Dear Critter, I'm afraid I have a bit of a confession. You see, what I told you the other day might not have been 100% accurate. My grandmother and your namesake is not, actually, one hundred and thirty-two years old. Not precisely, I mean. And when your best friend proudly told the class that her grandmother received a personal note from the Queen for turning 100 years old (that part's true), and you stood up to tell the teacher about how old your great-grandmother was, there may have been some validity to her skepticism. And that thing I told you about where popcorn comes from... you know, about how chickens eat the corn, and then poop out the little hard kernels which industrious mid-western protestant farm wives with a distinct and lilting Norwegian accent diligently collect and sell to the Redenbacher popcorn magnate for repackaging and distribution, and which pop up so lovely and fluffy in our pot when we add a little butter and heat (none of that air-popped crap will ever enter this house). OK. Yeah. That one's only partially true as well. The bit about the chicken, I mean. I'm sticking by the "air-popped is crap" part. Later on, when you're old enough to go poring over old 'Groove entries to find out what mortifying things I told the Internet about you and your raising, feel free to wave this one around for your therapist to see. Not that I have any intention of correcting your impressions at this point, of course. Because it's not polite to tell a person a woman's real age. But, well... ok. She's really one hundred and thirty-five. But don't tell anyone that you heard it from me.

This past weekend, the Critter got to play her violin at the truly magnificentLiverpool Anglican Cathedral. The place is absolutely staggering in its scale - really, an amazing place. Never mind the Beatles Story Liverpool museum (which, unless you're a rabid fan that really wants to see the jew's harp that John Lennon once sneezed on, is a guaranteed yawn after about three and a half minutes). If you're coming anywhere near the North West of England, this cathedral should be on your must-do list. Sure, she'll barely remember it, and was mostly bored by the 2 hour wait she had before she got to actually join in and play, but how freaking cool is that experience?

Those things she's eating? Those are boiled peanuts. (or "juicy" peanuts, as they're known in our house.) Boiled for two days with enough salt to preserve a pickup-full of roadkill. You don't just pick up a love of those like the one she and I share. A love that caused her to run through the house salivating and squealling "wooooo hooooo!" when she discovered what was bubbling away in the big steel pot on the stove. That's all genetics, baby.