I was in London for most of last week, and so my Bride and the Critter hopped a train down to spend the weekend getting our annual dose of culture. We took in the dinosaur exhibit at the Natural History museum, and saw both the Magna Carta and the Gutenberg Bible at the British Library, which fascinated the heck out of us (as did some of the original 1775 stamps from the Stamp Act. You know. The Stamp Act that irked a bunch of colonists and led to Mel Gibson going all medieval on Draco Malfoy's dad. This was extremely cool, but as I tried to explain the historical significance to my 2 year old, I caught the British docent rolling his eyes, and hurried along to something a little less obviously 'I'm an American tourist') Equally as cool, however, was the infusion of other down-home goodness. Krispy Kreme at Harrod's? BBQ Ribs and even a Daly City license plate in Chelsea? How cool is that! The Crabshack experience also led to discovering that the Critter is a huge fan of mussels. This she gets from my Bride. Literally, in this case - as she scarfed down half the plate-full that her mother had ordered, ignoring the quarter rack of ribs I had ordered for her.             The only bad part about the weekend was me managing to come down with the flu during it all. Considering I'm still on antibiotics strong enough to kill off anthrax, I know it's not a simple cold. Me with the flu. Oh the irony.

This past week I had to do a quick back and forth to the US for work. As I have everytime, I carry along with me a shopping list and at least half a suitcase of reserved space to bring missed goodies back into the UK. The list changes from trip to trip, depending on how long it's been since I've been back. Even though I got all of this at the grocery store in San Francisco, it's hard to call what I bring back "food," exactly. Here's a sample from the list:

Macaroni & cheese - 4 boxes

Ranch dressing - 8 packs

Reese's Peanut Butter cups - 1 bag

Frank's Hot Sauce - 2 bottles

Cheetos - Flamin' Hot - 1 bag

Nabisco Cheese & Peanut Butter Crackers - 2 boxes

Jose Cuervo Gold - 2 bottles

Frito Lay Bean Dip - 5 cans

Velveeta Cheese-like Product - 4 boxes

Pez - as much as I could furtively stuff in my carryon I'm not taking all the blame for the Velveeta. Our American neighbors asked for that. I have no idea why the dogs at Customs didn't home in on my bags."What's this then, mate? Oh-ho-ho... Chili Cheese Fritos is it? You'll not be bringing that into Her Majesty's borders without declaring it, would you?" Some people bring back souveniers. Me - I do my best to imitate a flying 7-11.

My father, the surgeon, had his own sense of logic. For instance, in the bachelor years (between wives 3 - my mom - and 4) when it was just he and I in the house, he finally got to fully try out his cooking skills. A+B always equalled delicious to him, at least in theory. For instance, he liked broccoli. He also liked salsa. Turns out, no one liked salsa covered broccoli. Actually, my father never admitted he didn't like it. He finished the bowl, just to prove a point to whoever was keeping score. He was also a passionate fan of meat in general and its barbequed variants in particular. One summer, he struck on the notion that if only you could replace blood with meat tenderizer, that would be, like, really good meat. Being a vascular surgeon, he figured he pretty much had the skills to pull this off. So one weekend, he bought a couple of live pigs and a couple of rabbits (where did one go to buy a pig in suburban Atlanta, anyway? This was way pre-Craig's list) and made up a tub of tenderizer/saline solution that we bagged for IVs. He hired a professional BBQ chef, invited everyone we knew and told them to wait while we ("we" being my father the surgeon, his buddy the anesthesiologist, his buddy the vet, and me, his 12 year old) went to work. So he knocked out the animals with whatever goof-juice the anesthesologist had brought over in his trunk, and hooked up the IVs. For rabbits, this meant just plugging the needle into a convinent ear-vein. For the pigs, it took a bit more doing. Apparently, a pig's equivalent to a convenient ear-vein is buried under 3 inches of fat in their necks. This was my first and last exposure to backyard animal surgery. My job was to hold the 300 pound sleeping porker steady while the doctors operated. It was kind of like every other episode of M*A*S*H where Radar ends up assisting in the O.R. and hilarious hijinks ensue. 3 hours later, a grill the size of some small trailer homes was sizziling with baby-back ribs tenderized from the inside out. I really don't remember any difference in the relative tender-osity of the porker, but the whole experience made for a hell of a story at school the next day. My dad, the idea man.