WHAT KIND OF VISITING TEACHERS ARE WE, ANYWAY?

Today was another little snow-big snow day and we had scheduled visiting teaching appointments because two of the women we visit are off on high adventures, one is going to Hawaii--for three bloomin' weeks--the lucky duck--and the other is off to Florida--for one bloomin' week--she is obviously only one third as much of a lucky duck but a lucky duck, just the same. Maybe she is only the beak and the feet of a lucky duck.

I told them I hope it snows here all the time they are gone so they will feel extra privilidged and pampered and other "p" words like pleasured and pandemonium. That last "p" word really doesn't fit but it's after midnight and it's all I can think of. I'd do that for my friends, put up with three weeks of snow so they could bask on the sunny beaches and feel privileged and of royal birth. I'm so nice sometimes that I think I should hurt myself.

Anyway, we needed to get our visiting done and it was a blizzard this morning but we went anyway. I took this picture--of what I laughingly call our Beaver Dam--in the back yard to show you the falling snow but the Internet Gremlin's have erased the falling snow. What's up with that? They didn't want you to know how hard working and noble we are, to trek out in the blizzarding snow.

So, we visit two of the women--we ALWAYS stay too long because they are such fun and we get into all kinds of interesting discussions which HAVE NOTHING WHATSOEVER TO DO WITH THE LESSON WE WERE SUPPOSED TO GIVE.

And why not, you are asking yourself--that is if you are still here, reading this drivel. Because both Sarah and I got so involved watching LOST last night that neither one of us prepared the lesson--which is right here. So we discussed earth changing ideas and probably some drivel. That's my job, to supply the drivel.

In our defense, Sarah says she is going to prepare a written message and deliver it with a little Valentine treat. Personally, I think Sarah has an ulterior motive. "Honey," she will say. "I need to make a quick trip to Hawaii to deliver my Valentine treat and a little message. I'll be back in about a week." You go for it, Sarah.

At our last appointment--which we were late to--because we stay too long at the other homes--because I insist on putting my two cents of drivel in after all the interesting stuff is said--we were at Pam's house. Pam of Pam's Place--she always writes great, insightful things on her blog, as apposed to me who will post anything, including fortune cookie messages that tell me to leave home--in the dark of night. Anyway, we were at her house and she said, "Will you forgive me?"

Now, I ask you, what could this angel of a woman do that needs forgiving? Well, you don't know so I'll tell you. She went to J-Dawg without me. Yes, it's true. She did. But, the next sentence out of her mouth atoned for her grievous crime.

"So, do you want to go?"

"Right now?" both Sarah and I said.

"Yes, right now."

Well, we were all in the car so fast that her welcome mat was still spinning--because we had catapulted off the porch into the snow. Sarah had never been to J-Dawg before. She was a J-Dawg virgin.

Here it is. Yes, nothing but a shack. In the summer it in 900 degrees inside. I think in the winter it's just right. There are two workers. One takes orders, slashes the dawgs and puts them on some kind of a grill that chars them just right--not enough to give you cancer right away and just enough to make them taste heavenly.

Here is the extensive menu. Are you impressed? I am telling you; those food carts in downtown New York City are not one iota better than this.

Here's the condiment list. Someone earlier today was so excited to get their J-Dawg that their wagging fanny practically erased the words jalapenos and banana peppers--which every condiment guru knows are really pepperoncini but we will forgive the owners as they have to cater to the masses who do not know the proper name for condiments.


And masses there are. There is always a line, waiting to order. Sometimes the line snakes right into the street and grumpy motorists have to stop and roll down their windows and yell at the line-snakers. Then they pull over and stand in line and order their own dawgs. Sometimes they double park and the cops come to give them tickets and they get in line instead and, well, it's just one big happy, dawg eating crowd, there on 7th East.

So, the next person grilles the buns and then puts the condiments on.

If you want them expertly done you will watch closely and be high maintenance, like me. Extra sauce--it's a sweet barbeque sauce. Extra pepperoncini--but you can't call it that or the worker says, "Huh?" You might have to smile, winningly and say, "more" a couple of times until the pepperoncini is piled to a height that is "just right"--Goldilocks would have loved J-Dawgs.

If you are faint of heart--like me--then you say, "no jalapenos." Then you smile your best smile and say, "That is the best dang dawg that anyone has ever made for me," and then they forgive you for being so crabby and wanting things just the way you want them. But let's face it, you are paying a whole $2.75--unless you want a drink too--and you want your cheap money's worth.

We took our dawgs back to Pam's house, which is always clean, unlike mine, which is not, but has interesting clutter that the archeologists will be delighted to find in a thousand years when they uncover my house that was slowly covered with dirt. See my insightful blog about this very problem. Not that I'm dirty, mind you, just clutterly so I don't have a clue how houses of people who leave pot shards lying around get covered up.

Here are Pam and Sarah, the J-Dawg virgin, having their first bite. Mmmm. I tell you, Sarah is now a J-Dawg addict and she has made it a rule to go visiting teaching to Pam last from now on so we can take a little detour. And maybe we will even give Pam the lesson. If we haven't watched LOST the night before.

Don't tell Sarah's husband. He thinks she was giving sincere and insightful visiting teaching lessons and not out gallivanting all over tarnation, eating food products that the Polish, bless their culinary hearts, have perfected to deliciousness.