Need Viagra?  For months now I have been remiss in not sharing the wonderful news with you.  Just contact Paul at http://www.eaglesnestoutfittersinc.com/.  According to the spam I keep getting they apparently sell all that stuff on the side.  

Or at least paul1@eaglesnestoutfit.com does.  That email address is their email account at the friendly Eagles Nest Outfitters, Inc. place and the return path for all my wonderful missives.  But, the spam messages are set to look like they came FROM me and TO me.  Not easy to filter out. 

Here, copied and pasted, are the latest advertised advantages for doing business with their apparent silent partner (note the copyrights):

You know how one reaches an age where they realize their parents are really pretty darned smart, and not the portraits of ignorant party poopers once thought to be?
 
Well…
 
 
 
After coming home from months away, first at Basic Training and then at technical school, all total from August through February, I proudly shared my many stories with anyone who would listen.  This was in 1964.
 
One of those was how we heated Kiwi shoe polish with cigarette lighters and used cotton balls to shine our boots.  The liquefied wax supposedly did a marvelous job.  Well, many of us thought so and anything one could do was a jump ahead of the system designed to test us at every turn.  Nothing like Chris’s Marine Basic experience, however.
 
Sometime later my mother was quite upset, but she was having trouble deciding the direction of her wrath.  Dad and I were both in trouble.
 
Dad, that newly discovered sage, had taken me at my word, but he was always something of an overachiever when it came to making things.  He had a large can of Kiwi and had placed it on the stove.  He was a smoker, so he had a cigarette lighter, but no, that just wasn’t sufficient.  And we had an electric one; you may note that unlike gas those do not cool very quickly when turned off.
 
The can had heated up, and because Dad had not opened it (and had applied FAR FAR too much heat), it exploded, sending the top to the ceiling and shoe polish all over the kitchen.
 
Because the coil remained hot for some time, what was left in the can merrily bubbled along, each bubble bursting and splattering it’s small amount on the wall and the top of the stove.
 
Despite the cleaning, the spot on the ceiling where the lid had struck was visible for a long time to come.
 
Thankfully, shoe polish has never come in quart-sized containers.
 
 
Not related to the incident, they sold that house and moved elsewhere just a few years later, in 1967, when I was in Vietnam.
 
They were kind enough to send me the new address.
 

In reading Chris’ latest poems, particularly the one about his experience making pudding, I thought about one of my less noteworthy culinary happenings, one in which I was but a victim.  It happened a long, long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away.
………………..

When I was in high school (Holy Cross in New Orleans), Brother Daniel was the head chef/chief cook/guru/honcho/et al for the dining rooms, both the one for the brothers and the one for we boarding students.  I worked in the dining room as a boarder so we got to know each other.