Getting There

Somewhere around the time Sir prepares to retire, I'll probably get the moving thing down pat.  I'm in awe of my friend G - she was done with the boxes, fully decorated and entertaining folks two weeks after the moving truck pulled out of the driveway.  I, on the other hand, have a severe case of WhatdoIdowithblankwallsparalysis and Icanwalkaroundalldaywithsomethinginmyhandandnotmakeadecisionaboutwheretoputitdisorder.  The only cure I've found is to invite patient girlfriends over and beg them to make these choices for me.  At the end of the day, I'm completely embarrassed at how I sweat the small stuff because really, who cares?  None of the three houses I've lived in since beginning the Army adventure will grace the pages of Southern Living, and praise the Lord for that because STANDARDS, people.  Decorating is not my gift. 
That being said, there's not much I enjoy more than having people in our home, so I've had to come up with a way to balance my perfectionism with my complete lack of talent in order not to be mortified by the fact that most of the time my house would qualify for the home interiors version of "What Not To Wear."  My solution is twofold: to delight in the few material possessions that travel with us,  pretending that this cobbled-together nest is tres chic rather than tres shabby  (if I hauled a photo of you in my two suitcases of worldly goods that went from coastal Carolina to Seattle to Germany to Washington DC, you'd better believe I love that photo) - and to remember that I'd rather spend my time and pennies on eternal stuff.

The house we rented here is ridiculously large for just the two of us, but it was really close to work for Sir, and we're grateful he's not sitting in traffic for hours each day.  I never thought we'd expand to fill the space, but somehow we have, and it's not completely bare anymore.  Yesterday I spent the afternoon placing our few Christmas decorations, and last night we enjoyed having friends over for dinner. 
Whether it's two for salmon and veggies in this big house, or 15 crammed into a stairwell apartment in Germany for Thanksgiving dinner, or our favorite neighbors and their huge dog on an indoor-outdoor kitchen table scarfing pizza in Seattle, I'm completely convinced that the concept of HOME has, in my case, nothing to do with what's in it, and everything to do with who's in it.  So come visit, early and often, y'all.  In my book, the portable nest is best when full - and you'll never have to wait your turn for a bathroom here!  (more to follow on that story.)

Merry Christmas.

Indecision May or May Not Be My Problem

Ever notice how procrastination gets BIG?

I'm not astonished at a five-month lapse since my last appearance here, because, to put it mildly, we've had a lot going on.  More shall be revealed.

Meanwhile, things keep happening - and then it becomes a question of "where do I start?"  Jump in and just ignore all the stuff I've been dying to tell you or go back and try to catch up?  How do I rate the importance of what should be posted and when?  If a blog is suddenly coming back to life, what could possibly be worthy of folks' time that isn't impossibly out of date already?

Apparently The Sound of Music  freezes me into inaction...."Let's start at the very beginning - a very good place to start..."  Yikes!  Too far behind for that.

So forget all that.  The tyranny of the urgent wins.  I need desperately to spruce up my wardrobe.  Nothing fits, everything's shabby after 2 years of being washed in German hard water, and I'm actually going to be leaving the house occasionally.  So while I haven't gotten brave enough to actually start shopping for clothes, I'm having a great time looking at earrings on the internet......to go with the clothes I don't have yet.

And true to form, I cannot decide between these 2 pairs, so I'm putting it to a vote.  Which do you like better?  (Bear in mind they'll be on a middle-aged fluffy chick whose swanlike neck has morphed into a turkey neck while I wasn't looking.  But thank goodness I can't see up close anymore without my reading glasses.)

Please vote early and often.  Consider this an exercise to get you ready for the polling place in November.  You're welcome.




Pair #1 (left) or Pair #2?  I can't get the photos to line
up in a pretty way.  The pair on the right is actually
smaller than the pair on the left by a half inch or so.

While you're at it, I'm on the way to Food Lion
(Thank you Lord for a grocery store that makes
me truly feel like I'm HOME) and I can't
decide whether to get red apples or green
apples.  Or what to cook for supper tonight.

It's a wonder I manage to get out of bed, there being
two sides to the bed and all that decision making.
I'm exhausted.  But obviously earrings are
really, really important.

o

Some Things Can't Be Improved Upon

I can't think of a better Good Friday post than to re-run this one from last year.

 

 

Jesus on the Cross

I've carried this  little piece of paper folded in my wallet for 17 or 18 years now.  It's something I treasure, even more at this time of year.  My Girl drew it for me as an Easter gift when she was four or five - I wish I'd written the date on the back. 

The thing I love the most about it is this:  we had just talked about what a painful death our Lord endured.  I couldn't help but notice that she drew Him with a smile on His face.  When I asked her about that, she replied, "Mommy, He's smiling because He was glad to do it for us."

He was glad to do it for us.  For you. Happy Easter - He is Risen!!!

Playing Chicken and A Giveaway

I hit a culinary home run last night. 

Though I've been cooking for over 30 years now, Sir has been more of a challenge to please than your average bear. He thinks breakfast is the emperor of all meals.  He's a runner, and to him, food is fuel, not a love language.   Recipes that have garnered positive reviews from guests for most of my adult life have been met with, "That's really good, dear.  Maybe you could ask my mom how she makes it."

Before your blood boils in sympathy for poor, underappreciated me, think about it.  I've actually observed this with nearly all of us.  NOBODY cooks like Mom.  I'd rather eat my mom's cooking than my own any day of the week.  The Girl can whip up any recipe I've ever made for her, but she prefers Mom or Grandma's touch.  Some of the highest compliments I've gotten at parties have been something along the lines of, "Dang - that's even better than my mama's - but don't tell her!"

So one day last year, I asked Sir's mom how she makes one of his favorites - chicken parmesan.  (This is not something I grew up eating or cooking, and the first few times I made it for him I used The Pioneer Woman's recipe.  He liked it, but thought it was way too much work.)  His mom told me her recipe, and I didn't write it down.  When it occurred to me to try it for supper last night, I'd long forgotten what she said.  Improvisation was the word of the day, and it turned out reaaaallly fabulous.  Sir's plate was so clean I nearly didn't have to wash it.  Before I forget how I did it, I'm going to post the recipe below.  Try it - you'll like it! 

Disclaimer:  Just before we sat down to eat, I may or may not have told Sir that I was pretty sure this was exactly how his mom told me to make the dish.  No harm in starting him out with a positive attitude, right?  Of course right.


Chicken Parm

3 boneless, skinless chicken breasts, pounded within 1/2 inch of their lives.  Mine were French.  I'll miss French Coqs when we leave here.  I pound chicken between two sheets of wax paper on a cutting board, because that's how my mom does it.  See above.

Oil, Progresso Italian Breadcrumbs, Grated Parmesan Cheese, Italian Seasoning, and one egg.  I didn't measure any of these things, because I was improvising.  Cover the bottom of a heavy skillet with olive oil. Heat on medium-high.  Pour (I'd guess it's about 1/3 cup) breadcrumbs, five good shakes of parmesan and two good shakes of seasoning in a plastic bag.  Shake to mix.  Beat the egg in a shallow dish, dip the chicken breasts in egg to coat, and then place them in the bag and shake it up, baby. (I know many people put their breading in a shallow dish as well, then dredge the chicken, but I like the easy cleanup of just tossing out the plastic bag.  Plus it takes me back to the commercials of my childhood - "it's Shake 'n Bake, and I haaayelpd.")

Fry the chicken to brown on both sides, turning frequently.  This doesn't take very long, since it's nice and thin.

1 Jar Prego Spaghetti Sauce, 1/2 small can of Tomato Paste, 1/4 cup water.  These were on sale at the commissary this week - the sauce was only $1.50 and the tomato paste was 9 cents!  I poured the sauce into a bowl, added the paste, then put the water in the sauce jar and shook it up to get every bit of sauce goodness out of that jar.  Because that's what my mother does.  Also, props to my brother Roy, who told me years ago that Prego was the  best spaghetti sauce.  He was right.  Mix the sauce and pour about 1/3 of it into the bottom of a 9x13 glass dish.  Place the chicken on top, then pour the rest of the sauce on top of the chicken.

Two big handfuls of Kraft Shredded Italian Cheese.  Sprinkle the cheese generously on top of the chicken.  Bake the whole thing in a 350 degree oven until the cheese is melty and the sauce is bubbly.  In our voltage challenged building which fluctuates oven temperatures more violently than my hormones on a good day, this took about 20 minutes, which gives you just enough time to boil

Half a box of thin Spaghetti.  I had the water bubbling on the back burner as I was prepping the chicken; if you forget, you still have plenty of  time to cook the spaghetti while the sauce is heating in the oven.

Plate the chicken beside a mound of spaghetti, and ladle some extra sauce on top of the noodles. 

I served this with a simple salad and some garlic bread.   Believe it or not (I'm totally reverting to childhood for sure) we had cherry jello with fruit cocktail in it for dessert!  The whole thing was so fast, so cheap, and so so good.  We are not about the gourmet here, hence the not-from-scratch ingredients, but honestly, I don't know how it could have been any better. The chicken was so tender we could literally cut it with our forks.   This one goes in the permanent rotation for sure.  Best part is, every part of this meal can be kept in stock in the pantry/freezer (except for the salad) and put together quickly for company.

This served the two of us, with enough leftovers for Sir to take for lunch to work today.  Too bad, so sad he forgot them...:)

I'm so tickled about the whole thing, I'm giving away another knife.  This one is a non-serrated Victorinox paring knife - the most-used knife in my kitchen.  You'll be getting a new one, not the actual most-used one in my kitchen.  All you have to do to enter is leave a comment below telling me YOUR current favorite recipe.  No food snobs here, so any simple thing you're enjoying is eligible.  I'll use my patented random hall-yelling technique to choose a winner on Monday, March 19th.


PS - Some readers have expressed concern about not wanting to log in or register etc etc in order to comment.  I just tested the commenting process, and if you don't already have a Blogger ID or one of the choices listed, all you have to do is write your comment and select Anonymous from the drop-down menu.  Just be sure to let me know who you are in your comment itself!

Gray is the New Gray

I forgot to take my camera (which, as most of you know, is my cell phone) when I went to visit Herr Menrath Friseur today.  I won't make that mistake again, because the next time I visit Herr Menrath ("we do make your fine hairs have both the volume and the curls today") will be my last chance to get my hair did in Germany.  I may even spring for color, just to watch him mix the potions up with a flourish while peering through his spectacles.  Frau Menrath stands beside him and assists with the magic pots while he applies color to his fashionable patrons who are not me because I, on the two occasions per year that my hair actually gets color, apply my own $6.79 L'Oreal.  Because I'm worth it. (picture me saying that just like Andie McDowell, only with a lot less hair and a lot more hips.)

ANYWAY, I was thinking this morning, as I walked across the Neckar River (on a bridge, not like Jesus,) that I'd better be a bit more intentional about photographic preservation of Heidelberg, because we are down to WEEKS before we fly back to the States.  I felt like a child, noticing everything.  There were young moms on bicycles with their shopping baskets perched on the front and their babies strapped behind them; there were elegant ladies in London-ish hats, and heartbreaking beggars in wheelchairs and workmen smoking cigarettes perilously close to the streetcars whizzing by, and bakeries full of bread and pastries, and boutiques with Spring window displays.  The sunshine of the past few days has slipped away, and we're back to gray skies,  cozy but not energizing.

The grayness I noticed today, though, was in a shop window.  A gray sofa with silky cream pillows.  The softest-looking knitted gray throw arranged over it, a sweet pair of black velvet ballet slippers with lavish gray velvet bows.  I never thought of gray as a beautiful color till this season.  Most of the shop windows are popping with red, white and blue for summer, or vibrant coral and turquoise for spring...but here was a luxurious display using a color so understated it's glamorous.

In totally unrelated news,  I'm looking forward to seeing Ree Drummond's new cookbook.  I found The Pioneer Woman's website several years ago when she was just starting to blog, and have enjoyed reading it ever since.  The Girl gifted me with Ree's first cookbook for Mother's Day last year, and I'm sending broad hints for a repeat performance this year.

http://www.amazon.com/The-Pioneer-Woman-Cooks-Frontier/dp/0061997188/ref=sr_1_sc_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1331558


My friend P told me once that the best thing I ever did for her was tell her about The Pioneer Woman.  I think she meant it as a compliment to Ree, but ever since, I've been really insecure about my friendship skills.

While we're on the subject of NOT HAVING ANY SORT OF COMMON THREAD BY WHICH TO TIE TOGETHER THIS POST, I've been noticing that The Girl was really right last fall when she told me the sides of my face look just like harps.  The wrinkles have taken over.  I've been reading about the Clarisonic Mia, which gets great recommendations from people like Melanie who are a solid decade younger than I am, and about this fascinating ritual, but both are currently out of my price range.  Additionally, I'm still looking for a good solution to the "I bought waterproof mascara by mistake and now my chunky gloppy eyelashes are suffering and coming out before they surrender their chunky glops" dilemma.  So, beauty mavens, feel free to dish me your age-defying secrets.  I need you.

All Up In the Underwear

Yesterday included one of those moments that I cling to when I wonder why I'm here.  (Here in Germany, as opposed to wondering why I'm here in general, which would require far too much philosophical effort and therefore might interfere with an opportunity to nap or read fiction.)

I clutched in my fluffy little arms the following:  9 pairs of men's plaid boxer shorts, 12 pairs of men's boxer briefs, 15 men's white t-shirts, three pairs of basketball shorts and a long-sleeved shirt.  NEVER had I had so much fun shopping for men's undies, because these were heading along with me to a place I wish every one of you could see...but hope that none of my soldier friends will ever need.

It's called the Chaplain's Closet.  It was begun in 2001 at Landstuhl Army Hospital in Germany by an army chaplain like my Sir who saw a basic, heartbreakingly simple need - and did something about it. The background:

 As most of you know by watching the news, our soldiers of all branches who are wounded in war are brought to Landstuhl to stabilize and receive care.  You'd be astounded, as I was, to know how quickly this process happens - often they're in the emergency room within 6 hours, and if they make it to Landstuhl (most do,) 96 to 99% survive.  What an INCREDIBLE testament to the professionalism and expertise of our pilots, flight nurses, and the staff at this amazing hospital.  The success rate is simply unmatched anywhere.  I'm so proud to be part of the military family.

Back to the Closet.  It never occurred to me, but thankfully it did to someone - when a soldier is injured, his clothing is usually cut off quickly so he can be treated.  He arrives at Landstuhl with the best in triage and medical attention, but when he is stabilized, he has absolutely nothing with him.  The Chaplain's Closet was opened, and still exists today, to provide basic comfort items and necessities to these brave, wounded soldiers.  When they're able, they can wheel or walk to this cozy room in the hospital building and choose clothing, toiletries, lap blankets, shoes, slippers, dvds, notebooks, etc etc etc... even a backpack to put them in.  I can only imagine how wonderful it would feel to have just a little something of your own at a painful and scary time. 
The Closet is entirely funded and run by volunteers, not the military.  Sir and I discovered it soon after we arrived here in Germany, and it's been close to my heart ever since. 

But wait....there's more!

Few people know that I had a prior connection to Germany.  When he was My Girl's age, my wonderful dad was an Army medic for a couple of  years between college and grad school.  He worked out of the Rhine Medical Depot on an ambulance train which took soldiers to the brand new, built-in-1954 ......wait for it......Landstuhl Army Hospital!!   Don't you love it when life goes full-circle on ya?

So, because my dad always asserts that he "doesn't need a thing.  Not a thing."  when I ask what he'd like for Christmas, last year we decided that we'd donate sweatshirts and sweatpants to the Chaplain's Closet in my dad's name, to honor his service 55 years ago to our country and to the hospital that, these many years later, is giving such good medical care to his daughter. Good grief, that was a long sentence.  I need to take a breath now and then.  When I told Dad, he declared it was the best possible gift ever (excluding the time My Girl gave him a personalized photo calendar he wouldn't even write in because he loved it so much.)  We had such a great time shopping and delivering that we decided to do the same thing again this past Christmas.  We weren't able to get to Landstuhl till yesterday,  (oh-so-typical for Procrastinator-Me) so Christmas was a little late, but once again it was a privilege to contribute in our small way to such a worthy ministry.  As I scrambled through the PX, dropping skivvies right and left, I was so honored to pray for the soldiers who will wear them. 

Note to self - they do have shopping carts at the PX.  Note to readers - I did not deliberately match my lipstick to the plaid, and yes, I'm aware that I need a fashion update on the berry shades. 

Here's Handsome Dad in action:

Third from the left, with the big smile.  He really loved Germany.

No, girls, he's not single.  But I have a brother who looks just like him in this photo!  Not even kidding.  Message me if you're forty-something and fabulous and I'll give you his digits.

There's the reason he's not single.  Still beautiful as she approaches 80, and absolute perfection as a mother, except for the fact that she forgot to genetically bless me with those gorgeous legs.  Instead I spent 45 years with bird legs, which then unfortunately morphed into turkey drumstick legs. 
She loved Germany, too.

This is where they lived for part of the time they were stationed here, and it still looks exactly like that.  We know, because we went there when my parents visited us last September.

There are more stories to tell about that trip, but not today. 

Mom and Dad, the Closet was happy to receive your gift yesterday.  We set things up so that even when we are stationed back in the States, we will continue to send supplies to the Chaplain's Closet in your honor, for as long as you like.  Thank you for serving!  We love you.

The Didn'ts

This weekend, at least for me, was all about the stuff that didn't get done.  Sir was incredibly productive - he taught a men's study Saturday morning and gave the sermon on Sunday at our local chapel.  He went for a 4-mile run on the mountain trail just outside our home.  He watched all manner of snowy German channels on the TV and could accurately describe to you the circumstances behind at least six commercial airline crashes from the German National Geographic channel.  He watched half of Iron Man 2.  He napped.  He ate yellow cake with chocolate icing.

I, on the other hand, didn't get the bank account reconciled, didn't get the package mailed off to my brother, didn't win one of the coveted shiny candy apple red mixers in The Pioneer Woman's weekend giveaway, didn't sort out all the piles on my desk, didn't make bulgogi for dinner because I didn't remember to buy carrots, and didn't manage to find us a house or apartment in which to live in Virginia, although I spent so many hours looking at rental sites that I could probably pass the realtor's exam.

Also, I didn't get the promised book review/giveaway post written, and it ain't happenin' today either, because I'm about to run out the door on extremely important errands which happen to be eating lunch with Monette.  I cannot confirm or deny that I will also be buying carrots and the 84 other things I forgot at the commissary on Friday even though I had a list with me and we will not even comment on the pitiful thing that used to be my memory.

Although I can perfectly, perfectly remember the most random and odd things, like how I love typing the word carrots, because it reminds me of my Grandma Dodds, whose handwritten recipe for potato soup is one of my treasures.  She spelled carrots with two "t"s, and for some reason, that's precious to me. I can't see the word without thinking of her. 

 And I can perfectly remember the look on The Girl's face the first time I tried to feed her baby food carrots out of a jar.  I have never seen a young child look so insulted.  I am vindicated, because at age 22, The Girl is a carrot-eating machine. Who knew?

What was I talking about?

 Oh, yes, things I didn't get done.  Um...I can't remember.  Must not be important, then.

Winner, Winner, Tomato Dinner

Well, the homepage at Random.org, which I have seen used for drawings on other blogs, was so technically challenging that I gave up, stuck my head out in the hall of our stairwell apartment building, and yelled, "Somebody pick a number between 1 and 6!"

"Four!" came echoing back at me. 

And, comment number four belongs to our only male commenter this round, who (disclaimer) happens to be my brother!  I'm happy for you, Roy, although I suspect Dee will get to use the nifty knife more than you do.  Here's hoping it keeps the Spaghetti Monster at bay.  :)

If I were a hugely popular blogger with thousands of readers, I'd accept that someone might cry foul and say I was guilty of nepotism; but the fact that I can't even claim tens of followers makes it obvious that if you win one of my giveaways, you have a good chance of being in my family!

In other news, I made barbecued chicken in the oven for supper, along with fresh broccoli with cheese sauce, baked beans (Sir's fave) and a packaged rice mix I got at Kaufland, one of the local grocery stores.  It never fails to make me laugh that I buy these things and then stare at the back of the package because I CAN'T READ GERMAN, therefore I have to use Google Translate in order to know how to cook whatever it is. 

I had planned to photograph the packet for you, but Sir needs the laptop to work on a presentation he's giving Saturday and his sermon for Sunday.  This never happens.  The man hates the computer and never touches it outside of the office; unfortunately he needs a quote from a Dutch Reformed theologian and he can't find the dusty tome of a textbook from his seminary days in which it resides.

So see you tomorrow, with another giveaway!

Nekkididity

As if the challenges of language, traffic oddities, customs and currency weren't enough, I had to add adventures in medical care to my list of Traumatic Life Events. 

Let me begin by saying that I am so happy to have military medical care, and that we've been blessed for the most part with excellent providers.  Hiyevah, our little community is gradually transitioning to close down, and so for some issues we are sent "on the economy" to German doctors.   I can't even describe how different it is!  For example, I went to an endocrinologist who wanted to do a scan - so she grabbed her machine and did it!  No referral to a lab, no separate appointment, no lab tech - just "Pleez ligh down now and be vehly still."  Blood work?  No problem - right in the office.  These things I like.

And thennnn we have The Orthopedic.  "Vee do ex-hlays now.  You vill take off please your clozzinks and valk down zis hall mit me." 

Oh, yeah.

No  hospital gown, no changing booth, no sheet, no drape, just me and my panties and three x-ray technicians whose combined age does not come close to equalling mine, and who were probably (as I would have at their age) begging the Lord above not to ever let them disintegrate into looking like that cottage-cheese covered, basset-hound resembling old American lady who fought the gravity and the gravity won.

They rolled me over, they stood me up, they walked me back and forth across some sort of gait-measurer, as I pretended, like any good European, that they weren't seeing things that would frighten a grown man.  (There's a good reason for candlelight and the fact that vision declines in one's 50s, or I wouldn't have gotten married.)

Humiliation 1  Me 0.

So today I went to the dermatologist on our army post, and the first thing his capable assistant did was give me the cutest little blue paper drape thingy to put on for my exam.  I could have kissed her.  I cannot tell you how close I came to PUTTING IT IN MY PURSE AND TAKING IT WITH ME when I left.

The Early Bird Special, and a Giveaway

It's Monday at 6:30 a.m., and I have a batch of cupcakes in the oven, ingredients laid out for a hot appetizer to be taken to a friend's house later today, the laundry sorted and ready to go down the 736478364926489 stairs to the basement, Sir packed up and bundled into his car with a bag lunch and hot coffee for his trip a few hours down the road to teach a class, and all the dishes done.

WHO AM I?

I know.

I'm the girl who stubbornly believed there should be only one 6:30 in a day, and it would NOT be the early one; the girl who stumbled through the mornings of her teaching, working and childraising years awakening  this early and functioning, but with neither a clear head nor a willing heart.  I'm the girl who would calculate exactly what time I had to be somewhere and how many minutes it would take to get ready, including (gasp) putting my makeup on in the car while driving, in order to determine down to the last possible SECOND how long I could stay in bed.  The girl who stayed up till 2 a.m. watching movies and catching up the ironing and reading thick, irresistible books.

And then I married a soldier.

A soldier who believes that the best part of his day is arriving at the gym at 5:10 a.m., and then coming home to a hot, huge breakfast at 6:42 a.m.  (We are nothing if not precise around here.) 

I die.

A soldier who is nodding off on the couch by 8ish p.m. but who will not surrender his pride and actually go to bed until 9 p.m. 

NINE P.M.  About the time I'm starting to feel creative, energetic and productive.

I struggled with this and still do because how do you change your entire lifetime body clock for about two years, but since I can't pull Sir over to the dark side (the Army frowns on late sleepers,)  he's slowly nudging my owlish tendencies toward the lark side.  Last night I was tucked in the flannel sheets at 8:37 p.m.  The thick, irresistible books I adore are very, very gradually being replaced by a 6-oz Kindle (the movers and packers are going to like me a lot this summer) and a tiny flashlight; it's a drowsy paradise with  the end result being that waking up at 5 is actually not that hard anymore. 

(WHO AM I?)

So, warbles the disgustingly chipper early riser, it's a perfect morning for a giveaway!  In my last post I mentioned my little love affair with Swiss and German paring knives.  (My true love affair is with French chocolate tortes and raspberry linzer cookies, but I can't send you those.)  I visited our little local gourmet shop last week and picked up a few of these handy little fellas to share with y'all.

Awful photo.  What we have here is a better photo that I actually borrowed from http://www.victorinox.com/.

I have no idea if I'm allowed to do that.  I'm so incredibly proud of myself for figuring out how. 

ANYWAY, the saleslady called this a "tomaten knife" - obv. a tomato knife.  I use mine for absolutely everything, though ironically not for apples, because I prefer a non-serrated blade for apples.  It and its counterpart, my little paring knife, are hands down the most used tools in my kitchen. 

So today, I'm giving one of these brand new knives away.  All you have to do is leave a comment below.  I will use random.org to choose a winner on Thursday this week, and your sweet Victorinox will be on its way to you. 

Because this post is so hurriedly and poorly written, I'm not going to offer bonus entries by twitter and facebook, although that will come with the next giveaway, (next week!) which will be a book I was asked to review.  Fun, fun!

Good luck!  Winner will be announced Thursday, but probably not at 6:30 a.m.

I think I'm going back to bed.