Oh rats, my main commentor does not receive my comments in return. I think that's what she was saying. BJH, ask your brilliant cousin what to do. This is all very distressing, trust me.

SPEAKING OF BJH, she is now absolutely and completely WORLD FAMOUS! You heard me. I get an email from my friend who says, Look on the front page of the TASTE Section in today's St. Pete Times! Since I hadn't looked at the TASTE section yet, which comes out on Wednesdays, I rushed to the table and fumbled through the papers, and boy, was I in for the treat of the week.

BJH, there she is in living color on the front page (of the TASTE). Just gorgeous! She has a smile to light up all of NYC. See, what is happening, somehow she became a Wishbone Turkey Student, they call it something like that. People get to come because they want to make the perfect Thanksgiving dinner but, for some reason, feel like they have things to learn. Reasons like not taking the bird out to thaw until an hour before dinner time, good reasons like that. I think it's called University, actually. So they have professional chefs come and teach you (the group of 10 or so) everything you need to know to turn out a Thanksgiving dinner like Aunt Bee, or someone equally capable. Then they write up a big article with pictures and everything and everyone passes with flying colors. It's really great and they do it every year, I think this is the 4th year. I'm not sure how you get selected, I guess you write in how desperate you are and why you, of all people, deserve to participate.

Now, the funny thing here is, and I can promise you, BJH is the cook to end all cooks. I have NO CLUE why she would need or want to go to University. No stretch of my imagination produced anything a' tall. Listen, I've eaten once in her home where she prepared every delightful morsel known to man, positively outstanding, I was ewwing and ahhing to beat the band. Of course, there are some women going to Turkey School (which is a one day event, I think) who are dismal failures within ten feet of a stove, as suggested above. Or maybe someone is trying to impress a mother-in-law the first time around and is scared silly, things like that.

So, really, when I read what BJH went for, I busted up. Because it would be the same thing (and more) I would go for! And that, my dear readers, would be pasty mashed potatoes, the nemesis of an otherwise fine spread. Oh, this is too funny. I have BLOGGED about pasty mashed taters. BJH could have read my blog from last year and been done with it. But seriously, she was having way too much fun at Wishbone. She was even voted student with the biggest heart. I'm so proud of her.

Of course, in my blog I probably didn't give the wherefore's of how to whip taters instead of letting them whip you. Much more likely I was just bemoaning my fate with them, those nice fine firm tubers turned into slick white paste under my delicate tutelage. There is nothing I despise more than pasty mashed potatoes, and apparently the same for BJH. I mean, Thanksgiving really NEEDS light fluffy perfect mashed potatoes. Let's face it.

Well, it's a good thing my friend gave me heads up on this article and picture. Because I'm sure if I'd seen the picture with no warning, I would have gone out and turned somersaults on the yard or something. It was just SOOOOO exciting.

And the day before that, I forgot to tell you, but I researched that you do NOT have to rinse your chicken before you use it. Have you ever heard such good news? I didn't think so. I always rinsed my chicken or turkey and made a big pink watery mess and patted him dry. And then worried the rest of the night we would suffer cross contamination. Now they are telling us that all that washing the poultry accomplishes (besides the mess) is to spread the bacteria around on the bird. Now, we can't have that, can we? Listen, anything that involves less work, I am sold. Let's just let the good old bacteria huddle at ease, let well enough alone and all that good stuffing. I mean, stuff.

So, now, I hope we don't all get food poisoning from dirty birds this Thanksgiving. I shall leave this washing business up to your own personal and brilliant discretion. Wonder how they did it at Wishbone?

Last night I couldn't blog because you know what happened...Mildred Migraine showed up for a visit. I had to rush to bed, literally. But then I stumbled back down the stairs to give Jazzi her three pills, some of which involve chopping in half and other cute things like the one half flying and scuttling across the tile floor.

THIS MORNING, when I came down to dispense the pills again, Wa-Lah, now there are only two bottle of pills, when last night at midnight there had distinctly been 3 bottles of pills. The missing one was Prednesone. Hmm. This is not good. KEM looks high, she looks low, she looks to no avail. She wonders if she should call DTD and ask if she's seen them.

Then she remembers crashing sounds in the night. As in Robby crashing sounds. Oh dear! Don't tell me we have a Dryer/Microwave/Pills kitty on our hands. Still, I tried to think where Robby might roll a little (CDW and I adore the word little, it fits in with everything and embellishes it so loverly) bottle of pills he knocked off the counter.

It didn't hit me until the Bug Man came. The Bug Man comes every two months, but it may as well be every two days, 'cause it seems like there he is every time I turn around. He squirts his little magic potion in corners of windows, bathrooms, etc. I plan my whole day around the Bug Man. So, when we were in the kitchen...AHAH! I'll bet you I know where the pills are!

And I'll bet all my bloggees do, too.

Tomorrow I'll tell you about the the cute little old man and little old lady I chatted it up with at Bed, Bath and Beyond. Where I escaped after narrowly avoiding buying a sleeper sofa at Ethan Allen, which I only did because my friend had an emergency and couldn't meet me for lunch. Way up in Citrus Hill or wherever it is. But I met her for lunch, if you know what I mean. That's because I don't know how to CHECK MY CELL PHONE OR MY LAND LINE for messages. I only checked my email before I left home and didn't check my cell phone until I was turning off the exit. Boy, I think I have a bunch of marbles rolling around up there, probably why I get migraines, huh?

I had more to say, but time to go eat a pumpkin chocolate chip muffin and call it quits. And besides that, I forgot what it was I was going to say. Speaking of these muffins, I asked my stepson if we would like to take some home. He said, Sure. I said, How many? He said, Five. FIVE?!?!? He is handing them out in his department at work, so he can be the big guy, I guess. Makes a stepmommy proud.

Until we meet again,
KEM Ha, ha, guess how you really spell Prednesone? Prenisolone. I can't believe it!