Something Old, Something New

Once again, welcome to another self-promoting blog post of the shameless variety. 

If you've ever clicked on the button over on the side of my blog, called Provence Rugs, you'll know that I have an Internet store that sells handmade rugs and accessories from the south of France. 

Today we're announcing new products and hope you'll take the time to check them out. New in our line-up of cool, French stuff are table linens, as in

 placemats….

napkins...

and tablecloths.

All featuring our beautiful, French cotton fabric and all (mostly) made in the U.S. of A.

My favorite feature in our new product selection is the Brocante. This is because this gives me a great excuse to scour the Brocante markets here in France. Okay, I do that anyway but this gives me an excuse to buy as much as I want! This month we're featuring vintage, linen dishtowels which are a hot item 

and will probably be gone before I get back to the states in a week with a suitcase full of new treasures. Namely, luxurious linen, vintage monogrammed sheets. Here's a sneak peak. Drum roll please…...

I can't even tell you how hard it is for me to sell these new finds.

Please push that gigantic, yellow button over to the right of my blog and do a little window shopping. Or you can click here. Don't be afraid to buy…it's the giving season you know!

* * * * *

And while I'm self-promoting, I want to mention that someone has nominated me for the

 ExpatsBlog.com Top blog award. I don't really know what that means, but if you like my blog (particularly on non shameless self-promotion days) and have a moment, head on over there and write something glowing about it. I would like that very much.

Okay. I think I'm done. 

From here on out, I'll be back to my vie quotidienne.

I promise.

Thanks for hanging in there with me!

French Feline Affliction

Meet Arthur the Cat. 

He's chronically stressed.

I'm sure you can see how stressed he is.

Poor guy.

This is basically Arthur's life. He eats, he sleeps in the sun, he snuggles up next to me at night. And then he starts all over again.

Oh yeah, and he travels a lot.

And I travel a lot.

Which is apparently what is causing all this terrible stress.

When we were staying at the mansion at the end of the summer, Arthur saved me from 2 near-deadly bats attacks on 2 separate occasions. Simple as pie. I duck out while bat is flying around looking to kill me, I shut the door leaving Arthur to the wolves, and he apparently (though we shall never know because the door is shut) jumps up and grabs killer bat and brings him out to me within 1 minute, not quite dead. More as a squirmy, little, evil, present. You'd never know Arthur was a city cat. I was so proud.

But after "the bat incidents" I took Arthur to the vétérinaire because I figured I probably needed to bring him up to date on his shots. Bat rabies and all that.  The vet took one look at him and announced that Arthur was stressed.

I said, "of course he his, I shoved him head first into his kitty carrier, descended 3 flights of stairs, walked half a mile to the parking garage, put him in the car, left him in the car while I stopped at the grocery, and then brought him here. He's not laying in the sun this afternoon. That's why he's stressed."

No, she said, look at his stomach and his butt. He doesn't have any hair. He's licking it off. Watch him. This is chronic stress. Has there been something stressful in his life lately?

To self: "Well, he's French. The French are more stressed and depressed than anybody in the world. I'm sure it's that French thing. You know, 35 hour work weeks, affordable health care, 8 plus weeks of vacation a year. French cats probably take on all that French stress."

To her: "Well yeah, but he's like that sometimes. He was partially plucked when I rescued him from the Cat Refuge. And he's always slightly bald after I've been away. Or when he has to go away. Or when the two of us go away together. 

Have you been away much?

Let's see…this year? Ummmmnn…United States for a month, The Seychelles for 2 weeks, Switzerland for two weeks, England for a week, United States again for 7 weeks, Morocco for 4 days and, of course, several weekend trips. But he has really good babysitters. Lots and lots of really good babysitters. And he started obsessively bathing when we went to the mansion as well, and he was so content there.

"He's stressed. Cats are territorial and change is really hard on them."

Big bout of animal owner guilt. What have I done to this poor cat? Oh my, I'm going to have to find a better owner for him; one more deserving?  I can't stand to do that. I need him. He needs me.

Then I looked down at Arthur, sitting on the floor of the clinic, eyes nodding in half-sleep, which is apparently the way he looks when he's stressed…and when he's not, and said out loud, "get over it".

Oops, did I say that? Yep, I did. Get over it, Arthur. You've got a great life, you've met lots of wonderful people who generally like you unless they hate cats or are allergic to them. You get fed the best food there is, you have your own cat terrace complete with wicker chair and cat cushion, and you rule over all the other roof cats on the block. You sleep under down comforters and on down pillows, you have a cache of kitty toys and occasionally bats to play with and you're the only cat I know that goes on vacation every year to live in an 18th century manor house with your own 300 year old kitty door. For god's sakes, we all refer to you as King Arthur. So…just…get…over it!

I talk a tough game, but in the end I spent more on that damned, stressed cat than I have this entire year on my own health care. We now have natural medicines to help him feel more comfortable and a lovely little kitty pheromone diffuser that not only cost me at the outset and every month thereafter, but also uses expensive electricity to release calming voodoo into the air wherever he may be staying or whenever he is stressed, which is, apparently, always.

As I exited with all my expensive, guilt induced medicines, I asked the vet if there was such a thing as a pheronome diffuser for people. 

She said, "No, sadly not. Because French people could really use them."

ba dum bum!

Foot in Mouth

I've eaten all sorts of things here in France that I would never touch when I lived in the states. I was never a particularly picky eater but I'm not really into raw anything for instance. But since my arrival here, I've eaten raw oysters, raw mussels, raw snails, raw beef, raw fish, all sorts of fish eggs, raw chicken eggs and raw sea urchins. (In case you're wondering, one uses malt vinegar on raw mussels and lemon juice on raw oysters.) Mind you, I have not said I like all these items but I have voluntarily put them in my mouth.

I've tried blood sausage, partaken in pigeon, I regularly eat lamb and duck which I just didn't care for all that much in the states, and I adore a good foie gras.  I've explained before some of the odd (gross) stuff that people eat here in the south of France. And the anxiety is….okay, the dread is that I'll be actually expected to eat some of this stuff.

The moment of truth came last weekend. I was at a large dinner party, the sole American amidst a group of born and bred Marseillaise. All was going well. Too well. The hors d'oevres, though at times curious, were all things I've put in my mouth before. The champagne flowed and with it my ability to get along in conversation with very little trouble, in spite of some very thick Marseille accents. But there was a decidedly odd smell in the room. The smell of doom.

We were all seated and the hostess came to the table with a colossal caste iron pot, opened it up to serve and amidst all the oohs, ahs and ooh la las, my throat closed up as I recognized what was in the pot. It was the dreaded, disgusting, oh-my-I-could-never-in-my-life-eat-something-like-that, pieds et paquets (feet and packages)

I've explained these before but for a refresher, they are a mixture of sheep feet and little packages of sheep stomach (tripe) filled with some sort of stuffing which are cooked in a tomato based sauce. Here's a lovely, appetizing photo of these delicacies before they get to the pot.

What to do? The hostess saw the look on my face in spite of my best efforts to hide it. She said, "these are a little special. Would you like to try them?  Otherwise, I can find something else". Eleven sets of eyes stared at me (maybe they weren't but it felt like it). My mind batted the options back and forth in rapid fire. Do I risk offending the hostess by refusing? That would put me in the weeny American category.  Do I risk eating them and possibly vomiting at the table? George Bush, le père, vomited once while eating with the Japanese Prime Minister and his life went on. I could just go hide in the bathroom but I'd have to stay there a long time and french toilettes are so tiny. In the end, I really didn't feel there was a choice; I had to go down with the ship.

I said, "Of course, I'd love to try them. But not too much please. I ate too many hors d'oevres."  She FILLED my plate and I grabbed several hunks of bread to help push them down and asked for more wine.

I took a tiny, delicate bite. Hey, not bad. I took another as somebody began to explain exactly what it was it that I was eating. The hostess stopped him and said "after...it's better to explain after". He didn't need to explain, I already knew. But in fact, I enjoyed them very much as long as I didn't think about what it was I was eating. I can't say the same for the feet, which are cooked long enough so that the hoofs and bones sort of congeal. Eew! The texture was a little far more than I could handle. I tried them but left the remainder on my plate and in order to make amends for my bad manners, I asked for seconds on the paquets and ate them with a certain theatrical gusto.

I believe I won some brownie points for my handling of the situation because afterwards a few people asked me what I really thought. When I explained that I honestly liked the paquets but simply could not handle the texture of the feet, several people agreed with me and said they skip them as well. Well, now you all tell me! It's just too much fun to mess with the American, isn't it?  I was also informed that this dish can often be crucified if the cook doesn't know what she or he is doing and this particular hostess is know for her excellent pieds and paquets. So at least my baptism by fire was overseen by someone with experience in pyrotechnics.

I can assure you I won't be making this Provençal treat anytime soon chez moi but I consider it one more culinary adventure under my belt. And it didn't come back up! Yesterday at lunch I was served little, tiny octopuses on a salad. I don't know if they were cooked but they were marinated in something which turned them a sort of rosy red. I cautiously popped the whole thing in my mouth, head and all, clamped down and began to chew…and chew….and chew. After all that masticating with no perceived value for my palate, I'm now adding whole, marinated octopus to the list of things I don't need to eat again. This list includes congealed sheep feet and raw snails. Somewhere along the line, a girl's just gotta have limits.

I would love to hear what sorts of weird things you've eaten and if they were worth the effort.

P.S. To all my American friends, please don't neglect your voting privilege today. We can't ever take that for granted.

P.P.S. There's a sale going on over at Provence Rugs and new items coming in this week. Check it out!

The Moroccan Two-Step in Four-Four Time

Saturday night, after I dropped the last visitor off at the airport, I turned the sign on the door, so to speak. Despite the fact that I still seem to have a straggler on the couch, this guest house is "now closed for the season" and life will return to normal, whatever that is.

I always have mixed feelings about this moment of the year when there are no more expectations of friends coming to visit or new travels on the immediate horizon. It's exhausting but at the same time a grand gift to have a revolving door that deposits so many wonderful people in my foyer or sends me to so many fabulous places to visit them. However, this year I'm done. Worn out. Definitively finished. I've been drained…literally!

I've spent the last two weeks with my dear friends and fellow troublemakers from our London days.

One I've kept in contact with since that semester so long ago and another we reconnected with three years ago. The two have come here together for the past two years. This year however, we finally found the fourth member of our posse and we were all together for the first time in 20 years.

My grand idea for a little side trip this year was to jump on over to Morocco for 4 days so after a short 1 1/2 days in France we flew to our exotic destination. I'll write more about Morocco in a future post but I will tell you what we came home with from that trip.

Tourista (in French)…otherwise know as Montezuma's Revenge, Turkey Trots, Delhi Belly or you may fill in the blank here with whatever name you find amusing ___________. The fact is, it wasn't.

Two of us fell ill while in Morocco and our fear was that we wouldn't be able to get back, but a break in the action lasted just long enough to get back to France, where it started all over again in full force.  So there we were, 4 women locked in my little apartment (thank god it has 2 toilets), no escape. Periodic sorties for more toilet paper and nourishment were all we could manage and by the end of their trip, my friends had managed to see:

1. A couple of streets in Aix en Provence
2. Fes, Morocco
3. The inside of my apartment with a special concentration on the bathrooms.

My poor girls. My poor stomach. This is a really SHITTY way to lose a couple of kilos. And one should never lose kilos on a trip to the south of France. I believe it's forbidden, actually.

So we talked, we laughed, we cried, we watched Gone With the Wind all the way through. We attempted meals. We gave up. We stepped over each other and on each other. We discussed our gastrointestinal systems to no end. Potty humor became our means of survival. We napped. We talked some more and laughed and cried all at the same time.  And we had a wonderful time. Really.

My living room on a normal day

My living room after 4 days locked inside

My bedroom after the same 4 days of confinement

For all of us, new wrinkles and sags, creaks and aches have hitched a ride with the years, as have precious moments and beloved memories.  Time has also brought with it unimaginable tragedy for one of our lives and deep sadness and loss for all of us in one form or another. Those things that were unthinkable in our youth and most definitely not in the in the plans we had for ourselves.

What amazed me is that in spite of it all, we are really all the same people that we were back in 1980. On the other hand, because of it all, we are not. Each of these wonderful women has taken what life has thrown directly in her gut with no gentleness whatsoever, and has produced something good and hopeful from the pain. It is for this that they are not the same women I knew then. They are better. I am so proud to know them and be a part of their lives. I hope they come back. I would really like for them to see more than this...

or this...

and most especially this!

Next year I think we'll go to St. Tropez!

God is in the details

Last Friday, my friend Marcia sent me a message asking if I might meet her in Lourmarin the next morning for coffee, a gab session and perhaps to take in a bit of the Friday market. I did not have to fret as I've become accustomed, "geez, I wonder if there's a bus that goes there?  I wonder when it leaves? I wonder when I'll be able to get back?  I wonder if I have the energy for all that?" All I had to do was check my calendar (I do this on the off chance there might actually be something on it) and say "Yes!" Because I have a car.

Yep, last November, I got me a car! I wasn't sure I was ready for one nor did I really feel I could afford one. But I had been thinking about it. I was beginning to need to get places for the business and on my schedule, not the bus schedule. Then one day in November I received a notice in the mail informing me that my name had finally come to the top of the list for a parking space in Aix. A parking space in Aix! This is like being given an enormous black truffle…a pair of hot high heels that are actually comfortable…a menopause with all its perks and none of its side effects. I'm serious!

 I had put my name on that list 2 years before in anticipation of perhaps, someday having a car. Actually, I had signed up for a parking garage a little closer to my apartment but in October, when I went to check my position on the list, I was told I would probably have to wait at least 5 more years.  Magically, one month later I got said letter and though it's in a different garage, my spot is actually quite close...maybe only 5 or 6 blocks away. Of course, all I really won was the right to start paying for a parking spot, but this is not nothing. I was told to show up within 2 weeks with the registration for my car and proof of my address. This posed a teeny, weeny problem. I had no registration because I had no car.

Sometimes decisions just seem to be made for us! And thanks to a friend, I did find a car. And pretty quickly, I might add. When he asked what my budget was and I told him no more than 1000 euros his faced dropped and he gently said, "that's not very much, you know".

"Yes, I know but I can barely afford that so if I can't find one for that price, I'll let the parking space go."

He put out his feelers and bless his kind, french heart, he found me a car at a scrapyard owned by a friend of his. The car had been in a teeny accident but its repair costs surpassed its value so...I got myself a lovely, little white Ford Fiesta, wearing only 72,000 kilometres and a dent dimple on its right fender butt cheek. It passed inspection immediately after I drove it off the lot and I sailed down the freeway, hair blowing in the wind of the open windows, and feeling all grown-up again. And I payed only 700 euros. That's all! Even though freedom has a price, in this case it was a small one and well worth paying.

I parked the car in my new parking garage immediately and a week later when I went to retrieve it, I'd  forgotten exactly where I'd left it. I had to search 3 floors of cars before I found it and this was still not a simple task. You see, it seems that 3/4 of the people in France have an affinity for little white cars. This is what I faced when I went looking for it. And that was only the first floor!

To solve this problem, and because I tend to give human qualities to my cars, I had to give it a name. And there was really no question what it would be. Thor. There's a long story behind the name, but the fact is, I had a bumper sticker with this name on it and I needed some way to identify the car. This works like a charm....unless I back into the spot and then I'm back to finding my proverbial white needle in the parking haystack. The added bonus is, Thor is a word that French people cannot pronounce. It's simply not possible. I sort of like that.

Thor drinks gasoline, not diesel ,which is not a good thing since diesel is much cheaper here. He's also very thirsty for some reason. There is not one automatic thing on him, nor air conditioning and I discovered on my way to Marcia's, after I filled up precious and, until then, unused Starbucks mug with coffee, that he has no cup holders (not unusual here if you can possibly imagine!). So I held the mug between my legs while I shifted up and down the mountain roads. My tan skirt became a very sexy leopard print by the time I arrived.

Despite his imperfections, Thor is a god. A god of freedom. He's loyal. When I came back from 2 months in the states and once again did my three floor tour to find him, he started up with nary a complaint. He's discreet: with all the other little white cars, nobody notices him. He fits in almost anywhere: I've learned to park him like a french car in any teeny crack or crevice barely big enough to hold him. He's the right age: old enough to be comfortable in his somewhat damaged skin but not old enough to be falling apart.  Honestly, I was just about to start talking about holding on to his stick shift but that suddenly seemed very weird! We'll…just…let…that…go.

We don't go out often together, but when we do, I become a goddess.

The word for car in french is voiture. This word is feminine, which means I should refer to my car as a she. But he's Thor, a god, and I refer to him as he. I'm constantly being corrected on this but I owe him his dues, don't you think? I don't understand why the french language does not allow me this right and I'm sticking to my guns.

Thor and I are going on a wine tour with friends tomorrow and to Cassis with the same friends on Friday. He's just too awesome not to share.

Now if I ever meet the Thor in the picture above, I am really going to have a story to tell!

He Who Hesitates...Still Has To Do It Eventually

It seems to me the time has come to get back into the swing of things. I apologize for my absence. I went on a vacation to the United States that turned out to be not much of a vacation. I've been napping (okay...and socializing) ever since!

I'm supposed to want to go back home when the time comes. But this time I didn't. I hate to even admit that but I knew there were things to get done there that I simply did not want to do. And the moment had arrived whether I welcomed it or not.

Three and a half years ago I got on a plane for Provence with the idea that I would stay for one year, immerse myself in the culture, learn to speak perfect, accent-free French, then refreshed and invigorated and far more cultured,  I would return to the midwest to open a new apartment, find a new job, and recommence my life.

That was the idea. Really it was! But Provence has a way of growing on you. It is warm and seductive and its deep, ancient roots have a way of infiltrating the body and mind until you have no more willpower to move on. At least that's what happened to me!

Before I left the midwest in January 2009 I sold most of my belongings, which was a gargantuan task considering I had lived in a 4 bedroom, 4 bathroom house whose kitchen was the about the size of my current apartment. I pared it all down to those things…those most precious things…that I would need to start over in a little apartment. I put them in a storage unit so I could collect them upon my triumphant return. But that didn't happen and those things have weighed heavily on me ever since. What to do with them? Will I ever return? How can I possibly get rid of them? Should I have them shipped here? Of course I'll return.! But when will that happen? Maybe I won't.

So, those most precious things sat. They sat in the warehouse and they sat heavily on my heart; they somehow became a gigantic pit for me to curl up in, crushed by their weight but at the same time, unwilling to dig myself out.

This trip was the time to do it again. Dump it. Climb out. Sprout another set of wings (don't dragon flies have two sets of wings?) After all, they are just things!

And I am proud to say that with the help of the most amazing friends and family, within 4 days of my return I had moved out of the storage unit and cancelled the lease, sold or redistributed my stuff and moved the leftovers to my mom's basement (now there's a nightmare for a 75 year-old-woman…her 53 year-old- daughter moving back in!). It was hard. Really hard. But after the grand task was finished, I felt light again. Free.  And I have no regrets.

Then I had to help son number 2 move his life to Arizona. Well, he did all the work, I just had to kiss him and his lovely girlfriend goodbye. But with his departure came another change. No longer was I to have my pod all gathered together in the place I return to once or twice a year. And I felt his fear of change as well. He had arrived at the moment that one says goodbye to youth and the job of moving forward into the adult world is imminent. Unavoidable. Scary and exciting all at the same time. His changes for sure, but changes for me as well. I didn't want it to happen…I resisted as one tends to do with change.

The last grand item on my list of things to do, was to figure out how to make a living. I do not have the right to work in France and although I've been able to earn a little here and a little there, it was time to face the fact that I really do need to plan for my future. Otherwise, I'm going to end up one of those crazy, old cat ladies whose remains are found a month after her death from starvation in her cheap, tiny, sleeping room, devoured by her starving animals.

So I bought a house. Yeppers, I bought a house with my sister, extended my ticket for three weeks and went to work remodeling to prepare it for renters. Of course, all good things come to those who work for them. And man, oh man, did we work! Ten to fifteen hours per day, every single day. I now have a personal relationship with the greeter at the Home Depot store in Richfield, Minnesota and I don't care if I EVER see black mold again in my life.

 

I'm a tiny bit proud of myself for accomplishing all that I set out to do, even though I was reticent. You'd think I would be accustomed to change at this point. But it is always hard, no matter how much of it one has had to do in the past. And, in fact, I really had a blast this summer. Hard work is good for the soul, change is NOT horrible and I feel stronger and better because of it all. 

However, all work and no play is always a bad recipe and I really hate to screw up a recipe. So play I did. 

A camping trip with the girls.

It started out well....

but sort of flopped on the finish!

 A weekend at the cabin with family.

Lots of eating, drinking and laughing with old friends...

and a most beautiful wedding.

 No trip to Minneapolis would be complete without an evening out on the Pedal Pub!

And I even got to do a few motherly duties...a haircut which obviously hasn't been done for awhile!

My extended stay in the states caused me to consider whether or not I might want to return soon. I became accustomed to running around like a crazy woman, eating while running around like a crazy woman, drinking gigantic cups of coffee while driving, speaking English and actually being able to be slightly amusing. It's a temptation...until I remember the price of health insurance!

So I'm back in Provence, babysitting the mansion as I do every year. It is amazing how quickly I can re-adapt to the slow, summer days in Provence, long late meals around a table with friends, and an afternoon sieste with the shutters closed against the afternoon heat.

It's always good to be home...wherever it is this week! And it's good to be back here, my friends. 

Have a wonderful week.

P.S. There's still time to enter the Provence Rugs giveaway over at My French Country Home. Hurry! Run!

Pork Shoulders and Butts

I've said it before and I'll say it again. One of my favorite things about living in France is the food. I love being able to buy fresh vegetables easily and eat them according to the season. I relish the simplicity of the food and people's respect for it and it's origins. I adore eating dishes in which I can taste each delicious ingredient. Today I ate a salad with fresh ingredients from the market down the street. Yesterday I made a leek quiche because leeks are plentiful right now. The day before I invented a simple dessert with the last of this year's strawberries. Of course, this can be done in the states, but truly, it is just so much easier here and much more a part of the culture.

That being said, I have publicly admitted before, and will again, that I love Spam. It's a treat I eat once or twice a year and I always have a can in reserve for the necessary moment. I don't know where I learned to love this canned, gelatin-entombed, square block of pork shoulder and sodium nitrate. Perhaps when I worked as a trail cook in Canada where I would serve Spam when we hadn't found anything to shoot for dinner that day. Or maybe it's because I grew up about 1/2 hour away from the Hormel factory in Austin, Minnesota where it's made. The reason for my amour is shrouded in jelly and mystery.

In my humble opinion, Spam can only be prepared ONE way; sliced, fried until crispy, and served on soft white bread with yellow mustard. It is not the same on a baguette with dijon mustard.  I know this, because I've tried it (yes, people bring me Spam here in France). Okay, and maybe it can be served with eggs.

Most likely because I've mentioned this before on this blog, an ad popped up on google page advertising a recipe for Spam Casserole. My curiosity took me to a page called Recipe Source where I found the following recipe.

Title: FRENCH FRY SPAM CASSEROLE
  Categories: Main dish
       Yield: 8 servings
  
       1 pk Frozen french fry potatoes,
            -thawed (20 oz)
       2 c  Shredded Cheddar cheese
       2 c  Sour cream
       1 cn Condensed cream of chicken
            -soup (10 3/4 oz)
       1 cn SPAM Luncheon Meat, cubed
            -(12 oz)
     1/2 c  Chopped red bell pepper
     1/2 c  Chopped green onion
     1/2 c  Finely crushed corn flakes
  
   Heat oven to 350'F. In large bowl, combine potatoes, cheese, sour
   cream, and soup. Stir in SPAM, bell pepper, and green onion. Spoon
   into 13x9″ baking dish. Sprinkle with crushed flakes. Bake 30-40
   minutes or until thoroughly heated.

Am I all wrong or did just reading this make you want to evacuate the contents of your stomach? Did it make the buttons pop on your skirt or the seam in your jeans split open? Do people REALLY eat this? Seriously, cheese AND sour cream AND cream-of-anything-soup? I just did a calorie count per serving and it was 597 calories and 46 grams of fat, providing you really divide this into 8 servings. And most Americans don't.

I'm not dissing one of my favorite treats. I really wanted to be the Spam Queen at one time until I found out the expiration date for this honor was a much younger age than I was imprinted with at the time. And I do have a full set of jewelry that my auntie made me out of Spam cans. And an alarm clock. And a toy Spam race car. And a tee-shirt. And framed old Spam advertising. And...


But I must insist that Spam cannot be eaten in this manner. Spam is pure. It needs to be eaten in simplicity with respect for it's origins (see first paragraph)... whatever they are! (actually you can find out here plus a whole lot more).  And none of this creamy, casserole business. After all, this fine food got an entire country through a world war.

This article is simply an expression of my outrage at such blasphemy.  In fact, the folks at Hormel have no idea that I exist. But if they wanted to crown me The Sovereign of Spam...The Priestess of Pork...the President of Potted Meat Products...The Hormel Ambassador to France, I would accept. Providing they gave me this to wear during my promotional trips. It would look great with my jewelry collection.

And I would travel the world promoting it's simplicity and handing out little Spam finger sandwiches. One can never be too old or too proud for a new career.