil didn’t end up in jail in Rome (besides the fact that he was Augustus’ buddy) was that Homer had long since rotted in his grave.
Right now I’m thinking about writing a novel—it’s about a man who tries to sail home after a long battle. But the gods interfere, and in the years it takes to get home, he meets lots of weird creatures, including a Cyclops. I’m thinking of calling it the Long Voyage Home. The title’s not as catchy as The Odyssey, but hey, Homer can’t sue me either.
Caesar Augustus supported the writing of the poem in the hopes that it would revive Roman ideals of self-sacrifice, dedication to the state, etc. Apparently, these ideals had deteriorated, no kidding. Augustus becoming emperor might have contributed to that.
At any rate, Virgil decided that Aeneas from The Iliad was the ancestor to the Romans. Why did he decide that? My guess is propaganda. Anyway, Virgil wrote the poem but died before he finished editing. (That explains some things, doesn’t it?) He directed that the poem be burned after his death (and you thought Emily Dickenson came up with that on her own.). Of course, Augustus wasn’t going to waste all the money he put into getting this epic written so he had it “published.”
Some people think that Virgil wanted it burned because he no longer supported Augustus’ policies. (Others think he wanted it burned because it sucked.) But the real reason—remember, you read it here first—is because he’s such a massive plagiarist.
I mean hello, whole chunks are taken out of Homer’s The Iliad. Compare the “shield scene” of Aeneas in (book 8) with Achilleus’ shield in (book 18, Iliad). Pretty similar. How about Odysseus/Diomedes Raid (Iliad, book 10) with the Nisus/Euryalus Raid (Book 9)? Yep, plagiarism, pure and simple. Granted the Dido episode is quite cool and is a lesson to women everywhere to make sure you’re really married and did not just undergo a fake promise/ceremony.
Yes, yes, I know imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. Consider this: Imagine I wrote about a boy who discovers he’s a wizard and goes to wizard high school. But instead of calling him “Harry” I called him “Bob the boy Wizard,” and instead of going to Hogwarts he went to Omaha High School, do you think JK Rowling wouldn’t sue? Of course, she would. And she’d get a whole pile of money because it’s plagiarism! The only reason Virgil didn’t end up in jail in Rome (besides the fact that he was Augustus’ buddy) was that Homer had long since rotted in his grave.
Right now I’m thinking about writing a novel—it’s about a man who tries to sail home after a long battle. But the gods interfere, and in the years it takes to get home, he meets lots of weird creatures, including a Cyclops. I’m thinking of calling it the Long Voyage Home. The title’s not as catchy as The Odyssey, but hey, Homer can’t sue me either.
Monday, February 23, 2009
Murder, Death, and Mayhem
Once a month, we have an open house for college students (anywhere from 10 to 40 students attend). After a time of prayer and food, the games begin. Sometimes we play a game with paper and pens that leads to peals of laughter—I know that’s a bit hard to imagine, but it’s a P2C2E (a process too complicated to explain).
The other game we play is Mafia. Basically, it involves secrecy and killing people. After each death, the people who are still alive (no doubt Sicilian peasants) decide/guess who the guilty party is and kill them. The game has a “narrator” who explains the details of each murder, which are generally more gruesome than your average murder mystery. The chemistry majors always come up with new explosions. The lit people describe in detail how brakes are tampered with and cars drive off the edge of Lookout Mountain. My favorite death last night was “how Dan was disemboweled and strangled with his own intestines.” A long conversation ensued between the biology people about whether someone would survive a disembowelment long enough to be strangled.
I became the subject of a discussion last night when three people were left alive. I tried to convince Stellie that Duncan was the Mafioso, not me. Stellie said, “But, Mrs. Keller, the last time you were the mafia, you killed off your husband and all your children and you looked innocent then too.” She killed me.
I always love it when one of the college students (frequently Karin) gets a call from her parents.
Cellphone rings.
Karin: Hi, Dad/Mom.
Pause.
Karin: No, I’m at the Kellers.
Pause.
Karin: We’re playing mafia.
Pause.
Karin: It’s a game. I’ll explain later.
After she tells them good-bye and hangs up, she says, “My parents don’t understand.”
Eventually, Karin will graduate, and we will meet her parents. How awkward that might be…
Me to Karin’s mom: Hello, it’s so nice to meet you.
Karin’s mom: So, you’re the people who play Mafia.
Me: Uh, yeah.
KM: So, you encourage our children to dream up all manner of murder.
Me: Sort of. But we pray first.
KM (nods)
Me: Karin really likes my salsa. Would you like the recipe?
The other game we play is Mafia. Basically, it involves secrecy and killing people. After each death, the people who are still alive (no doubt Sicilian peasants) decide/guess who the guilty party is and kill them. The game has a “narrator” who explains the details of each murder, which are generally more gruesome than your average murder mystery. The chemistry majors always come up with new explosions. The lit people describe in detail how brakes are tampered with and cars drive off the edge of Lookout Mountain. My favorite death last night was “how Dan was disemboweled and strangled with his own intestines.” A long conversation ensued between the biology people about whether someone would survive a disembowelment long enough to be strangled.
I became the subject of a discussion last night when three people were left alive. I tried to convince Stellie that Duncan was the Mafioso, not me. Stellie said, “But, Mrs. Keller, the last time you were the mafia, you killed off your husband and all your children and you looked innocent then too.” She killed me.
I always love it when one of the college students (frequently Karin) gets a call from her parents.
Cellphone rings.
Karin: Hi, Dad/Mom.
Pause.
Karin: No, I’m at the Kellers.
Pause.
Karin: We’re playing mafia.
Pause.
Karin: It’s a game. I’ll explain later.
After she tells them good-bye and hangs up, she says, “My parents don’t understand.”
Eventually, Karin will graduate, and we will meet her parents. How awkward that might be…
Me to Karin’s mom: Hello, it’s so nice to meet you.
Karin’s mom: So, you’re the people who play Mafia.
Me: Uh, yeah.
KM: So, you encourage our children to dream up all manner of murder.
Me: Sort of. But we pray first.
KM (nods)
Me: Karin really likes my salsa. Would you like the recipe?
Here are a couple of pictures.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
The Son of Samson
My husband and I have been married for almost 21 years. That’s a lot of time—in fact, I was married at 21 so I’ve been married nearly half my life. You’d think I’d be used to all my husband’s endearing (and not so endearing) quirks.
We’ve learned to deal with the clothes-on-the-floor habit. For me, clothes on the floor is the visual equivalent to fingernails on a chalkboard. For Calvin, it’s an old way of life. Normally, all clothes go into the hamper, but occasionally there’s a small pile on his side of the bed where I can’t see it. When I ask him why, he responds, “When I was growing up, my mom was always so busy that I didn’t want to put my clothes into the hamper unless they were completely dirty.” I nod my head. “But, for me, dearest, if clothing lays on the floor it’s only getting wrinkled in which case it has to be washed, dried, and ironed again anyway.” He says, “My mom didn’t iron.” “Yes, sweetheart, but I do.” Then, the clothes begin finding their way back into the hamper again. I can live with this.
However, there is another habit (one I can’t blame on his parents). Calvin breaks things. Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate his ability to move anything. He can pick up a hide-away bed couch and carry it on his shoulders. He can rip siding off a house with his bare hands. Honest, I’ve seen him do both these things. And, in Hamden when there was a huge boulder that the trustees couldn’t move, Calvin picked it up and moved it out of the way. This is all good.
There is a down side. He doesn’t know his own strength. He broke the hydraulic support on the treadmill. One day I was trying to lower the running surface of our fold-up treadmill, I found I couldn’t budge it. After time spent inspecting the machine, I found that the hydraulic arm that helps lift the heavy running board up and down was completely bent. When Cal had last used the treadmill, he obviously raised the board without remembering to lower the incline.
Me: Light of my Life, when you ran the treadmill yesterday, did you have any trouble getting the board back up?
Cal: It stuck a bit, but I gave it a push and it went right up.
Me: That “sticking” was a solid steel hydraulic arm that is now bent completely out of shape.
Cal: No. That can’t be.
Me: Check it out, Dude.
Cal (after checking it out): Whoa.
Me: Yeah.
In fact the situation is so bad that the children say to each other, “Don’t ask Daddy to fix it—he’ll break it.”
Yesterday, Calvin came back from a visitation.
Cal: I broke my glasses.
Me (imagining a screw needs to be replaced): Let me fix it.
Cal (pulling the multiple pieces out of his shirt pocket): That’s not going to work.
Me: How did you do that?
Cal: I was playing with Joseph’s dog so I put my glasses in my shirt pocket because I didn’t want to get them scratched.
Me: Right, the dog’s a little terrier, so how did they break?
Cal: I squeezed the dog.
Me: Cal, one of your lenses is broken into three pieces. Is the dog dead?
Cal (laughing): No. I’m not sure how it happened. I just held the dog and flexed my arms.
Me: Oh.
Cal: Are you going to blog about this?
Me: Oh, yeah. If I’ve married the son of Samson, I will blog about this.
(BTW, did you notice I found a way to blame my in-laws.)
We’ve learned to deal with the clothes-on-the-floor habit. For me, clothes on the floor is the visual equivalent to fingernails on a chalkboard. For Calvin, it’s an old way of life. Normally, all clothes go into the hamper, but occasionally there’s a small pile on his side of the bed where I can’t see it. When I ask him why, he responds, “When I was growing up, my mom was always so busy that I didn’t want to put my clothes into the hamper unless they were completely dirty.” I nod my head. “But, for me, dearest, if clothing lays on the floor it’s only getting wrinkled in which case it has to be washed, dried, and ironed again anyway.” He says, “My mom didn’t iron.” “Yes, sweetheart, but I do.” Then, the clothes begin finding their way back into the hamper again. I can live with this.
However, there is another habit (one I can’t blame on his parents). Calvin breaks things. Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate his ability to move anything. He can pick up a hide-away bed couch and carry it on his shoulders. He can rip siding off a house with his bare hands. Honest, I’ve seen him do both these things. And, in Hamden when there was a huge boulder that the trustees couldn’t move, Calvin picked it up and moved it out of the way. This is all good.
There is a down side. He doesn’t know his own strength. He broke the hydraulic support on the treadmill. One day I was trying to lower the running surface of our fold-up treadmill, I found I couldn’t budge it. After time spent inspecting the machine, I found that the hydraulic arm that helps lift the heavy running board up and down was completely bent. When Cal had last used the treadmill, he obviously raised the board without remembering to lower the incline.
Me: Light of my Life, when you ran the treadmill yesterday, did you have any trouble getting the board back up?
Cal: It stuck a bit, but I gave it a push and it went right up.
Me: That “sticking” was a solid steel hydraulic arm that is now bent completely out of shape.
Cal: No. That can’t be.
Me: Check it out, Dude.
Cal (after checking it out): Whoa.
Me: Yeah.
In fact the situation is so bad that the children say to each other, “Don’t ask Daddy to fix it—he’ll break it.”
Yesterday, Calvin came back from a visitation.
Cal: I broke my glasses.
Me (imagining a screw needs to be replaced): Let me fix it.
Cal (pulling the multiple pieces out of his shirt pocket): That’s not going to work.
Me: How did you do that?
Cal: I was playing with Joseph’s dog so I put my glasses in my shirt pocket because I didn’t want to get them scratched.
Me: Right, the dog’s a little terrier, so how did they break?
Cal: I squeezed the dog.
Me: Cal, one of your lenses is broken into three pieces. Is the dog dead?
Cal (laughing): No. I’m not sure how it happened. I just held the dog and flexed my arms.
Me: Oh.
Cal: Are you going to blog about this?
Me: Oh, yeah. If I’ve married the son of Samson, I will blog about this.
(BTW, did you notice I found a way to blame my in-laws.)
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