The Bag Lady

(The Railway Station, William Powell Frith, 1800's , Art Renewal.com)

Okay, I'll admit it.

I'm deathly afraid that I am going to run out of food while I'm traveling in Europe.

I know these feelings are completely unreasonable.

But then again, the act of reason has very little to do with the development of feelings in the first place.

Gretch and I had bought hot chocolate and pastries at the train station in Innsbruck, Austria midmorning.

Just as expected, everything was superbly scrumptious.

While inhaling my chocolate croissant, I gazed down the station's corridor and saw the sparkle of lights and glistening glass windows.

I peered at this inviting scene more closely.

Boxes of every shape, size and color were sitting on shelves.

Jars and cans stood like soldiers at attention next to them.

I couldn't believe what I was seeing!

No, it wasn't a snack bar.

And it definitely wasn't a magazine shop.

I was staring at an honest to goodness grocery store right there in the middle of the train station!

I began running toward mecca as fast as my little legs could carry me.

I slowed to a comfortable trot as I entered the store.

My eagle eyes made a cursory examination of the aisles as my brain began to whirl with ideas.

I knew that our barely swallowed snack of five minutes ago would not sustain us past the next 15 minutes - tops.

That thought alone was enough to frighten the fat right off me.

But then I realized that we would be back on the train to Italy during the respectable hours - 11 a.m. through 2 p.m. - when lunch should rightly be consumed.

I clearly had no choice.

I would have to buy lunch in this grocery store palace!

I grabbed Gretch and we shot down the aisle toward the deli.

Sandwiches of every sort and variety were spread throughout the display case.

They seemed to be speaking to me:

"Choose me! Choose Me!"

Kind soul that I am, I didn't want to leave anyone out so I quickly selected five sandwiches - two tempting turkeys, one mouthwatering ham, one sturdy looking beef and one lonely all-by-itself chicken at the end of the row.

Delicate leaves of crisp green lettuce peeked out of the slices of bread.

Thick slices of juicy red tomato hung over the sides of the sandwiches.

Bottles of delectable dressings stood in a beautiful tray inside the display case - all ready to be called into action as condiments.

Four of us would be noshing on lunch.

But I had selected five sandwiches.

Oh, well - as my dad used to say - that's the way the cookie crumbles.

Next, we needed something to wash those tasty sandwiches down the old pipes.

Heading for the beverage aisle, I glanced quickly at the salad display.

I thought to myself, "How many vegetable servings is one person supposed to ingest in a day?"

The last time I checked, the revered American Food Pyramid had amped that figure up to 92 half cup servings per day - fresh vegetables only.

A person can squeeze by with just 46 servings if the vegetables are cooked.

That was good news.

Feeling unusually guilty, I said to myself: "I'd better pick up a few salads too."

Gretch and I sized up the libation offerings in the beverage aisle.

Things looked really promising, I have to say.

We chose a gallon of apple cider, three gigantic bottles of mineral water and a half gallon of chocolate milk to round things out.

(Most of the things that would be "rounding out," by the way, could be easily located on my body in a matter of hours.)

My mind began to wander to our upcoming train ride.

I said to Gretch: "I hope they provide catheters on the train because after I drink all of this fluid, that's going to be my only option!"

We giggled as we walked over to my favorite section of any grocery store - the cookie aisle.

I've had a love affair with cookies all of my life.

And I don't intend to break up with the little buggers anytime soon.

Our eyes focused on a veritable treasure trove of Austrian biscuits, cookies and pastries.

How was I going to choose from among them?

The answer to that question was incredibly obvious.

Pass any of them up?

Let's get serious here.

I promptly dropped 6 packages of cookies and two bags of mini- donuts into our basket.

I realized that I needed to be sensible.

We were leaving Austria within minutes.

Who knew if we would ever return?

I would regret it forever if I missed even one of those Austrian confections.

I dropped a package of apple strudel in my basket just as Bob reached my side.

I glanced up at him and said, "Have you been having fun in the train station, honey?"

His eyes dropped to my basket as he said, "Yes, I've been studying all of the historical markers and getting some exercise in too."

I wanted to slap him silly!

Maybe that would jolt all of that high minded discipline out of him.

Instead, I said, "Gretch and I have been having fun shopping for groceries."

Then he continued: "Do you really think we need all of that food?"

The hair on the back of my neck began to curl.

He had used the word "need" which automatically caused me to become hyper-vigilant.

"Well, no, we don't really NEED it but won't it be fun to sample these Austrian delicacies on the train?"

Wisely, he stepped away from me and headed for the check-out.

As Bob was gazing down the corridor, I tossed four chocolate bars - all proudly made in Austria - on the conveyor belt.

We walked out of the food palace with a plastic bag the size of New Zealand.

Seth, who had been computing in the train station, met us in the corridor.

His eyes fell on my plastic bag as he said, "Stocking up, are we?"

People stared at me as we walked through the train on our way to our compartment.

I thought to myself: "Oh, give it a rest, you nosy Nellies. I've picked up a few groceries. I haven't killed anyone.......yet."

I did not care if the entire world thought I was crazy to the core.

The only thing I cared about was finding a catheter.

Shrimp "Scampy"

(A Mouse in the Trap, Pietro Torrini, 1800's, Artrenewal.com)

Soon after our arrival in London, Gretchen slid this piece of news into a perfectly pleasant conversation:

"We think we may have a mouse in the flat. I left a package of cookies on the kitchen counter the other night. When I was making breakfast the next morning I noticed that the edge of the plastic wrapper had been opened. The end cookie looked like it had been gnawed on."

I instinctively knew that no one or nothing with the ability to "gnaw" would ever be allowed within 467 feet of me.

So I jumped up, grabbed my cell and booked one of those " as-soon-as-you-can-get-me-there" flights back home.

I'm kidding, of course.

But not by much.

I thought to myself: "Great, good and wonderful. I'm living in a mouse house. And I'm going to be held captive by the whims of this monster who is going to make personal appearances in the flat whenever he feels like it."

Seth went to work setting traps with tempting delicacies like peanut butter and cheddar cheese.

Scampy - short for "scampered" or "scampering" - always managed to grab the goodies and then high tail it out of there.

This was no dumb mouse.

Several nights later, Bob saw a tiny brown blob scurry across the shadows of the living room floor.

I asked Bob: "You saw Scampy?"

Bob: "Yes, I did."

Merry: "What did he look like?"

Bob: "What do you think he looked like? It's a mouse."

Merry: "I mean did he have any identifying characteristics?"

Bob: "I think he was wearing a purple earring in his left ear. Are you happy?"

Obviously, I was not going to be getting any sympathy from Bob.

So I decided that my best plan of attack would be to forget that Scampy existed.

This strategy worked remarkably well until the week before we left for Italy.

We decided to hold a Family Council one evening after dinner.

The topic?

The once-and-for-all permanent end of Scampy.

We all agreed that our 10 day trip to Italy should give our dear Scampy enough time to "buy the farm."

Bob and Seth, our resident rodent warriors, moved into high gear.

The guys went to our quaint neighborhood hardware shop and purchased a boatload of traps and something else........

sticky paper.

We decided that this arsenal of weaponry would be set in several places around the flat just before we left for the airport.

Good-bye, Scampy!

There was just one more piece of business I needed to take care of.

I made Bob promise that if Scampy did "kick the bucket" while we were gone, he would quickly and quietly dispose of the remains with no graphic discussion of the details.

He promised.

Naturally, the other shoe dropped the night before we left for Italy.

I was lying in bed wondering how I was going to force my body to get off the mattress at 3 a.m. when I heard a distinct rustling sound in my wastebasket.

My heart nearly stopped beating.

Then I heard it again.

Earlier in the evening I had dumped an open bag of chocolates into the wastebasket because the date on the bag had expired.

I know what you're thinking.

Why would any decent, red-blooded American woman allow a bag of chocolates to expire?

The answer baffles me as well.

The rustling in the wicker wastebasket was revving up - crinkle, crackle, snap, pop.

The noises were making me nervous.

Minutes later - realizing that I was being ridiculous - I jumped out of bed and saw Scampy scoot under my door just as I turned the light on.

I thought to myself: "My stars! I've eaten shrimp larger than Scampy - he's tiny!"

I'm not proud of what I did next but here we have it:

I woke Bob up.

I said to him, "Scampy was in my wastebasket feasting on my chocolates a few seconds ago."

Bob opened one eye, looked at me and said, "Then he'll be fat and happy. Put the wastebasket out in the hall. Goodnight."

I immediately did what I was told.*

Returning to bed, I spent several minutes worrying that Scampy might return to the scene of his crime and scare the bejeebers out of me

I knew it was time for a one woman therapy session.

I said to myself, "This is silly. Scampy is more afraid of you than you are of him."

Feeling suddenly powerful, I turned the light off and went to sleep.

* This documented event is the one and only time I have "done what I was told."  May it ever be so.

Epilogue:

Scampy did, indeed, move on to better things while we were in Italy. The powers that be informed us that it was the sticky paper that got him. Fortunately for Bob and Seth, Gretchen and I will never have first-hand knowledge of Scampy's sad demise.

(Peasants Meal, Cheltenham Museum, Cheltenham England)

Pudding, Anyone?

(Still Life, Cornelius de Heem, 1600's, Columbus Museum of Art, Columbus, Ohio)

Recently, I have been fantasizing about the gastronomical delights we have enjoyed in Europe.

If you can't dredge up any other reason to go across the pond other than food, believe me, that's reason enough to go.

I could have taken a long, leisurely bath in the creme brulee we devoured in Paris.

Why shouldn't my bodily pores indulge themselves too?

There was the lighter-than-air chocolate mouse I yummed up at the Louvre.

Every single time we eat there I order it.

And every single time I enjoy it more than I ever have before.

I never think about the Louvre without coveting the divine cheese wedges that never fail to tickle my taste buds.

Not much on earth makes me forget about the glories of art.

But those cheese wedges have the power to do it!

The fresh spinach sauté in Milan?

Bring it on!

The shrimp scampi in Venice?

Simply the best I've ever tasted.

The fresh baked, moist and fluffy croissants in London of all places?

Oh, the wonder of it all as the flaky dough melts on my tongue!

The black pudding in Cheltenham?

Not so much.

First of all, who in their right mind would seriously label a pudding "black?"

I can think of a lot of things that should be labeled "black."

Things like ties, tar and, of course, the iconic "little black dress," for instance.

But pudding?

I don't think so.

On that beautiful morning in Cheltenham, Bob and I walked downstairs to breakfast in the posh dining room of our small hotel.

It had been a long time - that means never - since we had enjoyed breakfast in a room dripping with crystal chandeliers, sparkling goblets and white linen tablecloths.

Bob and I studied the menu and then decided on the "full traditional English breakfast."

This feast included an assortment of juices, scrambled eggs, ham, sausage, baked beans, freshly sliced tomatoes, grilled mushrooms, black pudding and toast with orange marmalade.

While waiting for this harvest of food to arrive, I gazed at my girth and then at the width of the dining room's entry door.

I simply wasn't sure if I would be able to crawl - I knew that walking would be out of the question - through that spacious opening after I had consumed this British breakfast.

But I decided to throw caution to the wind and go for it!

A short while later, our server arrived with our breakfast plates laden upon her arms.

I asked the young woman to tell me the ingredients in the black pudding.

She sweetly ignored my request and urged me to try it.

In the spirit of preserving good international relations, I almost succumbed to her coy suggestion.

But then I vaguely remembered reading somewhere that black pudding was made from some sort of animal innards.

Please believe me when I tell you this - there was not going to be one chance in The Hot Place that I was going to let that stuff touch my lips let alone my precious stomach.

Just then "Bob The Brave" chomped down on a bite of his pudding.

I casually inquired, "How is it?"

He looked at me with his piercing blue eyes and said, "It's bad."

In Bob-ese, the word "bad" - when used in a food context - translates to "this is the most vile tasting stuff that's ever entered my mouth."

So my instincts had been right.

Later, we discovered that "black pudding" is just another term for "blood sausage."

Because I had not yet ingested enough fat, sugar and salt grams in my traditional English breakfast - minus the black pudding - I decided to order a cup of hot chocolate with cream.

While sipping my hot chocolate, I instructed Bob to go to the front desk and reserve an ambulance........

just in case the cream in my warm cocoa had put me over my day's fat gram limit and caused me to need an emergency quadruple by-pass.

In the meantime?

The creamy hot chocolate tasted sublime as it splashed on my tongue and trickled down my throat.

Some things in life are simply worth the risk.


Please note:

In the interest of maintaining the emotional health and gastro-intestinal welfare of my readers, all recipes for "black pudding" and "blood sausage" have been banished from this blog until life as we know it is over - perhaps longer.

La Toilette

(La Toilette, Georges Croegaert, 1891, Private Collection, Art Renewal.com)

I've always had a serious fascination with bathroom plumbing.

And when I say "plumbing," I am referring to that oh-so-necessary item known as the commode.

To the uninformed, the word "commode" means "toilet" in polite society.

I adore the pristine crispness of a beautiful white commode.

It should go without saying that all decent commodes are white - not beige, not sage green, and certainly not mauve pink.

Midnight black?

Ick to the max!

I'll pretend that disgusting image never entered my mind!

There is something about the power of a flush that makes me get all tingly inside

A solid push on the handle and - WHOOSH! - everything disappears like magic!

But where does "everything" go?

I don't want to get too technical but I sincerely believe that "everything" disappears into the - hmmmm - bowels of the earth.

Although I'd love to, I'll never forget the restroom in the lobby of our Edinburgh hotel.

I cautiously opened the door - this was a wise decision - and slowly moved inside.

My gaze landed on an overly used (I'm trying to be nice here) hand towel that had been draped haphazardly on the back of the commode.

Let me just say that's never a good sign.

My eyes moved to the commode.

The height of this thing - from top to bottom - had to be nearly 3 feet!

Had they built this thing to service Amazons?

For a split second, I seriously wondered if I was going to need a ladder to climb on board.

The toilet seat was truly a work of art.

Certainly Medieval craftsmen had fashioned this splintered wood device to torture unsuspecting users.

Not to be outdone, the loosey-goosey handle wobbled in my hand as I performed The Great Flush.

Well........you get the picture.

"Why DOES this toilet look so strange?" I asked myself.

My frazzled brain was sputtering quickly to solve the puzzle.

Ah - hah!!!

I had unknowingly discovered the earth's original commode!

And it was on permanent display right here in this very lobby.

Suddenly, the light bulb in my brain flickered on.

This had to be one of those educational interactive exhibits in which museum go-ers are encouraged to become personally involved with the object on view.

How in the world could I be this fortunate to see such a thing?

And how in the world could I hold the contents of my bladder another second?

Obviously, some questions are better left unanswered.

I refused to wash my hands at the filthy sink.

Nothing in that restroom could have been dirtier than that sorry little basin.

Besides, I knew we were just minutes away from entering a private bathroom in our upstairs accommodations.

Hopefully, conditions there would be sanitary.

I grabbed a used paper towel - there was not a fresh one in sight - and twisted the door knob.

The desk clerk smiled at me as I headed up the stairs.

Thrilled to be in the lobby again, I grinned back at her.

Opening the door to our room, I glanced down and noticed a dainty length of bathroom tissue trailing from my perky sandal......

a sweet souvenir of my visit to the world's original commode.

The Twitching Tush

(The Sick Girl, Felix Vallotton, 1892, Artrenewel.com)

Something utterly ridiculous has happened.

Here we are - just six days until we depart for our Scandinavian Grand Adventure and I am sure that I have broken my tush.

As you might well imagine, this has occurred at the least desirable moment.

I am lumbering around on both feet but I have posterior pain the likes of which I have never experienced.

You may (or may not) be asking yourselves, "How on earth did this happen?"

Detective that I am, I believe I have tracked down the cause quite quickly.

It all started last year when Bob the Builder and I were finishing the interior of our new house.

Because I've always been allergic to work - thankfully, no one has found a cure for this ailment to date - I offer to paint walls when "reno" time pops up.

Last year, while rolling our 178 walls with "caramel sandstone," something else popped as well.

More correctly, something "popped out."

As a result, I sat in a chair with a heating pad on my left posterior - um, cheek - for three solid days praying for a speedy death.

Yes, I should have gone to the doctor.

But since I happen to be allergic to physicians as well, I decided to tough it out.

Things improved quickly and I returned to my normal snappy self before I could say the word "phobias."

Then a few months ago, I began having pain down my left thigh.

This felt a lot like the pain I experienced when I was expecting one of our children.

Fortunately for that particular offspring, I do not remember which child it was that decided to do bodily harm to his or her saintly mother.

If I remember correctly - and believe me, I do - that searing pain was directly related to my sciatic nerve.

My son-in-law, John, who is no stranger to back pain himself, informed me last evening that my broken tush is most likely related to spinal/vertebrae problems.

Something to do with shifty movement between the "lumbar # 4 and 5 discs."

This time the pain is traveling right down the middle of my left "cheek."

That pain is, in his opinion, related to my sciatic nerve as well.

Who am I to argue with a fellow sufferer?

I absolutely believe he is on to something.

I have spent the last two months working on two huge projects:

Bob the Trudge Master and I have been physically training for all the walking we will be doing in Europe. This means that we have been out the door and walking around our neighborhood for 30 minutes every morning at or around 6 a.m. As a result of this monumental effort, I now have calves that could walk from our house to Anchorage, Alaska and back again within the space of 35 minutes!

I have been sitting and writing, sitting and writing, and sitting and writing some more for many, many weeks. I have been working on several " Merry Scribe" projects - this blog being one of them.

Fast forward to last Friday.

I got up from a writing blitz, took a few steps and instantly began hobbling in pain.

I glanced back at the reproduction "Italian Renaissance" desk chair that I adore for it's unique design and Michelangelo-esque tapestry seat cover.

My delicate posterior regions have been practically glued to this chair for hours at a time as I have drafted page after page of the finest writing the world will ever see.

I HATE THAT CHAIR!

I fully intend to hack that torture device into toothpick size splinters and then torch it's slivery remains into oblivion.

Which brings me to the following happy circumstance.

I am receiving a one hour massage this very afternoon by an expert therapist who comes highly recommended by one of my dearest friends on the planet.

When I made the appointment to see the therapist - just one week ago - I had no idea that I would need her services so desperately.

I firmly believe that God works in mysterious ways.

Mysterious to us, by the way, never to Him.

Who knows how all of this is going to turn out?

I'm praying that I will be as fit as a fiddle and ready to speed walk all over Erik the Red's Scandinavian turf.

Or perhaps Bob The Annoyed will be pushing me around Copenhagen in a wheel chair - eventually dumping me into the city's fair harbor when he's had more than enough of my petulant whining.

I seriously suspect that something smack dab in the middle of those two possibilities may well occur.

We shall see.

I see the clock is tick, tick, ticking away.

I'm going to force myself to stand up now and drag my aching tush to the shower.

I've got an appointment with an angel of mercy and absolutely nothing is going to prevent me from keeping it.

Bottoms up!

A Romance in Rio

(James Tissot, Un Dejeuner, 1868, Private Collection, Art Renewal.com)

Bob and I had just finished a lovely dinner in Scotland - Edinburgh to be exact.

The Irish stew had tempted both of us so we indulged ourselves, savoring every delicious bite.

Then Mother Nature decided to call - again.

(She can be a real nuisance, can't she?)

I excused myself and walked upstairs to the ladies room.

As I reached the landing, a middle-aged man looked at me and asked:

"Do you know if any of the shops are still open?"

I said, "We just left the Royal Mile and some of the stores are open there."

Then he looked at me and said, "You're an American girl, aren't you?"

WHAT HAD HE JUST CALLED ME?

My ears were still ringing with unbounded glee.

His melodious words floated through my head:

"American girl."

"GIRL!"

This man had just referred to me as a "girl" and I was ecstatic.

No one - and I mean absolutely no one - has called me a "girl" in - oh, I don't know - maybe 287 years.

Well, what can I say?

I fell madly, deeply, adoringly in love with this man.

Instantly.

I did not care if his personal hygeine routine consisted of one yearly bath taken in a teaspoon of water.

I did not care if he lived with a portly pet python named "Buster."

I did not care if he moonlighted on weekends as a serial killer.

I simply did not care.

My Mystery Man continued to chat:

"I have never been to Edinburgh. My elderly mother does not understand my interest in travel.

But I love to get out in the world and see new places. It broadens my mind."

As he spoke I thought to myself: "What a charming man! Perhaps we could run off to Rio together.

My brain began commenting on his musings to me:

"Guess what? This is my very first time in Edinburgh too!"

We have so much in common!!!

"Can you believe it? We both have elderly mothers! And they've traveled somewhere - definitely to the grocery store!"

We have so much in common!!!

"You can't be serious! I love to travel too! See, I'm right here in Edinburgh talking to you, sweet cheeks."

We have so much in common!

"Isn't this amazing? Travel broadens my mind too - and my flattened posterior which has logged way too many hours sitting on planes, trains and automobiles.

We have so much in common!

I gazed longingly into his azure blue eyes for what seemed like forever.

Then I came to my senses.

I wished him well and proceeded to the ladies room.

Minutes later, I returned to Bob and mentioned the encounter with my mystery man.

He didn't seem at all threatened by his potential competitor.

In fact, he smiled as I related the story to him.

I was immediately suspicious.

Perhaps Bob was thinking to himself:

"I just missed my chance to unload this woman. The guy probably would have taken her off my hands if I'd offered him enough money."

Then Bob glanced sweetly at me and said: "Dear, I'm happy that you had a nice conversation with your new friend."

I gazed longingly into his azure blue eyes for what seemed like forever.

I knew in that instant that Bob would always be my one and only mystery man.

And Rio?

Pleaseeeeee..........

It was Bob who took me to Venice, after all.

And I've always been a Venice kind of girl.

Sweet Switzerland

(Bassin d'Argenteuil by Claude Monet)

Bob's maternal grandfather was born in Salenstein, Switzerland.

Because of this familial fact, it was our great pleasure to travel to this beautiful part of the world awhile ago.

To put it simply, we wanted to immerse ourselves in the land of Albert's birth.

On the morning of our arrival, Salenstein was bathed in a gray and misty fog.

I was bummed to the max!

My mind had pictured a sparkling sun swirling around Switzerland's skies.

The words "gray", "misty" and "fog" were not supposed to be part of the script.

As I soon discovered, the day's inclement weather would have nothing to do with my feelings about Salenstein.

******

What could I possibly say that would do justice to this place?

Salenstein is picture post-card perfect.

It is a small rural community built on towering hills overlooking a placid lake.

Apple orchards and dairy cows pepper Salenstein's land.

It just so happens that Bob and Gretchen are world class apple eaters.

The minute they saw the lush, crimson fruit hanging from the trees, they began salivating.

In anticipation of a taste test, Bob declared: "I'll bet those apples are good."

(To the uninformed, the word "good" in Bob-ese means: delicious, scrumptious, perfectly perfect.)

Gretch was right behind him, her eyes surveying the multiplicity of just- ripened apple trees.

Were Seth and I apple lovers as well?

Not so much.

Soon, the Bobster and Gretch could wait no longer.

They each bit into a ruby red orb.

Ahhhhh - this was, indeed, food for the gods!

They exclaimed in near unison: "These are the sweetest, crunchiest apples we have ever tasted!"

Seth and I were delighted that our mates had been able to enjoy such gustatory pleasures.

But my eyes were riveted on the nearby dairy cows.

I was mesmerized by their taupe-colored hides which looked strikingly beautiful next to the emerald green grass.

Please believe me, I can find art anywhere - even in a Swiss pasture.

And to top it all off, my gorgeous cows were bejeweled with - what else? - the requisite Swiss cow bells.

Be still, my beating heart!

******

Leaving the beauty of Salenstein behind, we drove through hilly, country roads until we found a village that looked like a promising place to find lunch.

We parked outside a busy grocery and I wasted no time entering the shop.

I was on a serious mission to hunt and gather my two favorite culinary C's - cheese and chocolate.

Without delay, I purchased four kinds of cheese and four varieties of chocolate.

I couldn't resist a loaf of bread that looked simply mouthwatering so I threw that into the mix as well.

Starving, we unwrapped our goodies in the car and quickly consumed our repast.

Perhaps the reason was raw hunger, but everything tasted fabulous.

Each cheese had its own distinctive flavor but we awarded the grand prize in the taste category to a stunningly beautiful flower-shaped concoction.

The razor thin slices had been rolled into petal form - complete with curly edges.

The "flower" looked and tasted divine.

The bread was sweet, moist and supremely cheese compatible.

The Swiss chocolates were much too milky for my taste.

(I'm hard-core, people. Only the darkest of the dark chocolates ever pass my puckering lips.)

Fortunately, the milk chocolate fans in my merry little band were more than willing to relieve me of the burden of having to consume it.

******

Later in the afternoon, we came to a lake side restaurant that advertised hot apple strudel on their overhead sign.

I said to my captive audience, "We are not going to miss this!"

The amiable waiter showed us to an outdoor table on the roof of the restaurant.

We looked out on a shimmering lake immediately to our left.

After several minutes of pleasant chit-chat, the waiter returned with our strudel.

One glance and I knew this sweet piece of heaven would be melt-in-my-mouth perfect.

Tiny berries tumbled down the sides of the warm apple slices.

Vanilla ice cream puddled at the sides of the flaky crust.

An abundance of whipped cream covered everything.

Surely this fruity confection would be found on heaven's menu, wouldn't it?

As we slowly paced our way through the lovely strudel, the sun returned in it's full glory.

Sailboats - their white masts gleaming in the light - rippled along the blue-green water.

I wanted to hold this picturesque scene in my mind forever.

I'm well on my way to doing just that.

Disclaimers:

1. Absolutely no apples were stolen from unsuspecting orchard owners in the creation of these true-to-life scenes. They were legally purchased at a village market and then consumed on sight.

2. Although no cow bells can be seen in the accompanying photo, cow bells were indeed found on several of the photographed cows' closest friends. Unfortunately, for reasons which we can not fully figure out, the cow bell cows were not deemed photo worthy by our group photographer.

3. Claude Monet's brilliant sailboat painting was created in France - not Switzerland. Who cares? It could have been created in Switzerland and that's all that matters.