I don’t know if there is anything better than reserve wine, baked cheese (like brie or camembart) , and gourmet chocolates.  I really don’t.  And when you have them all at the same time (which for obvious reason, you can’t do on a regular basis), you have a recipe for a delicious night.  I may or may not be having such a night.

I finished reading Peace Like a River.  I am in love with the book and plan to read it immediately after my friend finishes it, as she ‘had to’ after being in the same room as me and me laughing out loud with each turn of the page.  Anyway, this will (probably) be the last time I comment about it – but I wanted to quote this bit, because I feel like he understands the internal process I experience on SUCH a regular basis.

This guy summed up something that I’ve been trying to describe to people for years.  He seamlessly described the internal process that goes on inside of me on a fairly regular basis, in a way that few people seem to understand:
(To give you some sense of set-up for the story, Holgren was the superintendent, a very mean and no-nonsense kind of man, and he was wearing a stupid pilgrim hat for the school’s thanksgiving feast, as all the children were, and someone had written “SHOOT ME!” on his hat without him knowing. The narrator is describing a time when he was 11. – now you’re caught up).

“Well, I saw that and wanted to laugh.  Not just wanted to – I tell you that laugh was down in my stomach, like bad beef; it meant to come out.  Desperately I strove for placid thoughts; which meant, of course, not looking at Mr. Holgren’s hat.   Not thinking these words.  And yet, they called me like a summons, like a hissed invitation, SHOOT ME!, calling to the laugh inside my belly.  You want torture?  A giggle crept up the old esophagus; I swallowed it down.  My eyeballs watered.  The worst of it was I seemed to be the only kid who’d noticed.  Either that or every one else had iron control, a terrible thought.  I looked around; glazed faces everywhere.  No one had seen! Oh, but that moment was a lonesome place. Mr. Holgren talked on; I molared the inside of my cheek; the laugh stayed put but I felt it down there, accruing strength.  Goodness it made me nervous.  I chanced a look at Mr. Holgren. SHOOT ME!, plain as day! I swallowed about twelve times.  Then Peter Emerson leaned over to my ear. “Bang,” he whispered.  I knew defeat.  Through mouthplastered hands the laugh ripped forth – a ruddy bray that condemned me to the stares of aghast pilgrims and who knew what violent repercussions at the hands of Mr. Holgren.  I laughed so hard my sight went dark.  I laid my forehead down on the table to sob.  Did anyone laugh with me? Who knows?  I do remember it felt solitary, as the wave rolled off, and I remember looking up through tears to see the glaring superintendent, death in a hat, SHOOT ME! still writ upon his mighty crown, and I remember wishing I could arrange to be shot at that moment and have it done with.”