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Chinese Pie

Earlier this week, radio station WBUR presented an audio essay on the fuzzy origins of Chinese pie. The story included interviews with several notable French-Canadian historians and cultural observers from around New England including our own Paul Marion.

A link to the audio of the piece plus a full transcript is available here.

I found the story to be a fascinating piece of history, but it also inspired me to make Chinese pie for dinner today. It was delicious and easy to make.

The WBUR story, which was more cultural than culinary, kept it simple, defining Chinese pie as a combination of meat, potatoes, and corn. Having grown up in a family entirely of Irish descent, Chinese pie was not on our home menu. It wasn’t until I went to Biship Guertin High School that I first encountered the dish which was in regular rotation in the school cafeteria. Most of the students at the school back then (the late 1970s) were of French-Canadien descent, and many of the teachers were members of the Brothers of the Sacred Heart, a French-dominated order, so having a traditional French-Canadien item on the menu made sense. Plus, as a type of casserole, it was perfect cafeteria food.

In fact, my own Chinese pie concoction drew inspiration from Army mess halls. In the four years I was in the service, I never encountered Chinese pie, but I was served a lot of creamed chipped beef, which, when served on toast, was called SOS, for you-know-what on a shingle. Having watched Army cooks making it, I discerned that you took ground beef, fried it in a scramble, then used flour, butter and milk to create a cream sauce that engulfed the meat.

If, instead of spooning it over toast, you pour the resulting mixture into a casserole dish, then add a layer of frozen corn kernels and top it with a thick layer of creamy mashed potatoes, you have a Chinese pie, ready for heating in the oven.

As I said, the batch I made today was delicious. I took a picture of my plate before I dug in, but let’s just say a serving of (my) Chinese pie tastes much better than it looks so I omitted the picture.

Thanks to WBUR and Paul Marion for inspiring me to try something new in the kitchen.

World Cup Diary, part II

Photo of my TV during Tuesday’s US v Iran game

The United States team lost to the Netherlands yesterday at the start of the “knockout” round. At least the Americans made it into that group. They did so by defeating a tough team from Iran on Tuesday afternoon by a score of 1 to 0.

The Americans dominated the start of that game. Anytime an Iranian player got the ball, an American would be on him instantly and often take the ball away. But Iran knew what it was doing and played patiently. In the second half, the Americans weren’t stealing the ball anymore. The hot temperature in the desert brought them back to earth. Fortunately, the Americans had scored their lone goal two-thirds of the way through the first half. Iran had several excellent chances to score in the second half but couldn’t put the ball in the net.

The American players had two opponents: Iran and exhaustion. Had Iran scored and the game ended in a tie, the US team would have been out of the tournament and Iran would have advanced.

Playing fast at the start and fading at the end was not unique to the Americans. I saw it happen to the South Koreans and the Japanese in separate games. As I mentioned in last Sunday’s report, I’m a soccer neophyte so this is in no way a criticism of the US players who are all superb athletes or of their coach. It’s just an observation.

As for the Dutch victory on Saturday, they just played better and looked like the better team. The final score was 3 to 1 and it was far from a blowout. The Dutch had gone up 2 to 0 with about 20 minutes left in the game when the Americans scored their first goal. The US players upped their aggressiveness after that but paid the price. The Americans tried to force the ball inside, lost it, and surrendered the killer third goal to a Dutch counterattack.

The Americans had a terrific chance to score just eight minutes into the game, but the player who got the ball in front of the Dutch net was only able to dribble a weak shot that was easily handled by the Dutch goaltender. Something similar happened early in the second half when another American player with an excellent chance couldn’t drive it home. Great scoring chances are rare in soccer. Great teams take advantage of them.

Likewise, on the defensive side on at least two of the Dutch goals, the Americans seemed to lose track of the player who ended up with the ball. The more experienced Dutch players didn’t miss when they had open shots.

One thing that stood out was the size of the Dutch players. Their goalie was 6’8” and one of their defensemen was 6’5”, much taller than any of the Americans. In a game where a “header” in front of the opponent’s net is a reliable means of scoring a goal, having to jump against an opponent much taller than you isn’t a recipe for success.

Nevertheless, congratulations to the American team. Four years ago, the team didn’t even qualify for the World Cup, so this is great progress.


A big risk the Americans avoided against Iran was committing a foul in front of their own net. The consequence of committing one would be a penalty kick for Iran which would almost certainly result in a goal. With a penalty kick, the offensive player stands alone in front of the goaltender who is anchored to the goal line. It’s not like a penalty shot in hockey where the goalie can come out of the net to cut down the angles available to the shooter. In soccer, the goalie must stand there until the kick is made and only then react. Because the shooter is so close and the net so big, the goalie must guess what the shooter is going to do and react prospectively. The offensive player must only pick out a corner of the net and kick the ball into it. Occasionally, the kicker will miss the net or rarely the goalie will guess right and make a save, but usually a goal results. That’s what happened in the first game of the tournament for the US. The team was up over Wales 1 to 0 when with 10 minutes left the referee called a foul on an American defender. The star of the Wales team was awarded a penalty kick and scored easily to tie the score. That’s how that game ended.

Because there is a great deal of gamesmanship in soccer, perhaps more than in other professional sports in America, the Iranian players would have dropped to the ground as if shot had an American defender even breathed upon them in the closing moments of Tuesday’s game. But the Americans avoided that fate. Even in the desperation to clear the ball and keep it out of their net, the US players kept their composure and had no game-altering fouls called on them. That cannot have been an accident.


Usually the World Cup is in the early summer. That’s what Fox TV expected when it won the bid to televise this tournament. But host country Qatar seems to do what it wants so after all the contracts were awarded, it moved the games to the early winter due to the extreme temperatures that would be experienced in Qatar when the games normally would be held. This was an unfortunate twist for Fox which was already a prime presenter of American football (another huge cost for the TV network). Now, the World Cup and the NFL would occur at the same time, diluting Fox’s ability to get maximum return on the two big investments.

Despite the contractual gyrations caused by rescheduling the games, it’s probably for the best that the games were moved from summer to “winter.” The TV announcers frequently mention the high temperatures there. The stadiums are partially enclosed with some air conditioning, but all have open roofs and in many of the games, the sun was shining on at least part of the field. By the second half, every player looked parched. As mentioned above, you can see the speed of the game slow as it progresses. Running for 90 minutes straight in high heat will do that.


The World Cup might be more interesting to me than the English Premiere League or America’s Major League Soccer because countries from different corners of the globe with different languages and cultures find themselves playing against each other in a common game under a common set of rules. Cameroon v Serbia; Netherlands v Ecuador; South Korea v Ghana; Japan v Germany; Australia v Tunisia; and Wales v Iran were contests I would not expect to see.

Some cultural differences were readily apparent. When Argentina scored a goal, its players raced to the corner of the field where most of its fans sat, and interacted with the fans. When teams from the Middle East scored, their players dropped to their knees and a prone position, presumably in prayer. Fans of some countries sing continuously. I think this is mostly a South American thing and when you’re listening on TV it can get annoying. So can the horns and whistles which, for an American viewer, are easy to confuse with a referee’s whistle or the horn that sounds at the end of the half in a basketball game.

Perhaps my favorite cultural marker came from the Japanese. After one of their matches, my social media feed filled with pictures of their fans with open trash bags, cleaning up the stands in which they sat. That was matched by a photo of the Japanese locker room after the team had left. It was spotless, with the towels folded neatly in a pile in the center of the floor.

Living in a community troubled by litter, it’s tough to imagine a place where people don’t casually throw trash on the ground, never mind pick up after everyone else.


Two major European soccer powers, Belgium and Germany, were knocked out in the first phase of this tournament. Commentators mentioned the significance of Germany’s exit on the fortieth anniversary of the so-called Disgrace of Gijon. Although I was unfamiliar with that term, I knew exactly what they were talking about.

Back in the summer of 1982, I was midway through a three year tour of duty in West Germany with the US Army. For some reason, I picked up a lot of chatter about the World Cup, particularly a match between Germany and Austria that was played on Friday, June 25, 1982. I think it was declared a national holiday. We weren’t in the field so we were dismissed from work at lunch time. The streets I traveled on during the drive from the base to my apartment were completely deserted.

I’d purchased a TV at the PX in Stuttgart, so it had two bands: one for American TV which consisted of one station, Armed Forces Network; and another for European TV which I hardly ever watched. On that day, I pressed the PAL button to switch to the European frequency and immediately got the live broadcast of the soccer match. Since it was a German TV station, the commentary was in German spoken so rapidly that it outpaced my limited comprehension of the language. But I could still watch.

I don’t ever remember being so bored. All the players did was pass it back and forth at midfield. Germany had the lead, 1 to 0, but even when the Austrian players got the ball they didn’t advance it. They too passed it back and forth until a German got the ball with the same result. The fans were whistling loudly which even I knew was European for “Boo” but I had no idea of what was going on and jettisoned soccer from my list of things that were interesting to follow.

Years later, I learned what had happened in that game. It took place in the portion of World Cup play that we were in this past week with groups of four competing to make it to the elimination round. Germany and Austria were in the same group along with Algeria and Chile. Those two had played the day before and with the outcome of that match already known, the German and Austrian players knew that if Germany defeated Austria by more than two goals, then Germany and Algeria would advance to the next round. But if Germany won by just one or two goals, then, because of the “goal differential” tie breaker, Austria and not Algeria would advance.

Germany and Austria gamed the system so that Austria and not Algeria advanced to the next round. They were able to do that because they already knew the result of the game between the other two teams in their group. To prevent this in the future, World Cup organizers changed the schedule so that the final set of games among teams in the same group would be played simultaneously.

Up until this past Tuesday, games were at 5am, 8am, 11am, and 1pm EST, but starting on Tuesday, there would be two games at 10am which would involve all the teams in one group; then two more games at 1pm, involving all four teams in the next group. That way, players would not know the outcome of the other game in their group and would have no real time incentive to throw the match.


Each Sunday during the World Cup, I’m posting my observations on global soccer’s biggest event. Last Sunday’s entry is available here.

Review of “You Don’t Belong Here”

Top to bottom: Catherine Leroy, Frances FitzGerald, Katherine Webb

You Don’t Belong Here: How Three Women Rewrote the Story of War by Elizabeth Becker

Review by Richard Howe

In the final chapter of her excellent book, You Don’t Belong Here, Elizabeth Becker writes that in 2015 she traveled to Cambodia to testify in war crime trials for some surviving Khmer Rouge leaders. When Becker was cross-examined, she was questioned about a negative review of a book she had written about her experience in Cambodia in the 1970s. She pointed out that all other review of the book were favorable, and that the reviewer in question gave positive reviews to other books on Cambodia, but those books were all written by men.

The evident misogyny reminded Becker of the experience she had when she arrived in Cambodia in January 1973 as a novice reporter. Direct involvement by the American military in the Vietnam War had pretty much ended by then – the POWs were released in February 1973 – and Becker remained until August 1973 when she was forced to flee Phnom Penh just as the Khmer Rouge occupied the city.

Becker returned to Cambodia in 1978 with two male colleagues at the invitation of the Khmer Rouge and became the only reporters to interview Pol Pot (in their hotel the night of the interview earlier that day, one of Becker’s colleagues was murdered and Becker and the other man were almost killed by mysterious intruders).

As she contemplated all she had accomplished in her career, Becker’s thoughts turned to three other women who preceded her as reporters in Vietnam. She had come to know each of them and understood that their much harsher treatment at the hands of male colleagues and military officers, and their perseverance in the face of that, made her professional experience possible.

The three women were Katherine Webb of Australia; Frances Fitzgerald of the United States; and Catherine Leroy of France. Here’s a synopsis of their experiences in Vietnam as told by Becker in her book:

Katherine Webb was born in New Zealand in 1943 to Australian parents who soon moved the family back to Australia. Her father was a political science professor at an Australian university; her mother was a women’s rights activists. When Webb was 15, she joined a suicide pact with a friend, provided the gun, and watched as the friend shot and killed herself. Webb abandoned the plot and was charged with murder. After widely covered trial, she was acquitted. Three years later, Webb’s parents were killed in a car accident. The two plunged Webb into a deep depression.

To escape, Webb became a reporter. After working briefly for an Australian newspaper, she quit that job and traveled to Vietnam and sought work. Major news organizations wouldn’t hire her because she was a woman. However, she began getting assignments from a South Vietnamese newspaper then eventually was hired by a small American magazine. That allowed her to get official press credentials which were the combat-equivalent of a Eurail Pass in that it allowed her to go anywhere US forces went, provided the local commander consented, which most did. (Reporters look at this as the golden age of war journalism in that there were barely any restrictions placed on reporters by the military).

Webb wrote compelling stories about the military, but also about the Vietnamese people and government, topics that male reporters neglected. Eventually she was hired by the United Press International (UPI). During the 1968 Tet Offensive, she was the first American reporter to reach the besieged US Embassy in Saigon and provide eyewitness reporting from there. She left Vietnam and spent 1969 and 1970 in the United States but felt the pull of Southeast Asia.

Because Vietnam at that time was awash in US reporters, Webb went to Phnom Penh and created the UPI’s Cambodian bureau. In 1971, she and four non-US male reporters were captured by North Vietnamese troops in Cambodia. They were held captive for two weeks then released. After recuperating from illness contracted during her captivity, Webb returned to Cambodia and wrote many articles about the US bombing. She also covered the evacuation of Saigon from Clark Air Base in the Philippines. She continued to work as a journalist covering conflicts around the globe for Agence France-Presse but died of cancer in 2007 at age 64.


Catherine Leroy was born in 1944 to a middle-class French family living in the outskirts of Paris. Her adolescence was aimless, although to impress a boyfriend, she took up skydiving. As she reached her 20s, she began noticing photographs in Paris Match of the Indochina War and decided she wanted to become a war correspondent. She acquired a camera, learned its operation, and bought a plane ticket to Saigon, arriving with $200 and no job or contacts. She eventually sold some photos to the Associated Press and was granted the all-important press credentials. She established a reputation of fitting in with combat units in the field but of being “rough around the edges” back at headquarters. The latter characterization had more to do with her gender than her behavior because male correspondents would be admired for doing things for which she was condemned (like swearing). Nevertheless, when the US Army planned a combat parachute jump by the 173rd Airborne Brigade, the only combat jump made during the Vietnam War, Leroy was the only one with press credentials who was airborne qualified. She made the jump and shot iconic photos of the other parachutists descending through the pre-dawn sky. In 1967, she frequently accompanied US Marine units into heavy combat and many of the pictures she took were published in Life magazine. Also in 1967, she was severely wounded by a North Vietnamese mortar shell. Returning to the field after her recovery, she was in Hue during the Tet Offensive and was captured by North Vietnamese soldiers. Because she was French, they treated her as a journalist and allowed her to photograph them. She was released soon after and her photos, also published in Life magazine, were the first of North Vietnamese troops behind their own lines to be published in the west. She left Vietnam in 1968, returned to Paris, but ended up in the United States, spending time with veterans who opposed the war. She returned to Saigon in 1975 to cover the fall of South Vietnam, photographing the arrival of North Vietnamese tanks at the presidential palace. She covered other conflicts around the world through the 1970s and 80s but eventually settled in New York City. She died of cancer in 2006 at age 62.


Frances FitzGerald was born in 1940, the only child of an upper-class New York City family. Her parents divorced when she was young. Her father, at attorney who had been in the OSS during World War Two, stayed in the CIA after the war and was engaged in covert operations around the globe, rising to the rank of deputy director by the time of his death of a heart attack in 1967 at age 57. Her mother, Marietta Endicott Peabody, a descendent of several early New England families, was a socialite who also worked as a political reporter and became a close associate of and advisor to Adlai Stevenson while he was the Democratic nominee for president. Frances graduated from Radcliffe and began leading an unfulfilling life in New York City in her mother’s societal shadow. To break out of this, Fitzgerald traveled to Vietnam with aspirations to work as a journalist. Unlike Webb and Leroy who struggled to get work there, Fitzgerald used her family connections and her own background to interact with journalists and US officials at the highest levels. She had no problem finding work as a journalist. However, unlike most journalists in Vietnam who focused on combat operations, Fitzgerald concentrated on the effects of the war on the South Vietnamese people and on the country’s politics. As 1966 ended, Fitzgerald returned to the US to write a book about Vietnam. Published in 1972, Fire in the Lake won the Pulitzer Prize, the Booker Prize, and the National Book Award. The book’s premise was that the United States did not understand the history and culture of Vietnam which adversely affected America’s chances of success in the war. Fitzgerald returned to Vietnam in 1974 after American troops had withdrawn and made her way to Hanoi where she covered the fall of Vietnam from the North Vietnamese perspective. Fitzgerald continued to write books about American politics and foreign policy. Her most recent, The Evangelicals: The Struggle to Shape America, was published in 2017.


You Don’t Belong Here is several books in one. It’s a concise account of American’s involvement in Vietnam; it also depicts the Khmer Rouge victory against the Cambodian forces under Lon Nol who was supported by the Americans; and finally, it tells the story of three courageous, determined women who broke down gender barriers while producing quality journalism that rivaled the work of their more established male colleagues.

Boarding School Blues: Chapter 48

Boarding School Blues: Chapter 48

By Louise Peloquin

Ch. 48 “Venez, venez, venez!”

The two days after the honor roll unveiling seemed endless. Singing Christmas carols became the sole focus in class. Blanche and her friends no longer bothered to twist the lyrics. Every rubber-boot step on the crunchy snow made them wish away even the recreation periods. 1965 at SFA couldn’t end soon enough.

“I wasted time, and now doth time waste me” bellowed Andy to the evergreen limbs swaying in the glacial breeze.

“What are you talking about?” inquired Titi. “We all know you’re a pro at wasting time but I don’t get what you’re sayin’. Anyway, we’re stir crazy right now and we’ve gotta get out of this place.

The others chimed in “if it’s the last thing we ever do.” (1)

C added “I really like that song but my Mom always turns it off when it’s on the radio.”

Titi continued “I have my vacation all planned out, unless my parents insist on wasting time visiting every single relative in town. Anyway Andy, I wanna tell you I learned the Offenbach ‘give us your kisses’ song and I’m coming up with new socializing strategies to make Christmas merry and bright. So what’s the story with time wasting you anyway?”

“Titi, you’re a smart kid with unquestionable math skills but, alas, you lack a solid cultural background. I suppose you’ve heard of Shakespeare? Well, that was a well-known verse from ‘The Life and Death of King Richard the Second’, a history play written in the 1500’s. You gotta drop the romantic paperback novels and get up to snuff with the serious stuff. Besides, quoting Shakespeare could be part of your socializing strategies. Remember, once a guy gets past your cute little impish head, maybe he’ll wanna know what’s inside, right?”

“Though she be but little, she is fierce” retorted Titi.


“That, my dear Andy, is Helena talking about her friend Hermia in act 3, scene 2  of ‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream.’ And right before that she says:

Oh, when she’s angry, she is keen and shrewd! She was a vixen when she went to school.

“Don’t try to push my buttons Andy. You’re not the only one who likes Will” she added.

“One Christmas, I got a kid’s book with illustrations of magical creatures and a few of ‘em came from that play so I read it. When I saw those lines, I thought ‘hey that’s me, I’m a modern-day Hermia!’ ”

C looked perplexed. “I’ve never read a Shakespeare play. Aren’t we gonna study him in English class?”

Blanche admitted, “I’m with ya C. I gotta read more Shakespeare too and I’m sure we’ll do it in Sister Anna’s class. But I remember my father reciting a Shakespeare poem to my mother.

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate.

Then it goes something like:

But thy eternal summer shall not fade (2)

I can’t remember the whole thing but it definitely hit a soft spot cuz Maman’s face turned red as a beet.“

“Yeah yeah” interrupted Andy, “everyone knows that sonnet PF. And it sure ain’t a summer’s day right now. It’s freezing out so let’s head inside. I could go for a hot chocolate with marshmallows floatin’ on top right now. That’s one of the best things about winter, having an excuse to drink hot chocolate every single day.”

Titi agreed. “Yup, my nose is turning into an icicle. Time to warm up. Inviting a guy over for a hot chocolate is a great idea. Who can say ‘no’ to that? Hey PF, I really like your poem. Can you find it for me? It’ll definitely come in handy.”

Andy wisecracked as she lifted her face to the glacier blue sky. “One-track-mind Titi. Never will she change.”

The day of the Noël exodus violated all of the orderliness rules Sister Gerald had worked so hard to enforce. The halls buzzed with giddy exchanges as indoor-voices pumped up the volume. Two-by-twos morphed into foursomes and fivesomes. The school uniform was discarded for red and green skirts and sweaters. The nuns pinned little sprigs of holly to their black habits. Novice Marieanne delighted the students when she appeared at dining hall with bright red wool stockings in lieu of the usual thick black hose. Even the headmistress exhibited a hint of a smile when Marieanne passed out slices of the yard-long bûche de Noël crafted by Sister Mérilda, the pastry chef visiting from Québec. The holiday spirit transfigured SFA and its austere inhabitants.

Talking with her mouth full of dark chocolate mousse, Andy commented. “Hey Titi, you told us a couple weeks ago that we’d have a whole Christmas meal before vacation. Pork pies and all that kind of stuff, remember? How come we only get bûche?”

Since receiving the freshman award for frog dissection, C no longer seemed reticent to speak her mind. “I’m sure you’ll have that at home Andy and anyway, didn’t you see how gigantic that log was? It looked like one of the huge trunks we sit on outside. It must have taken ages to put together. And it’s really good, especially the filling.”

Titi added “You always want more don’t you Andy. Just enjoy the cake already.”

“Mini-Marie-Antoinette tells us to eat cake” Andy responded.

Blanche understood Andy. “I’m like you. I always want something else. It’s like going to the ice cream stand knowing you can only choose two flavors, getting ‘em and enjoying ‘em, then looking at your brother’s cone and wanting his flavors too. As soon as you get what you want, you want somethin’ else. This bûche is really good. I wonder it we can get a second slice?”

Marieanne was cutting up the rapidly-shrinking log.

“Those pieces are for the novices I guess” Titi concluded. “At least we got a big share. That’s cuz we’re Marieanne’s favorites.”

Andy specified “yeah she knows we’re gonna work extra hard for the Spring fashion show put on by her auntie Madame Greenwood.”

The girls filled their mouths with the luscious dark mousse, smacked their lips and waved Marieanne a thumbs up for her generous ration.

Before departure, the student body gathered for advent prayer in the chapel. Whether they knew French or not, the girls all joined in for the traditional hymn:

Venez Divin Messie,
Nous rendre espoir et nous sauver!
Vous êtes notre vie.
Venez, venez, venez!

(Come Divine Messiah,
To give us hope and to save us!
You are our life.
Come, come, come!)

After the brief devotional, watery-eyed girls exchanged a series of happy holiday hugs.

“One for all, all for one” Blanche and her friends repeated to one another.

Titi shouted to C who was about to board the day hop bus. “We wanna know everything about your time outa this place, and not only the juicy details on scrumptious food.”

C responded with a thumbs up and turned to Blanche. “Remember PF, you’re gonna come over my house to bake cookies and listen to records. I’m supposed to get a couple new LP’s for Christmas. I’ll call you, OK?”

Blanche nodded and trooped up to the dorm with the other boarders to pack. No one was folding clothes neatly as requested by a distracted-looking Sister Gerald. Fresh blouses and clean pajamas were dumped into open suitcases with dirty underwear, soiled socks, damp towels and dirty sheets.

Blanche managed to snap shut her small, ivory-colored Samsonite, an eighth-grade graduation gift from her Pépère (3). She ignored the white nylon fabric protruding from the side. So what if a pair of bloomers got dirty. Anyway, she wouldn’t be caught dead wearing those things outside the SFA campus.

She lugged the heavy suitcase down the stairs to the hallway where Maman was silently waiting for her. There was no chit-chat with Sister Théophile this time; the headmistress was nowhere to be seen. She trotted towards her mother and noticed the dark circles under her chocolate-brown eyes.

  1. “We’ve Gotta Get Out of This Place”, The Animals single released on July 16th 1965.
  2. Sonnet 18.
  3. Grandpa


Read Chapter 1: The Announcement

Read Chapter 2: Facing the Inevitable

Read Chapter 3: Readying

Read Chapter 4: Au revoir!

Read Chapter 5: Arrival

Read Chapter 6: Settling In

Read Chapter 7: Beginning to Belong

Read Chapter 8: Quick Showers

Read Chapter 9: Inside & Outside Study Hall

Read Chapter 10: Math Manoeuvres

Read Chapter 11: Cinephiles

Read Chapter 12: Camera, Action, Lights

Read Chapter 13: Reconnecting

Read Chapter 14: Back to the Fold

Read Chapter 15: In the Night

Read Chapter 16: Parlez-vous?

Read Chapter 17: On the Agenda

Read Chapter 18: Dress up, sit up, chin up

Read Chapter 19: Post Conference Assessment

Read Chapter 20: Orderliness

Read Chapter 21: Inspection

Read Chapter 22: The Inner Sanctum

Read Chapter 23: Going Home

Read Chapter 24: Merci Mon Oncle

Read Chapter 25: The Food Fairy

Read Chapter 26: Bon appetit!

Read Chapter 27: Friends

Read Chapter 28: A Grocery Stop

Read Chapter 29: Tempus Fugit

Read Chapter 30: The Chapel

Read Chapter 31: A Nice Kind of Weird

Read Chapter 32: Mnemonic Device

Read Chapter 33: Cuisses de grenouille

Read Chapter 34: Run along now

Read Chapter 35: Consequences of playing hooky

Read Chapter 36: Good Vibes

Read Chapter 37: Never too many, never too much

Read chapter 38: Dust Bunnies

Read Chapter 39: I’m into something good

Read Chapter 40: Wistful and Admiring

Read Chapter 41: “Anywhere Out of the World”

Read Chapter 42: “If you really want to hear about it

Read Chapter 43: “Why don’t they go and create something”

Read Chapter 44: Squiggles, snowmen and angels

Read Chapter 45: A Measure of Mirth

Read Chapter 46: Advienne que pourra

Read Chapter 47: Smile upon our joys

See Past Posts »

Chinese Pie

The Guitar

Thanksgiving 1922

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