Snickerdoodle, Labradoodle, Gottadoodle

By Robbie on January 7, 2009

Happy New Year, everyone. The family and I spent the post-Christmas interlude in a part of the U.S. that was new to us, northeastern Iowa. The rolling hills in and around Decorah belie the Iowa stereotype, and the weather is even more extreme than Chicago's. It felt about as bitterly cold as Maine out there. My brother, my lovely sister-in-law-to-be, my kids and I did very little for three days, but we did find time to sled the gentle slopes of Luther College, watch one-half of "Some Like It Hot" in shocked silence, read D.H. Lawrence's "The Rocking Horse Winner" aloud (more shocked silence), and prepare an upright piano, using staplers, clips, and random metal objects. [Is that prepare or repair?] We failed to stage an intervention to address my brother's mental illness, which manifests itself in the kitchen, where he keeps a shelf of two dozen unrelated spices and condiments over the stove and feverishly assaults each pot with arbitrary combinations. Before leaving we ate fried potatoes covered in salt, paprika, honey, red wine vinegar, black pepper, powdered onion, Tabasco, and, I believe, attar of rose.

For those who think the world doesn't have enough interview shows hosted by handsome guys with ready wits, the one I did last month with Mark Bazer is now posted at Huffington Post.** I come off a little weird, but I also think this is an accurate portrayal of my Martian body language and horrible posture.

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