Of all the things to obsess about, the one thing surfing my gray matter lately is liver, and, specifically, calf liver. This happens about every two years. The craving shows up out of nowhere like an unwanted guest. I say unwanted because I hate to cook it. That’s such a messy job and the outcome never meets my expectations.
But a few months ago, I discovered that a Greek restaurant in my neighborhood serves calf liver. So when the craving popped up its head this time, I just went to the restaurant. The liver is wonderful, and cooked with onions (like it should be). Since then, I have been back two more times. Slowly, my craving is ebbing. I think one more time will kill it off for awhile. In the meantime, I will watch “Silence of the Lambs” at least once a week!
Showing posts with label Thorsten Taylor. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Thorsten Taylor. Show all posts
Monday, February 21, 2011
Monday, February 07, 2011
Monday, July 05, 2010
A Summer Dream
The cars passing through the snow
Whisper zisch! zisch! zisch!
Into the ear of the cow-faced woman
In my head, an unpretty yet pleasant face
That would fit in at the local supermarket.
She interprets the sounds of the snow
Into a message I can understand:
It’s not the zisch! that counts;
It’s the silence that swallows everything else,
The occasional beep of a horn,
Surely an annoyed late-comer to work,
The whining police car,
The skidding of brakes found too late,
All of it sipped away
through the snow’s long straws,
crowding in, crowding out everything but itself
and the cow-faced woman in my head,
her lips the color of a glass of chilled merlot.
Whisper zisch! zisch! zisch!
Into the ear of the cow-faced woman
In my head, an unpretty yet pleasant face
That would fit in at the local supermarket.
She interprets the sounds of the snow
Into a message I can understand:
It’s not the zisch! that counts;
It’s the silence that swallows everything else,
The occasional beep of a horn,
Surely an annoyed late-comer to work,
The whining police car,
The skidding of brakes found too late,
All of it sipped away
through the snow’s long straws,
crowding in, crowding out everything but itself
and the cow-faced woman in my head,
her lips the color of a glass of chilled merlot.
Monday, May 31, 2010
Cosmic Porcelain Prank
One of my favorite events of travelling with first-time visitors to Italy is when they go into their hotel bathroom and come out with a puzzled look on their face. With somewhat hesitation, they ask, “What’s that thing beside the commode?”
The answer to this question is easy: “It’s a bidet.”
But that just dodges the issue, so they have to ask, “What is it for?”
Now that is a delicate issue. There’s hardly any polite way to answer that question except maybe to say, “To wash your…” and let them fill in the blank themselves.
A second later, their brain does just that and a big smile spreads across their face, as if they have suddenly been let in on one of the secrets of the universe.
The bidet always leads to a lot of other questions to which I never know the answer, such as, “Where did they come from?” “Who invented them?” “Can you get them in pink?”
Whatever, the final effect is that the person always seem to now enjoy being in on such a delightful secret. The subject comes up again and again during the trip, always with a big smile on their face, a smile that someone gives away that they indeed tried the thing out in a private moment.
The answer to this question is easy: “It’s a bidet.”
But that just dodges the issue, so they have to ask, “What is it for?”
Now that is a delicate issue. There’s hardly any polite way to answer that question except maybe to say, “To wash your…” and let them fill in the blank themselves.
A second later, their brain does just that and a big smile spreads across their face, as if they have suddenly been let in on one of the secrets of the universe.
The bidet always leads to a lot of other questions to which I never know the answer, such as, “Where did they come from?” “Who invented them?” “Can you get them in pink?”
Whatever, the final effect is that the person always seem to now enjoy being in on such a delightful secret. The subject comes up again and again during the trip, always with a big smile on their face, a smile that someone gives away that they indeed tried the thing out in a private moment.
Sunday, May 30, 2010
Nasal throw rugs
Several years ago, I had a colleague who was known for one highly distracting characteristic: long nasal hairs. Those hairs sometimes stretched halfway down to his upper lip. I always asked myself why his wife didn’t do something about it. But that may have been a lot to ask for. Rumor had it that she didn’t have much to do with him because he was a chronic womanizer. She simply let him provide her with a nice house and life, and let him do whatever else he wanted as long as he kept up his end of the financial bargain.
When we had staff meetings, I often had trouble concentrating on what our boss was saying because of those long hairs. I had a barely suppressible urge to jump across the table, pull out a pair of nasal hair clippers, and go to work. Of course, I simply had to tolerate the situation.
Instead, my mind busied itself with all the things someone could make out of those hairs. For example, a sweater for his wife’s Chihuahua. Or a pair of net stockings for her. The fellow was nearing fifty and sported clearly salt-and-pepper hair, including those nose hairs. That opened the option of sorting the hairs into piles of white only and black only bunches, and weaving together white stockings for Monday and black stockings for Tuesday, or the opposite. It didn’t matter as long as the hairs got used for a good purpose.
The hairs were also so numerous and dense that they could have been used to make even larger items such as salt-and-pepper throw rugs for the bathroom, or Holstein-patterned living room curtains, or polka dot men’s underwear, even though I suspect they might have been rather scratchy.
Even though I haven’t seen the fellow for 9 or 10 years, I often think about those hairs. They were simply too real and too good (or bad?) to forget. In the depths of winter, I even wonder whether those hairs might have made wool-warm socks. I should have asked the fellow to save up a couple of bags for me to weave together.
When we had staff meetings, I often had trouble concentrating on what our boss was saying because of those long hairs. I had a barely suppressible urge to jump across the table, pull out a pair of nasal hair clippers, and go to work. Of course, I simply had to tolerate the situation.
Instead, my mind busied itself with all the things someone could make out of those hairs. For example, a sweater for his wife’s Chihuahua. Or a pair of net stockings for her. The fellow was nearing fifty and sported clearly salt-and-pepper hair, including those nose hairs. That opened the option of sorting the hairs into piles of white only and black only bunches, and weaving together white stockings for Monday and black stockings for Tuesday, or the opposite. It didn’t matter as long as the hairs got used for a good purpose.
The hairs were also so numerous and dense that they could have been used to make even larger items such as salt-and-pepper throw rugs for the bathroom, or Holstein-patterned living room curtains, or polka dot men’s underwear, even though I suspect they might have been rather scratchy.
Even though I haven’t seen the fellow for 9 or 10 years, I often think about those hairs. They were simply too real and too good (or bad?) to forget. In the depths of winter, I even wonder whether those hairs might have made wool-warm socks. I should have asked the fellow to save up a couple of bags for me to weave together.
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Louder than...
One thing I miss here in Germany are the rip-roaring thunderstorms that I grew up with. Those storms offered a little bit of everything: loud and rocking thunder, lightning and its cracking sound, wild wind, rain, sometimes even hail. That is not to say that we do not get thunderstorms here. We certainly do, but they are milder and generally softer in sound compared to the ones in the South. Tornadoes are also relatively rare here. Only a few are recorded each year in comparison to the numerous ones found throughout the States. In other words, storms are much safer here. Still, I do miss the loud, rollicking, cracking thunder of an almost-violent weather storm. In the meantime, I will have to satisfy myself with the pretty rough winter storms we get here, something that usually not a concern in the South, except for the occasional ice storms.
Thursday, May 20, 2010
Hardy Threads
The other day I was trying to grasp the concept of nothingness. It left me baffled, especially since nothingness is something in itself. Contradictory? Who knows, except maybe Stephen Hawkins.
While worrying about this, I noticed that I had a plastic coke bottle in my hand and that I was screwing the top on and off, on and off, on and off. Then that captured my fascination. Such a simple design yet universally used and virtually failproof. It left me wondering exactly how may screw-on/screw-off cycles it would take before the top no longer worked. If anyone knows, please let me know.
While worrying about this, I noticed that I had a plastic coke bottle in my hand and that I was screwing the top on and off, on and off, on and off. Then that captured my fascination. Such a simple design yet universally used and virtually failproof. It left me wondering exactly how may screw-on/screw-off cycles it would take before the top no longer worked. If anyone knows, please let me know.
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
As in at
One German word I have always found amusing is “Rathaus”. Everytime, I see the word in print, I immediately think “rat house”. Just chalk it up to a puerile mind. By the way, the spoken word is pronounced rot-house, and there’s admittedly nothing all that amusing about that. But if you mistakenly pronounce the word as “rat house,” every subsequent attempt at being serious is a lost cause.
Germans find none of this amusing. They love their “rott-hoiser”, which is the pronunciation of the plural of Rathaus (Rathäuser).
In Germany, these “rat houses” are very serious business because they are basically the same thing as a city hall or county seat in English. They are the place where official business takes place.
But once the mispronunciation “rat house” got centered in my head, there is no getting it out. I often make the mistake of mispronouncing Rathaus when speaking to Germans. Mostly, it leaves them puzzled, and they simply chalk it up to an American who has trouble with German pronunciation. But occasionally, I run into a stick-in-the-mud who takes offense at me murdering their language and making fun of it to boot.
The expression on their face can never be mistaken. It is one of indignation, plus the overwhelming urge to punish me for my silliness. Just imagine the expression of an English teacher whose student mispronounces the word “pious” with a short I, and you get the picture.
I guess what all of this boils down to is this: Some things are very childish, but oh so fun in the right hands.
Germans find none of this amusing. They love their “rott-hoiser”, which is the pronunciation of the plural of Rathaus (Rathäuser).
In Germany, these “rat houses” are very serious business because they are basically the same thing as a city hall or county seat in English. They are the place where official business takes place.
But once the mispronunciation “rat house” got centered in my head, there is no getting it out. I often make the mistake of mispronouncing Rathaus when speaking to Germans. Mostly, it leaves them puzzled, and they simply chalk it up to an American who has trouble with German pronunciation. But occasionally, I run into a stick-in-the-mud who takes offense at me murdering their language and making fun of it to boot.
The expression on their face can never be mistaken. It is one of indignation, plus the overwhelming urge to punish me for my silliness. Just imagine the expression of an English teacher whose student mispronounces the word “pious” with a short I, and you get the picture.
I guess what all of this boils down to is this: Some things are very childish, but oh so fun in the right hands.
Monday, May 10, 2010
1 Horsepower per Hour
One thing I have never appreciated adequately is the floor under my feet. A lot of hard work and creative energy goes into floor design. Function has to be balanced with art. Occasionally I see a floor that really blows me away. It is indeed a thing of beauty, especially when furnishings are kept to a minimum in order not to recklessly hide the thought and success that went into designing the floor. Another thing that makes me appreciate a good floor is the money that went into it. A high quality and properly designed floor doesn’t come without a price. In fact, a very steep price.
Personally, though, I could never convince myself that investing in a floor to be envied was worthwhile. There’s no one I need to impress, and most of the people I know are also like me: They never adequately appreciate a masterpiece floor.
Instead, I invest in pragmatic things, like the hand cart I use to go grocery shopping with. Rather than dragging heavy sacks from the grocery store to my apartment, I spent a few bucks on the hand cart, which I fill up with groceries and simply pull behind me. I know it makes me look like an odd little old man, but, after all, that’s what I am and I am glad to own up to the truth. The only thing that surprises me about it is that it took me so long to buy it.
After worrying about how it might spoil my image, I finally realized that no one else cares. So that was my personal hurdle to get over. Now I can shop for all the heavy things I want, such as two-liter bottles of Coke Zero, something that I never knew that I needed until getting hooked on them during my last trip to Italy with Cousin A. and Sister E. Somehow, everything in life seems to fit into the overall puzzle that is continuously taking shape.
Personally, though, I could never convince myself that investing in a floor to be envied was worthwhile. There’s no one I need to impress, and most of the people I know are also like me: They never adequately appreciate a masterpiece floor.
Instead, I invest in pragmatic things, like the hand cart I use to go grocery shopping with. Rather than dragging heavy sacks from the grocery store to my apartment, I spent a few bucks on the hand cart, which I fill up with groceries and simply pull behind me. I know it makes me look like an odd little old man, but, after all, that’s what I am and I am glad to own up to the truth. The only thing that surprises me about it is that it took me so long to buy it.
After worrying about how it might spoil my image, I finally realized that no one else cares. So that was my personal hurdle to get over. Now I can shop for all the heavy things I want, such as two-liter bottles of Coke Zero, something that I never knew that I needed until getting hooked on them during my last trip to Italy with Cousin A. and Sister E. Somehow, everything in life seems to fit into the overall puzzle that is continuously taking shape.
Sunday, May 09, 2010
French Toast
The French Open is just days away, and I hope to catch as many late-day matches as possible. It’s a tournament I have come to appreciate and love. The clay surface is a world unto itself, and only the most coy of players survive. Power doesn’t get it alone. Finesse is called for. We’ll see who’s left standing at the end of the second week.
Of course, some of the best matches occur way before the finals. In fact, the finals can be a bit of a letdown after you watch some of the preliminary matches.
Now that about covers my knowledge of French tennis. The only two French players that come to mind are Marion Bartoli and Jo-Wilfried Tsongas. I remember her for beating Henin in Wimbledon a couple of years, and him for the new face he puts on being French. In other words, I remember them for their exceptions rather than for their accomplishments, sort of the way you remember members of your family. The most interesting ones are not the ones that do everything perfectly, but rather the ones that don’t fit the expected mold. They make the best gossip material.
Of course, some of the best matches occur way before the finals. In fact, the finals can be a bit of a letdown after you watch some of the preliminary matches.
Now that about covers my knowledge of French tennis. The only two French players that come to mind are Marion Bartoli and Jo-Wilfried Tsongas. I remember her for beating Henin in Wimbledon a couple of years, and him for the new face he puts on being French. In other words, I remember them for their exceptions rather than for their accomplishments, sort of the way you remember members of your family. The most interesting ones are not the ones that do everything perfectly, but rather the ones that don’t fit the expected mold. They make the best gossip material.
Tuesday, May 04, 2010
Perfection in Red
Grocery stores and fruitstands here are now offering big beautiful strawberries. Most of the berries come from Italy and Spain. Strawberries from Germany aren’t yet ripe enough for the market. That will take a few more weeks. In the meantime, strawberries will be everywhere: on menus, in pastry, in marmalade and jam. Fortunately, I never get tired of strawberries, nor peaches. So I will probably be treating myself to a basket of strawberries at least twice a week until the season is over. I would love to have a strawberry pie like I grew up with, but the German’s don’t offer that exact luxury. Instead, they have some other strawberry cakes that are OK, but I have to admit that I haven’t eaten one in at least five years. I always come away disappointed. But a basket of fresh, red berries never leaves me disappointed. The real, unadulterated thing. It’s amazing that Mother Nature developed such a perfect, irresistible fruit!
Monday, April 26, 2010
Eating the eaters
I just saw a program about a fish farmer in Africa who has helped to bring the problem of malaria under control. He raises carp in his ponds, and the baby carp fill themselves with mosquito larvae. This has reduced the mosquito population to such a low level that malaria is virtually no longer a problem. I have to commend the farmer on his entrepreneurialism. Anyone who can get the upper hand on mosquitoes is worthy of being beknighted.
I could have used the fellow’s help when I was in Venice last week. Every night, one or more mosquitoes would show up and pester us while sleeping. We slept with the windows open because the hotel had not yet put their air conditioning service into operation for the busy season. Fortunately, the nights were cool enough that an open window made for cool and pleasant sleeping, except for the mosquitoes. By the time I got home, I had mosquito bites on my forearms and face, which were the only parts of my body exposed from under my sheets and covers. The mosquitoes went to work on them. I tried to sleep with all of my body, including my hands and face, under the sheet, but I inevitably exposed some parts regardless how hard I tried not to. So now I look like I have a rash all over my face and my forearms. Next time, I suggest that the hotel set up a small carp pond in their garden. The carp will quickly grow fat from an ample supply of mosquitoes and larvae, just the thing to put on a restaurant menu. That way, the cycle is complete.
I could have used the fellow’s help when I was in Venice last week. Every night, one or more mosquitoes would show up and pester us while sleeping. We slept with the windows open because the hotel had not yet put their air conditioning service into operation for the busy season. Fortunately, the nights were cool enough that an open window made for cool and pleasant sleeping, except for the mosquitoes. By the time I got home, I had mosquito bites on my forearms and face, which were the only parts of my body exposed from under my sheets and covers. The mosquitoes went to work on them. I tried to sleep with all of my body, including my hands and face, under the sheet, but I inevitably exposed some parts regardless how hard I tried not to. So now I look like I have a rash all over my face and my forearms. Next time, I suggest that the hotel set up a small carp pond in their garden. The carp will quickly grow fat from an ample supply of mosquitoes and larvae, just the thing to put on a restaurant menu. That way, the cycle is complete.
Monday, April 12, 2010
6 5 4 3 2....
Hurray! I’m packed! For some reason, it didn’t seem so difficult this time. Perhaps that’s because I gave myself an entire day to get the job done. Usually, I wait until the last minute and then frantically try to put together what I need. This time, I just made it a simple, easy task, or at least a sequence of simple, easy tasks.
One thing I’ve learned over the years is just to pare down the contents of my suitcase to the bare minimum. Once on the road, I rarely miss the niceties that I could have loaded into the suitcase, but then things get so complicated and problematic for me and everyone else. Besides, lugging around a heavy suitcase is just something that a rational person should know better.
Now I can sleep well tonight and then, tomorrow, when the time comes, hail a cab to the airport. Sure, that’s a luxury, but it is also a good step to ensure that the last few minutes before the flight leaves are spent waiting to load the plane, not rushing through the airport to try to catch it before it leaves. I love it when things go as planned!
One thing I’ve learned over the years is just to pare down the contents of my suitcase to the bare minimum. Once on the road, I rarely miss the niceties that I could have loaded into the suitcase, but then things get so complicated and problematic for me and everyone else. Besides, lugging around a heavy suitcase is just something that a rational person should know better.
Now I can sleep well tonight and then, tomorrow, when the time comes, hail a cab to the airport. Sure, that’s a luxury, but it is also a good step to ensure that the last few minutes before the flight leaves are spent waiting to load the plane, not rushing through the airport to try to catch it before it leaves. I love it when things go as planned!
Friday, April 09, 2010
Sudsy
Sometimes life can be so simple. Take washing clothes, for example. It is a chore that I dread worse than about anything. So I put it off, put it off, put it off, until one day, I suddenly do it. It is always unplanned. No regular wash day for me. I just do it when the spirit hits me. And you know what? It suddenly isn’t as dreadful as I had imagined. It’s all very routine.
And sometimes it can be rewarding in a twisted sort of way. For example, my last dog died over three years ago, yet I still find some of their hairs on my clothes. And they are stubborn about being removed. And even if I do remove them, they seem to creep back in somehow. Yet the thought is somehow sort of comforting, and the hairs bring back lots of wonderful memories of chasing rabbits, digging holes under fences, and the terror of getting a dog bath.
Now that is a wash job that was genuinely dreaded and hated. It seemed to be equivalent to putting the poor little animals in a death trap. And they did their very best to escape it. They dreaded it from the beginning until the very last suds were washed down the drain. Yet, afterwards, life seemed more exciting than ever. They ran around and around, wallowed on blankets, the sofa, the bed, anywhere they could find a piece of dry cloth, which also included the pile of clothes that needed to be washed. By the time the dogs had distributed the pile of clothes all over the pantry, I suddenly lost my dread of washing those very clothes. I simply put them in the washer, poured some detergent in, and let ‘em go. Yes, it is all that simple.
And sometimes it can be rewarding in a twisted sort of way. For example, my last dog died over three years ago, yet I still find some of their hairs on my clothes. And they are stubborn about being removed. And even if I do remove them, they seem to creep back in somehow. Yet the thought is somehow sort of comforting, and the hairs bring back lots of wonderful memories of chasing rabbits, digging holes under fences, and the terror of getting a dog bath.
Now that is a wash job that was genuinely dreaded and hated. It seemed to be equivalent to putting the poor little animals in a death trap. And they did their very best to escape it. They dreaded it from the beginning until the very last suds were washed down the drain. Yet, afterwards, life seemed more exciting than ever. They ran around and around, wallowed on blankets, the sofa, the bed, anywhere they could find a piece of dry cloth, which also included the pile of clothes that needed to be washed. By the time the dogs had distributed the pile of clothes all over the pantry, I suddenly lost my dread of washing those very clothes. I simply put them in the washer, poured some detergent in, and let ‘em go. Yes, it is all that simple.
Sunday, April 04, 2010
Of Soles and Popes
Pretty soon, two youngish ladies will pack their bags, board the plane, and fly to the land of colloseums and cappuccinos. They better bring comfortable sneakers because the best way to get around is by using your own two feet. Personally, I think I will take a taxi. They need the business.
The two ladies will find temptation waiting for them on every city block. All types of temptations, some for your mouth, some for your body. Fashion is all-important here. Looking good is a way of life. After all, the city of Milan is only a few hours a way.
And not too far away awaits the pope and the lovely St. Peter’s dome. From the outside, it all looks so easy. Just look and see. But if you want to get the best view of all, be prepared to hike up several hundred steps, some through narrow passageways. Only the determined and fit can meet this challenge.
While this is happening, I will take the opposite direction into the church cellar. The bodies of lots of former popes lay there in waiting, a trip through history, a lot of it filled with intrigue and politics. Some popes led very discussion-worthy lives. But I will try not to bore the two ladies with all this trivia. Instead, they will get the chance to stand exactly where Julius Caesar did before he met his fate. So make sure to pack some sturdy sneakers!
The two ladies will find temptation waiting for them on every city block. All types of temptations, some for your mouth, some for your body. Fashion is all-important here. Looking good is a way of life. After all, the city of Milan is only a few hours a way.
And not too far away awaits the pope and the lovely St. Peter’s dome. From the outside, it all looks so easy. Just look and see. But if you want to get the best view of all, be prepared to hike up several hundred steps, some through narrow passageways. Only the determined and fit can meet this challenge.
While this is happening, I will take the opposite direction into the church cellar. The bodies of lots of former popes lay there in waiting, a trip through history, a lot of it filled with intrigue and politics. Some popes led very discussion-worthy lives. But I will try not to bore the two ladies with all this trivia. Instead, they will get the chance to stand exactly where Julius Caesar did before he met his fate. So make sure to pack some sturdy sneakers!
Sunday, March 21, 2010
Saturday, March 20, 2010
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Rose Lips
This one goes out to Cousin A., who, as I only recently discovered, has a natural talent for pig kissing. The surprising thing about this is that she has kept it secret from us all these decades. Now that’s a feat in itself. After all, learning to kiss pigs correctly naturally requires that you have some pigs around. And, as far as I know, Cousin A. does not keep any pigs anywhere except for in her deep freezer, all nicely cut up and wrapped in brown butcher paper. But Cousin A. posed right in front of the camera to kiss a recently cooked pig. I suppose she must have known Mr. Pig prior to his big day on the camphouse table and wanted to give him one last big smack before he got devoured. I dunno, maybe she secretly keeps a pig in the trunk of her car. That would at least explain all those strange sounds her car has been making over the last several years. Whatever, we all want Cousin A. to know that we are now all glad to know about her pig-kissing talents, and we hope she will share it with us more often in the years to come!
Sunday, March 14, 2010
High-Tailing It
Today, I celebrate nothingness. Germany is very good at encouraging such a thing. On Sundays here, no businesses are open, except for restaurants, gas stations and flower shops (!!). Of course, public transportation still runs, so I can get around the city if I want. But there’s nothing open for shopping. So I just enjoy what’s there, and what’s there is nothingness. There is no busily rushing about, no doctor or dentist appointments, no shopping for food or household items. No government or bank offices are open. There’s a sense of sleepiness, as if the entire city took a strong dose of Excedrin PM.
So I watch TV, and mostly I watch shows about animals. The TV stations here all have zoo shows on the weekend. Lots of stories about monkeys, chimpanzees, gorillas, goats, rhinos, gazelles, and you name it. Shows about lemurs are among my favorites. Lemurs are fascinating creatures: lively, perky, quick, nimble, long-tailed, social, curious, intelligent, almost like humans. At times, I regret that I have to rely on a zoo in order to see them, yet that may be a very necessary evil since their natural habitats are disappearing fast. So, I am glad that at least the zoo can offer them for seeing. Maybe one day, we will find a way to maintain their natural habitats enough so that they can thrive in the wild. Who knows, I might go live with them.
So I watch TV, and mostly I watch shows about animals. The TV stations here all have zoo shows on the weekend. Lots of stories about monkeys, chimpanzees, gorillas, goats, rhinos, gazelles, and you name it. Shows about lemurs are among my favorites. Lemurs are fascinating creatures: lively, perky, quick, nimble, long-tailed, social, curious, intelligent, almost like humans. At times, I regret that I have to rely on a zoo in order to see them, yet that may be a very necessary evil since their natural habitats are disappearing fast. So, I am glad that at least the zoo can offer them for seeing. Maybe one day, we will find a way to maintain their natural habitats enough so that they can thrive in the wild. Who knows, I might go live with them.
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