Don't Expect Husband to Plan Meals

By CHARLES M. GUTHRIE
of the editorial page staff
published by the StarTribune
January 26, 1957


   COOKING represents one of the finer art forms. It's easy to see why so much newsprint is devoted to recipes and ways to jazz up hominy grits and macaroni so they will get eaten.
   Cooking is a challenge to ingenuity and experimentation and to achievement of balanced diet. It is one of a woman's most accessible avenues to distinction. No wonder so many of them enjoy it.

   AND YET, if you asked a representative cross-section of adult females what the most irksome housekeeping detail was, the answer of the majority would concern food. They would agree with my wife, I'm sure, that meal planning was the chief bug.
   I know from experience gained in two-and -three-day stretches that even a modicum of meal planning goes far. When you realize that many women do it day after day, year after endless year, it's ghastly to contemplate.

   BREAKFAST and lunch are somewhat standardized and present no great problem. But even here some variety is mandatory. No family could endure for long being steadily stoked with stewed prunes and oatmeal. Fruits, juices, bacon, eggs and pancakes must get on the menu occasionally. And while kids have a remarkable tolerance for peanut-butter and jelly sandwiches, this luncheon standby can be overworked.
   But dinner is the big barrier. It is, or should be, a gastronomic event. And since it has become general practice to purchase a week's supply of groceries at once, the housewife must plan ahead for seven dinners. She must, that is, unless she can dragoon father into taking the brood out occasionally or they can sponge off grandma.

   FATHER and the kids sometimes give an assist but normally they are ciphers at meal planning. All Junior can suggest is cereal and his interest is more in the compass ring, the tattoo kit or the picture punch-outs than in the edible contents of the box. Father, when asked what he'd like to eat, says, "Oh, anything." Or he comes up with beef stew and dumplings or meatloaf, which was the main dish last night.
   The cook cannot call for a vote on what to eat after the family is gathered at the close of the day. It is too late then for anyone to propose liver and onions or hog hocks, cabbage and cornbread. To get such things on the table requires planning. (More to the point, as far as I'm concerned, is how to keep such stuff off the table.)

   AS MUST happen in all families, we sometimes come into the twilight of a lazy day wondering what to eat. My wife figures it's her right to goof off occasionally and I'm inclined to agree. In this extremity we fall back on waffles and bacon. This will sustain life until morning and is quite lordly eating if you can work an egg or two into the act, limitless amounts of coffee and a slab of cake.
   There are times, too, when a husband must assume the burden. His wife will fall ill or go home to see mother, or attend Uncle Ben's funeral in Dubuque.

   A HUSBAND was telling me recently that his wife never left home for more than a day without having a bulging larder and leaving detailed menus for every dinner.
   "She might as well save her strength," he said. "I start off by mislaying the list, but always assume that things are under control as long as there's food around. I forget to plan until it's time to eat. Then it's too late."
   Too late is right. There are preliminaries to execute even if you have a written menu. For best results, you should look at it an hour before eating time and then get into action. And if food from the freezer is called for, look out.

   ONE 6 P.M. when milady was away I went to work on a batch of pork chops undismayed that the mass was hard as a rock. But dismay was not long in coming.
   Five minutes exposure to hot tap water failed to break the bond. So did diligent application of a screwdriver and pliers. Long boiling finally brought thaw but dinner was an hour late and I was years older.

Modern Times Defroster

   I suspect that husbands would do as well if thrown upon their own resources, that the cause might be better served if the wife, on departure, simply said, "Okay, Buster, take it from here until Friday."
   Then the old man, rather than relaxing in the knowledge that his wife had eased the way for him, would know he was under the gun and bestir himself. He also might gain greater appreciation for his lady.

Copyright 2019 StarTribune. Republished here with the permission of the StarTribune. No further republication or redistribution is permitted without the express approval of the StarTribune.

 
 

It's Time to Inventory Spring Work Tools

By CHARLES M. GUTHRIE
of the Minneapolis Tribune editorial page staff
published by the StarTribune
April 28, 1956


   THIS IS the time of year when the solid citizen takes inventory of his yard and garden tools, insecticides, weed killers, fertilizer, paints, hammers, saws and ladders so as to be ready for a fast getaway when the mood to shore up and beautify the estate seizes him.
   In fact, unless he is a laggard, he already has taken preliminary steps. In the main it is to the laggard that this prose is pointed. There should be no shilly-shallying. The cleanup-paintup business must go forward.

   BY NOW the snow shovel should be stashed away (if you are an optimist), the yard raked and the refuse burned, with care being taken not to ignite the garage. In a careless moment the other day I started a small conflagration in some mulch protecting a flower bed and now fear for the future of a couple of rosebushes in which I had set big store. But in the spring work program you cannot let fear of disaster dissuade you. Timidity has no place.
   Also you should have the garden hose out of winter quarters, affixed to the faucet and clear of the driveway. This erases the risk of backing over it with the car.
   By now, too, you should be glaring at the storm windows with an eye to their removal, wondering if you can talk your wife into the glass-washing job, and thinking about the screens that didn't get painted during the winter.

   THE OTHER DAY I went into the basement to appraise my work bench. Any man worth his salt has a work bench. It is the heart of the efficient household. During the winter it provides parking space for accumulated magazines and newspapers, fruit jars, string, abandoned toys, croquet sets and picnic jugs. In summer, if you are a do-it-yourselfer, you can even use it for what it's for.
   After clearing the debris from mine, I was happy to find my tools in fair shape for action. Three of the five two-bit paintbrushes were ready to go and one of the others, I think, can be made pliant with half a dozen hammer strokes. The fifth had to be discarded, its bristles being welded forever to the bottom of a tomato can.
   My chisel and putty knife, without which I would feel helpless, were where they belonged. Usually they do not emerge until June. I find a chisel the ideal tool for horsing lids off paint cans. A putty knife is good for scraping purposes and can also be used as a putty knife if you have mastered the art of drawing it along the repair area without the putty curling up in pursuit.

   MY INVENTORY also uncovered a glass cutter and pipewrench. These should be included in every man's work kit. Both are beyond  my ability but are nice show pieces. They set you up as a craftsman. One costly fiasco soured me permanently on the glass cutter. The pipewrench is almost as useless but not quite. In a pinch it can be used for cracking filberts.
   One should also have a screwdriver and wire nippers. You never know when you will be called on to put a fresh washer on a faucet or replace the gizmo on an extension cord. You will save face by being prepared.
   One spring chore that impends involves installing a new light fixture in the kitchen. Everyone tells me there is nothing to it but I am skittish. I have tackled nothing-to-it- jobs before, and find I have a nice flair for ineptitude.

   A WORD of caution before you start your spring work. Do only one thing at a time. Never try simultaneously to rake the yard, clean the garage and paint the back stoop. You will find yourself wandering aimlessly about wondering where you left the rake or hunting for the paint brush or being distracted by discovering in the garage a sack of nails you mislaid in October.
   My wife and I were cleaning the attic recently and I went below for a dust pan. I grabbed a wastebasket en route and took it out back to burn the refuse. While doing so I noticed a broom in the garage, which reminded me of a long-delayed chore. Twenty minutes later my wife found me sweeping out the car, oblivious to my original mission.
   Since then I have been a single-purpose, all-business operator. This curbs the pleasant, rambling fancies that spring inspires but it cuts down the cracks about senility.
   And after all, a man must put pride above dreams.


Copyright 2019 StarTribune. Republished here with the permission of the StarTribune. No further republication or redistribution is permitted without the express approval of the StarTribune.

You Cannot Always Be Cheerful

By CHARLES M. GUTHRIE
of the Minneapolis Tribune editorial page staff
published by the StarTribune
March 26, 1954


   NOBODY, unless he has a twisted mind or a chronic backache, derives satisfaction from being in the dumps. And while it should be every man's privilege to sink into occasional despond, the fellow able to lift your spirits is a noble soul indeed.
   But the fellows who don't lift mine are the Happiness Boys, the brash cheer-er-uppers, the Pollyannas who go around with set smiles, convinced that they are ordained to spread gladness in the land and sell one and all on the absurdity that nothing is as bad as it might be. If you break an arm they tell you to be glad it wasn't your neck. This is cold comfort.

   THESE JOY BOYS are forever circulating about in hail-fellow manner, slapping on the back every solemn-faced character in the place.
   "Chin up, there, ol' boy, ol' boy," they admonish. "What's the trouble? Come on now, it can't be that bad. Give us a big smile!"
   Anyone so assailed should have the inalienable right to bounce a beer mug off his tormentor's skull. I would defend his action to the death. Why should the glad guy assume that "things can't be that bad"? What does he know about your problems?
   Before we'd been parents long enough to know better, we often commanded our youngsters to smile when they were in a pout. We soon abandoned the practice. It worked in reverse, bringing tears and rebellion.

   YOU MAY figure this to be the bleat of a sourpuss. If so you figure wrong. While I sometimes wear the expression of a St. Bernard, I do have moments when I'm glad to be alive--enough of them, I think, to rate par for the course.
   But it's simply impossible for the average mortal to be constantly happy--or even to appear to be. Billousness assails him. He finds himself short of rent money. Fears and frustration rack him. His feet hurt. He misses that promotion. He's beset by traffic jams and flat tires and detours.
   More often, of course, his digestive tract is clear, he has money for the income tax, his wife has sewn the buttons on the shirt he plans to wear to the basket social and life is beautiful.
   When it isn't, however, if you expect him to invariably rise above vexation you expect too much. When he barks at his wife and she barks back there is usually more behind the brawl than innate cussedness. He may have been bawled out by the boss. She may have found ink spots on the new carpet. Life being what it is, a certain amount of waspishness should be expected, and accepted.
   And in fairness to the Happiness Boys, I guess you cannot scoff at them too much. Theirs is an endeavor noble in motive. They fail because they are too obvious, because of their forced heartiness, because they seem to feel that bright moods can be switched on as you switch on a light. But due to this wrong assumption they defeat their purpose. All they do is bring your resentments to a boil.

   HAPPILY, though, there are those individuals referred to in paragraph one. They are the real gloom chasers. Their tribe should increase. They are the true gentility. They are cheerful, accommodating, vital--and genuine. They moralize not, neither do they pound you on the back. Merely by being themselves they make you glad you're here.
   One of them drives a bus which I catch too seldom at Eighth and Hennepin. Another, agonized by arthritis, used to operate the elevator and do janitor work here at the office. You find them in police forces and fire departments, clerking in stores and ushering in theaters. They are in big jobs and on milk trucks, in reception rooms and information booths. Some, serving without frowns or squawks, are in high-tension, exacting jobs that would drive most of us to the bottle in a week.
   I wish I were one of these, that I could rise above travail, headache and athlete's foot and spread joy without apparent effort. But I cannot and shall not try. Some Gloomy Gus would see through the sham and let me have it.

Copyright 2019 StarTribune. Republished here with the permission of the StarTribune. No further republication or redistribution is permitted without the express approval of the StarTribune.

Alphabetical listing of posted columns (through 1/4/2019)

Dates in parentheses are month/year of blog posting 

A family reunion can be grim    (11/17)

A hobby isn't something you can whip up overnight   (1/16)

A house free of junk just isn't a home   (3/18)

A husbands challenge to science   (8/13)

A layman looks at prayer   (10/15)

A learned discourse on moods   (3/14)

A little mourning is enough   (11/13)

A pair of guys it's nice to know   (6/14)

About docks, high water and tree doctoring   (5/14)

Advertisement for Guthrie's column   (9/13)

Advice to dad's--know carpentry   (4/13)

Age can play queer tricks on One's mental process   (12/13)

An open fire kindles memories   (2/15)

Black bug is freed after these 20 years   (8/14)

Boobs can be a joy in fiction   (6/15)

Bookshelves inspire a builder   (12/14)

By 1990 you may not need a job.  (1/14)

Christmas traditions are worth preserving   (12/13)

Code won't stop political insults   (1/16)

Comes the time to leave home   (9/13)

Complaint of an invisible man   (4/13)

Constitution protects the atheists too  (11/15)

Correspondence for some is a chore   (9/18)

Critics lot is not a happy one   (3/13)

Doubts about the great society   (2/14)Easter joy is curdled by taxes   (3/15)

Economists (home spun) discuss tax cut   (2/13)

Era ends as old house is sold   (10/16)

Exercise is something for oldster to shun   (10/14)

Filling station closing out a dramatic run   (6/16)

Fond farewell to the balladeer --Bradley Morrison   (5/14)

Fourth of July then and now   (7/15)

Garage job is a smash success   (8/13)

Grandma 87 too busy cutting meat to quit   (6/14)

Grandpa is a weary christmas enthusiast   (12/22)

Hating is easy but devitalizing   (3/17)

High school reunion thoughts   (8/16)

Home from the office after 13 day pause for repairs   (12/13)

Home repair victory and defeat   (5/17)

Homes the place for Christmas   (12/16)

How are the resolutions holding up?   (1/16)

How to keep a party from going dead   (2/13)

How we do love to keep busy   (12/13)

It must be fun to know all the answers   (2/14)

It seemed colder years ago anyway   (2/14)

Its time for more tolerance   (10/17)

Kid disc jockey spreads havoc   (3/14)

Kindergarten ushers in a new era   (9/16)

Lake living doesn't come cheap   (7/28)

Leave married sons and daughters alone   (3/18)

Life of solitude is just no good   (3/14)

Little girls are quite special   (6/13)

Little things have a big payoff   (3/13)

Losing old neighbors is no fun   (6/14)

Marriage isn't every girls dream   (11/13)

Movings both a physical and an emotional strain   (5/13)

Music has turned to noise   (12/18)

Of weeds docks and fatigue   (6/13)

Old fashioned-sure he is (advertisement)   (9/13)

Oldster's vision not good but his head is   (4/13)

On making coffee the hard way   (4/14)

One can live without smoking   (1/15)

One fans beef about baseball   (5/13)

Peanut butter addict tells all   (3/17)

Pets are no great moral force   (3/16)

Pioneer scouting days recalled   (1/15)

Plaint of a bashful parishioner   (4/14)

Politics knows little moderation   (7/16)

Procrastination's fatal in planning Yule cards   (12/14)

Reflections on paper collections   (5/15)

Remembering Charles M. (Chick) Guthrie   (8/15)

Remembering names isn't easy   (7/13)

Running grocery store can be fun   (5/16)

Sad story of christmas savings   (12/17)

Small boy sizes up a vacation   (8/14)

So you think writing's easy eh   (8/13)

Some impressions of the 58 cars   (6/17)

Some thoughts about gratitude   (6/13)

Spring isn't top season for a lover of slumber   (4/18)

Springs a trial for the weary   (5/13)

Springs not a complete blessing   (5/14)

Storms--a pain in the neck (it's time to change 'em gents)  (11/14)

Story of the great hat mystery  (4/14)

Teaching a child manners is a headache   (1/18)

Technical wonders are nice to know about   (2/13)

Ten year work test is charted   (10/13)

Thanksgiving reunions call for preparation   (11/13 & 11/16)

Thanksgiving with grandparents   (11/14)

That barbershop harmony sends you   (2/14)

That summer work pressure   (8/13)

The trial of meeting old friends   (7/14)

There's a sadness about commencement   (6/13)

There's no easy) solution for the problem of adolescence   (1/14)

There's nothing quite like fishing   (7/13)

These are emotional times for baseball crazy fellows   (10/14)

They'll feast with old folks   (11/15)

Thoughts about bomb shelters   (4/17)

Thoughts on being near the kids   (4/15)

Thoughts on high school romance   (8/15)

Thrilling experiences pay off   (5/18)

Time for concern not escape   (6/18)

To be happy forget to regret   (2/17)

To enjoy food less learn more about it   (8/17)

Tomorrow is Father's Day if that means anything   (6/13)

Top grades don't spell success   (3/15)

Travel arrangements can kill you   (7/14)

Trials of a parakeet owner   (8/14)

Tribute to a patient mother   (5/13)

Valentine is a big help in making marriage tick   (2/13)

Views on after death adulation   (9/17)

We have too many organizations  (4/16)

We're shy of English teachers  (2/16)

What have you and spouse got in common   (7/18)

When you're young you're different   (7/13)

Who picks up the dinner check   (10/18)

Why put style above comfort   (1/18)

Why the big urge to keep busy   (7/17)

Why the friendship barriers   (12/16)

Woes of a Yule Correspondent   (12/15)

Worry an incurable affliction   (7/15)

You aren't aging? Look at old photos   (9/18)

You cant dream and save time   (11/13)

You too can fill out a tax return   (3/14)

Grandpa Is a Weary Christmas Enthusiast

By CHARLES M. GUTHRIE
of the editorial page staff
published by the StarTribune
December 14, 1969


   ALL MY long life I've been gung ho on Christmas and still must be numbered among the day's staunch supporters. But ardor has cooled to the point where I catch myself wondering why everybody scurries around so at this time of year, buys with such abandon, and never allows sufficient time for stringing the lights or whipping up the eggnog. Everything is done under pressure.
   No lights yet twinkle in front of my residence and I shudder at the effort required to establish the setting. For years we have draped blue lights on a Colorado spruce and strung yellow, green and red bulbs along the porch windows.

   I ONCE was revved up for this chore by the spirit of the season, but no more. This goes particularly for the spruce. Back when it was six or seven feet tall it posed no challenge. Now a 14-footer, it's not only a challenge but a threat. A ladder must be used and my meager aptitude for ladders is cancelled out when snow is on the ground and overshoes on the feet.

I MAY LEAVE the decorating job to the weather. It has done admirably for most of the month, and the snow on the branches provides a natural look that blue lights do not. Anyway, the bulbs are stolen as often as not and why risk a broken neck to gladden the hearts of thieves?
   My plaint about Christmas, I confess focuses on the grinding effort it demands. I am physically out of tune with the season.
   The Christmas card custom drives me to the brink of madness, which is a shameful admission. The attitude saves postage but does violence to the love, joy and fellowship the holiday engenders.

   CHRISTMAS cards have been blown out of proportion by those having a vested interest in their production and sale. You are a cad if you don't send cards to everyone with whom you have a nodding acquaintance. A cheery "Merry Christmas" to those you see regularly is not enough. You must send a card. I emphatically disagree-- but will spend hours, nevertheless, addressing cards, licking stamps and penning little messages to all and sundry.

   MY grandchildren--and most children-- simply dote on Christmas. Why shouldn't they? The abundance that awaits them is the stuff of avaricious dreams. They receive so many gifts that each one loses identity and blends into a glittering and confusing amalgam-- bicycles, tricycles, scooters, walkie-talkies, books, dolls, doll houses, radios, cameras, record players, construction kits and tools-- an all but limitless flood.

   WHEN GRANDPA was a kid he considered Christmas breathlessly rewarding if he got candy, nuts, an apple and an orange in his stocking, an Uncle Remus book, a necktie and a flashlight. He also got some time to reflect on the meaning of Christmas.
   But those days are gone. The journey to Bethlehem and the divine birth no longer are the big story. The hucksters have taken Christ out of Christmas and made Santa Claus the top man; the preachers can't compete with Madison Avenue and anyone who can spare a dollar for a gift might as well forget it. In today's world, a dollar is peanuts. Christmas comes much higher.


Copyright 2018 StarTribune. Republished here with the permission of the StarTribune. No further republication or redistribution is permitted without the express approval of the StarTribune.

Music (?) Has Turned to Noise

By CHARLES M. GUTHRIE
of the editorial/opinion page staff
published by the StarTribune
June 19, 1966


   WE'VE BEEN warned by the World Health Organization that it's time to worry about something besides air and water pollution. Mental pollution is an even more pressing concern.
   Mental pollution, says a WHO report, is associated with urban living and is caused by noise--honking horns, screaming jets, blatting radio and TV sets, loudspeakers, jackhammers, and the guy in the next apartment hanging pictures.
   Another cause of mental pollution is crowding. Dr. Arie Querido, president of the National Federation for Mental Health of The Netherlands, says that when too many people are massed in too little space, acts of violence occur and there also is a drop in the birth rate.

   HOWEVER, it is the debilitating effects of noise--a type of noise generated by youth--with which we deal here, noise from which there is no easy escape unless your house is big as a livery barn and you can isolate yourself from the racket.

Jimmy Smith running amuck

   Today's teenager seems unable to tolerate quiet. He is a different and mysterious breed. A phonograph is as important as his right arm. Far from being distracted by records or radio, he cannot study without their discipline, particularly if the music is rock 'n' roll or some long-haired folksinger is muttering in his whiskers or a jazz organist is running amuck.
   That celebrated folk rocker, composer and balladeer, Bob Dylan, no doubt pays his bills on time and is good to friends and relatives, but he is my sworn enemy. The author of a recent magazine piece was charitable enough to call him a poet, which I dispute. Poetry should make a scintilla of sense but I doubt if I could detect any in Dylan's even if I could understand him. His flat, blurred and weary monotone makes one wonder if he is trying to sing and simultaneously eat hash.
   I agree with Allen Tate, poet and professor of English at the University of Minnesota. Tate says that Dylan and others like him "flatter people who want to believe that, without knowledge and discipline, they may paint pictures, make sculptures, and write music or poetry."

   THE NORMAL ADULT, on hearing for the first time one of the new breed's instrumental numbers, swears that the needle is stuck, so persistently are identical cacophonies repeated. I used to hear better than this at charivaris.
   "I define nothing," Dylan is quoted as saying, "not beauty, not patriotism. I take each thing as it is, without prior rules about what it should be."
   This I can believe--and Tate's judgment seems confirmed. Frank Sinatra and Bing Crosby say that today's composers aren't writing songs fit to sing. The latter declares that had he come on the scene with only today's rock 'n' roll tunes to choose from, he'd have abandoned singing and been a lawyer.
   I have hopes that melody will return, but the quiet of yesterday probably won't. We are engulfed by cars,  people, television and radio, and there's no hint that the kids will turn the volume knobs down.
   My father used to make derogatory cracks about Ada Jones and Billy Murray, singing stars of the Victrola era. And when "Yes, We Have No Bananas" was a hit, he sighed and shook his head. But the Beatles and the Rolling Stones would have been too much. They'd have shortened his life by 10 years.

 Copyright 2018 StarTribune. Republished here with the permission of the StarTribune. No further republication or redistribution is permitted without the express approval of the StarTribune.

Who Picks Up the Dinner Check?

By CHARLES M. GUTHRIE
of the editorial page staff
published by the StarTribune
June 4, 1960


   AFTER I'D been married long enough to know that two could live for about four times as much as one if they were careful, I turned over the family finances to my wife.
   They say that women spend 75 per cent of the money anyway and who am I to buck such odds? As long as my cigarette and lunch needs are met and I have a credit card for gas and a few dimes for incidentals I'm content.
   This is a base admission. Financially speaking, I'm typical of the drift toward matriarchy. But since milady can keep a check book straight and I can't, and is willing to clutter up her mind with when the utility bills must be paid to beat the discount date, I'm happy to let her. I'm busy enough keeping up with the cold war and Willie Mays' batting average, and dreaming up excuses for escaping the church picnic.

   MY RELUCTANCE to do anything more about bills than provide the money has become such a fetish that it amounts to a moral principle. Consequently, when we go out to dine at a swank drugstore, I wander off to the magazine rack and let my wife pay the check.
   This seems only right. It's the grocery money we're spending when we eat out and she's the grocery-fund keeper. Women have been seeking equal rights for years and I grant them the right to pick up the dinner tab when they're supposed to pay it. I prefer this to accepting money concealed in a napkin or handed to me under the table. I'm never certain that this subterfuge goes undetected, fear the scornful glances of the waiter, and hate to live a lie.

   WHY DON'T I pay for the extracurricular feeds with my own money and get reimbursed later? Because I too often don't get reimbursed. My loss is the grocery fund's gain and before next pay day I am mooching cigarettes and borrowing lunch money.
   I gave my sister-in-law a nasty turn a few years ago and have been low in her esteem since. She was visiting us for a few days and one evening insisted that we dine out as her guests. After we'd finished eating she pushed the check and the money over to me.
   I pushed it back. "Pay it yourself," I said. "I never accept money from women. It's your money, your check and your party. I oppose artifice in all forms and it won't bolster my ego one bit to pay this bill with your ten bucks."
   She was rocked. "Why," she gasped, "Sherwood would be embarrassed to tears if I paid for a meal. He'd rather die!" Sherwood is her husband.
   "Well," I said, "Sherwood's not here and I'm not like him. He has pride and I have only a scrambled code of morality. If I pay the bill I do it with my own money, not yours" To my vast relief, she capitulated.

   MY WIFE says my conduct is ridiculous and brands me as a tightwad. Maybe, but I prefer to think it brands me as a rich eccentric, a fellow so financially robust that he has no thought of money and can scorn appearances.
   As long as she knows with complete certainty that I'm generous and out-giving, I tell my wife, why shouldn't she indulge my insistence that the person providing the dinner money pay the check--and thus keep the grocery fund honest?
   Of course, I'm not really as stiff-necked as all this. We often do take off on wild flings, and I spend money without stint or thought of the morrow. This usually means meat substitutes for a couple of weeks afterward, but the fun is well worth it and the change invigorating.
   And hot dishes really aren't so bad.

Copyright 2018 StarTribune. Republished here with the permission of the StarTribune. No further republication or redistribution is permitted without the express approval of the StarTribune.

Clancy's Drug Store