Fourscore and eleven years ago, when I sat down one fine November evening and decided I’d start me a blawg – a place where I would write some stuff about some things, and lo, maybe even post some pictures of some people – I had two objectives in mind: 1) to document our family’s life for Alex and 2) to maybe eventually tell my friends about it so that we could all stay in touch a little bit better.

As always, I was dreaming big.

It took me two months to mention the blog to anyone other than D, and when I finally worked up enough nerve to tell some friends, I very sheepishly sent emails to Elise, Tracey and Merritt. And sort of halfway prayed that they’d ignore the link.

Lesson for Alex: SHOOT FOR THE STARS, SON!

It’s your heritage!

But I really wasn’t kidding about that whole “read by tens of people” thing.

And yet, two years later, here I sit, waiting to go to the airport and pick up two of my sweetest friends who I’ve never seen in person. Friends that I met ON THE INTERNET, THROUGH THE BLOG, and OH, life is rich with irony, isn’t it?

The weekend is going to be jam-packed – much moreso than I originally realized – but I’m telling you: I cannot wait to see these girls and hug their necks and scare them with my driving and drink way too much coffee and/or diet Coke and talk into the wee hours.

And hopefully we’ll have a chance to shop just a little bit, though I fear that the shopping could be dangerous. Very dangerous indeed. I may end up being the proud new owner of the sparkly dress after all.

So on that note, I’m off to the airport. I’m gonna make sure the girls get a little Alabama barbecue before the day’s over, and then we’ll sing our hearts out with Casting Crowns, Leeland and John Waller tonight.

I am so excited.

And I’m sure the three of us will be oversharing all the details very soon indeed.

I have no post to go with this title.

But the title has been on my mind for weeks now. And it’s driving me a little cuckoo, the frequency with which this title interrupts my train of thought.

Not that I’ve been listening to the “High School Musical 2” soundtrack or anything.

Oh, heavens no.

Because I am so totally mature and grown and sophisticated and whatnot.

Ahem.

Also: I just looked over in Alex’s direction, and I noticed A LOT OF FLAMES on top of the coffee table where I was burning a lovely pumpkin-scented candle.

Apparently – at least judging by what I just witnessed here in my own home – plastic lizards are quite flammable. Especially when a four year-old HOLDS ONE OF THEM OVER A BURNING CANDLE.

It’s been one of those days, y’all.

Thank you and have a lovely afternoon.

Your funny comments about how some of you also have husbands who see soup as more of an appetizer than a meal made me think of a conversation that D and I had one afternoon when I was planning a big shindig for church.

And I don’t want to oversell it, but I really do believe that if you are a newlywed, the information I’m about to reveal to you could quite possibly change your marriage forever.

Oh yeah. It’s that good.

So about three years ago I was cooking for something at our church, and I was in menu-planning mode. I had four or five cookbooks scattered on top of the dining room table, and I was trying to find a main course that would be simple to fix for a large crowd. I was primarily looking at casserole recipes because those are easy to make ahead of time, and at some point D wandered into the dining room and asked what I was doing.

I filled him in on the details, and I showed him three or four of the dishes I was considering.

He got very quiet, and after about thirty seconds, he said, “You know, I don’t think these recipes are your answer.”

I quickly started to rattle off an alphabetized and itemized list of all the reasons why my selections would WORK JUST FINE, THANK YOU, but D just grinned and said, “There’s something you’re not thinking about.”

OH?

REALLY?

WELL THEN.

I figured I might as well humor him, so I said, “What’s that? What am I forgetting? Because as you know, I’VE NEVER COOKED BEFORE EVER.”

“Well,” he answered, “it’s simple. Men like identifiable meat.”

“Excusemebegyourpardon?”

“Men like identifiable meat. We like to know what we’re eating. If the chicken or the beef or whatever is buried in a big ole casserole and we have to ask someone what we’re putting on our plates, we don’t like that. We like to see a hunk of meat on our plate.”

I thought this was quite possibly the most profound statement I’d ever heard.

IDENTIFIABLE MEAT.

It’s brilliant, really.

And since that day, I have never planned a meal at church without making sure that we have an identifiable meat. I have made this pork tenderloin recipe more times than I can count, and let me just tell you: serve it with some warm Parker House or potato rolls, and men will swoon.

They will swoon verily, I say unto you.

And a lot of times I don’t even have to cook the main course myself. I’ll just pick up a bunch of chicken from Popeye’s or some big trays of pulled pork from a barbecue place. There’s a local restaurant that does great fajitas to-go, and I can buy trays of chicken and beef already cooked for less than I could go buy all the ingredients myself.

And the meal, it is delicious.

And the men, they are happy.

And the meat, IT IS IDENTIFIABLE.

The end.