Paleo or Oleo

“Whatcha doing?”

The kids are never intimately concerned with my activities unless I’m stirring around in the kitchen at suppertime.

I put an egg on the table.  “Checking the fridge for supper stuff.”

“Are you gonna divvy up that egg between us or are we on our own?”

“We could only afford one. It’s a special free-range egg. The chicken that produced this egg roamed the countryside randomly, picnicking on the wonders of nature along the way.”

“Wonders of nature?  You mean like beetles and slugs?”

“I don’t think so. Chickens like corn.”

“I don’t think the chicken crossed the road to pounce on a niblet.  On the Nature Channel I saw one suck down a baby mouse like it was a chocolate truffle.”

“Tell you what. You can have the egg.”

“I’m good.” He hooked a slice of cold pizza out of the fridge.

“One day you’ll be sorry for your poor food choices.”

This kid could simultaneously bench press me and the contents of my purse, and yesterday he finished my Zumba video while I was still searching for my oxygen tank.

“At least I’m not on the Fred Flintstone diet.  You have to eat special food to give you big feet and bad posture?”

“It’s the natural diet of our caveman ancestors.”

“And what was their lifespan?”

"Twenty years or so?   I have Devil’s Food Cake recipes older than that. But they didn't have to worry about middle-aged spread. "

 

"Or Senior Citizen discounts." 

“Maybe I’ll pick a different era to eat my way through. Somewhere in between Caveman Og and Paula Deen.”

“Yeah,” he grinned, tossing the pizza crust into the trashcan like Lebron James sinking a three-pointer.             

“One carries a big stick and one carries a stick of butter.”

 

 

Grackle Cackle

Surprised by a sudden snowstorm in the sunny South (everything except the fire ant hills was covered with a thin coat of white, like glaze on a doughnut), a flock of hungry grackles discovered our bedroom window bird feeder.  Grackles are the frat boys of the bird world. They travel in noisy groups, eat whatever they find, and leave nothing but party remnants in their wake.  One had Greek letters tattooed on its forehead and was clutching a longneck bottle in one claw.  They divebombed the smaller, well-studied birds, and their bulk sent our small feeder dancing like a coed in a mosh pit.

In unrelated news, the cats have taken up birdwatching.

Danger Cat in stealth mode

Our cats are peaceful, indoor folk, as a general rule, and are roused in the wild only by the call of the can opener.  Oh sure, every now and then there’s a fierce battle with a catnip mouse or a summer housefly that has invaded enemy airspace, and at least once Danger Cat TP’d our house, but overall they don’t have any trouble keeping up with the Golden Rule, the Ten Commandments, or the grocery list.

Grackles appearing suddenly in their window must have been like the first appearance of Godzilla off the coast of Japan.



Gojira!

Huddled on a blanket-covered steam trunk under the window, they responded with an immediate show of bravery, condensing themselves into tiny kitty stealth missiles and hurling hurtful comments in the direction of the infidels.

The Grackles responded by emptying the bird feeder in less time than it took the Seahawks to sign Peyton Manning’s farewell card.

After a couple of thousand treks outside to watch Bill filling up the feeders in the cold, I came in, removed my  wet snow clothes and began tactics to discourage the Grackles from gorging on the expensive sunflower seed and corn nugget delicacies.  I’m as eager to feed the hungry as the next gourmet chef, but my front yard is not the Prime Buffet for those thrifty enough to help themselves.

In an unannounced attack intended to frighten the offenders and restore the birdseed buffet into the little curved claws of the smaller peepers, I leaped at the window, piercing the air with my best Screech Owl shriek and hammering at the glass with my fists.  Bill fell off the ladder, the cats scattered, and the grackles raised tiny glasses in a toast.

Next time I’ll remember to wear my robe.