Chef Tommy makes the world's best Pasta Bolognese

It’s raining here in Southwest Florida and I’m bored. I could haul my fat ass to the gym – I haven’t been in months – but screw that.

Instead, I'm going to cook my favorite dish, pasta with Bolognese sauce, and show you how to make it.

When I say “Bolognese sauce,” I’m not talking about an Oscar Mayer product swimming in some sort of liquid. I’m talking about a meat-based pasta sauce that was invented in Bologna, Italy, the city's way of redeeming itself for giving the world lunch meat made from pig entrails.

I tried every recipe I could find but none were perfect. So, over the years, I've created my own by borrowing a cuppa this from one and a pinch of that from another, then adding some secret ingredients.

Even honest-to-God Eye-talian-Americans – people who drop the final “a” from mozzarella and the “o” from prosciutto to remind you they come from a culture that serves food so sophisticated that yokels like you and I can’t even pronounce the ingredients properly – have asked for my recipe.

Ready for a culinary adventure? Put on your chef’s hat, roll up your sleeves and let’s go to town – specifically, to Bologna where, in three hours or so, we’ll be sitting in an outside café inhaling pasta topped with a sauce so sinfully good you’ll feel like having a cigarette afterward.

(Note: This recipe makes enough to serve eight. Assuming you don’t know that many people you want in your house at the same time, you will have plenty left over. No problem. The sauce freezes well.)

Step 1: Grate some carrots.

You know that half-empty bag of carrots in your fridge you bought to serve those annoyingly thin people down the street, knowing they’d turn up their skinny noses if you served your standard cocktail hour appetizer of Velveeta® dip and Fritos® Scoops®?

Throw the leftover carrots into your food processor and use the grate attachment to cut them into toothpick-thin slivers. (Yeah, I know it may seem strange we're using carrots but you’ll never taste them and they help make the sauce thick.)

If you don’t have a food processor you can buy bagged grated carrots at most supermarkets. You’ll need 1 ½ cups. If there are any left over, use them as compost – that’s all they are otherwise good for.

Step 2: Do like Popeye.

Get Olive Oyl hot. Pour 3 or 4 tablespoons into a big pot on top of your stove, and turn the heat to medium. You can use virgin, extra virgin, 72-virgin, any kind of olive oil you have on hand. 

Step 3: Slice and dice.

As the oil is heating, dice a big red onion.

Step 4: Cook the vegetables.

I forgot to take a photo of this step so here's a pic of grandson 

Teddy and me at an Eye-talian restaurant in Washington 

last weekend. Teddy says he can't wait to taste grandpa's world-famous 

Pasta Bolognese.

When the oil is hot, throw the carrots and onions into the pot, stir them around so they get coated with it, and let them cook for ten minutes or so. Stir every so often to keep them from sticking to the bottom. The key here is to take your time. There’s no rush. Don't turn the heat up past medium because you don’t want the vegetables to start browning and/or become crispy.

Step 5: Add the meat.

When the vegetables look perky (no longer raw), toss in two pounds of ground beef or, better yet as I have done (above), a pound of beef and a pound of ground turkey. As the meat browns, stir the pot occasionally to break it up (the meat, not the pot) and integrate it with the vegetables.

Step 6: (Optional.)

As the meat is browning ...

... open a can of Cesar Cheddar Souffle, divide in half, place in two bowls and add a handful of kibble to each. (Eukanuba Senior is our house kibble.)

Serve to any small dogs who have crept into the kitchen, attracted by the smell of the cooking beef and turkey.

Bonnie, our 13-year-old dachshund, lives to eat.

Billy Ray, 11, could care less about eating. When he is fed,
he guards his food not because he wants it but because he doesn't want Bonnie to get it.
After 10 minutes or so he loses interest and walks away.
 Then Bonnie sneaks around the kitchen island and eats it.
No wonder she weighs twice as much as he does.

Step 7: Spoon off the fat.

You don’t want your finished sauce to be as greasy as John Travolta’s hair in the movie in which he and Olivia Newton-John sang all those annoying songs so once the meat has browned, spoon most of the olive oil and the meat drippings from the bottom of the pot and put them somewhere safe where the dogs can't get to them.

Step 8: Add some garlic.

You can use fresh garlic and mince it but that's a lot of work and makes your hands, which already reek from slicing the onion, stink even worse, so do what I do – buy a jar of minced garlic and add three or four teaspoons from that to the pot. (Can you imagine working in that factory? Me neither.)

Step 9: Spice it up.

Heap the following spices onto a small plate or bowl:

1 tsp. kosher salt: It is essential to use kosher salt, not uncircumcised salt. (I’m kidding. Use whatever type you have handy. Salt is salt.) Don’t stint on the salt. I don’t care if your doctor told you to reduce your intake. Throw caution to the wind this one time. 

3 tsp. basil: I once bought fresh basil to use in this recipe and while it was a nice touch it was a pain in the ass to chop and I had a lot left over I didn’t know what to do with so now I use dried.

3 to 4 tsp. dried oregano: Is there such a thing as fresh oregano? I dunno.

Lots of pepper: I grind my own because I’m a pepper you’re a pepper, he’s a pepper, she’s a pepper, wouldn’t you like to be a pepper too? fanatic.* At least one teaspoon – two if you like. The hell with it, add three.

*This sentence will make no sense whatsoever if you are under 40. If you’re wondering what I’m talking about watch this, one of the most unforgettable commercials from the 1970s.

Dump the spices into the pot all at once, stirring vigorously to distribute them throughout the vegetable/meat mixture, which needs to cook three or four minutes longer.  

Step 10: Shake some Worcestershire sauce into the pot.

Three or four generous plops from a bottle of Worcestershire Sauce will bring out the flavors of everything you’ve cooked so far. Use the liquid to loosen whatever has stuck to the bottom of the pan so you can scrape it up into the meat mixture, then proceed to the next step.

Step 11: Add an 8 oz. can of tomato paste.

Step 12: Promise yourself you won't believe everything you read in the future.

Remove can from meat mixture. Open it and scoop contents into the pot and stir.

Step 13: Add some wine.

Add about half a 750 ml bottle of red wine – Two Buck Chuck from Trader Joe's or any other cheap wine is fine. I use two 187 ml mini bottles I buy specifically to make this sauce because we’re not red wine drinkers at our house – my wife claims it makes me belligerent. No red wine? White will work fine, too. Once I even used a leftover bottle of that god-awful White Zinfandel stuff we keep on hand for my mother-in-law but I don’t recommend it because it made the sauce too sweet.

Give the pot a stir … turn up the heat to high until the mixture boils … then back down to medium-low and let it simmer for a half hour or so until some of the wine has cooked off.

Step 14: Pour in two big cans of tomatoes.

Eye-talian TV chefs don’t use fresh tomatoes because they know, as do you and I, that store-bought tomatoes – even Beefsteak tomatoes that sell for $3.98 a pound – have no taste whatsoever. So open up two 28 oz. cans of whole tomatoes and pour them in, juice and all. (Note: If you live in my home state of Missouri where the world’s most flavorful tomatoes grow so prolifically that gardeners put them in baskets then place the baskets in their front yards with signs inviting passersby to help themselves, by all means chop them into eighths or sixteenths and throw them into the pot in lieu of canned tomatoes and Fed Ex me some while you’re at it. Readers in the Northeast: You can use fresh Jersey tomatoes if they are in season, which they are right now. In the 35 years I lived in the New York area I never knowingly tasted a Jersey tomato because I couldn’t fathom that anything that grew in New Jersey soil wouldn’t cause instant death but millions of folks apparently think they’re swell so by all means use the equivalent of two 28 oz. cans of them.)

Step 15: Clean your work area.

Dump all the dirty dishes, the chopping board and empty cans, bottles and jars you’ve used up to this point in the sink for your Significant Other (if applicable) to deal with as punishment for complaining that you’re making Pasta Bolognese yet again. Your S.O. should be grateful you want to cook and are capable of turning out something this delicious so it’s only fitting he or she should have clean-up duty because you’ve been slaving over a hot stove all afternoon not to mention you went to the store and bought all the ingredients.

Step 16: Pop some zits.

Check to make sure the sauce is simmering and you're basically free for the next two hours except for stirring every 15 minutes or so, sneaking a taste whenever you do. Each time you stir, gently press a couple of the whole tomatoes against the side of the pot with your spoon until they pop open like zits and all the seeds and gunk inside them comes gushing out.

Step 17: Sweeten the pot.

An hour or so into the simmering process, give the pot a big stir and taste the sauce. If it tastes the least bit bitter, (and it might thanks to the Worcestershire, basil, oregano and/or tomato paste), add some sugar. Start with a teaspoon, stir, then taste it again in a couple of minutes. Still bitter? I am. I lost the election for fraternity president by one lousy vote 41 years, six months and three days ago and I’ve never gotten over it but we’re talking about the sauce here. So if it still tastes bitter, add more sugar a little at a time until it doesn't. Then let the sauce simmer another hour or so. 

Step 18: Add milk.

At this point, if you are in the Naples/Ft. Myers area, call or text to let me know dinner will be ready in about 30 minutes. Then add one cup of milk to the pot. Use whole, 2%, 1%, anything but skim which isn’t milk anyway, it’s white water.

Turn up the heat until the mixture comes to a boil, then turn it back to medium-low and let it simmer while you …

Step 19: Cook the pasta.

I’m not going to insult your intelligence by telling you how to boil pasta. If you’re so sheltered you’ve never cooked pasta before, you will have fmucked up this recipe long before you get to this step anyway. You can use spaghetti, fettuccine, rigatoni or that pasta that starts with T whose name I can’t remember because you never see it in stores, only at Eye-talian restaurants.

Step 20: Place some pasta on a plate and top it with sauce.

Add some grated Parmesan (capitalized because, like Bolognese, it’s named after an Eye-talian city) or Romano (ditto) cheese and serve with garlic bread.

Step 21: Buon appetito!

Ingredient recap

1½ C grated carrots

1 red onion, finely diced

3 to 4 tbsp. olive oil

2 lb. ground beef or 1 lb. each of ground beef and ground turkey

3 or 4 tsp. minced garlic

1 tsp. salt

3 to 4 tsp. dried basil

3 to 4 tsp. dried oregano

Pepper – lots of it

3 or 4 generous plops of Worcestershire sauce

8 oz. can tomato paste

Red wine – half a 750 ml bottle or two 187 ml mini bottles

2 28 oz. cans whole tomatoes

1 C milk

Pasta (spaghetti, fettuccine or rigatoni)
Grated cheese

Coming someday soon: Chef Tommy's world-renowned beef stew recipe.

Another chat with Teddy

My wife and I spent Labor Day weekend in Washington, D.C. where I had the opportunity to sit down for a chat with our five-month-old grandson, Teddy.

Grandpa: Last time we saw each other, you had just come home from the hospital. Now you’ve got five months under your Huggies. What is the most important thing you have learned since we talked in late April?

Teddy: For starters, that the world revolves around me.

Grandpa: I beg your pardon?

Teddy: People fly in from all over the country to see me and bring me presents. If I want a snack at 3 a.m., all I have to do is say the word. On those rare occasions people start talking about something other than how adorable I am, I can make them stop in a second and turn their full attention back to me.

Grandpa: Uh, I don’t …

Teddy: Everyone – family, my parents’ friends, even strangers in the Safeway checkout line – says the same thing, “Isn’t he the most precious angel you ever saw?”  I am, of course, but it’s nice to hear it reaffirmed so often.

Grandpa: Teddy, I don’t know how to tell you this but …

Teddy: Seems like every day I’m learning new ways to consolidate my control over the people around me. Last week, for instance, a buddy at “Mommies Meet-Up” taught me how to get whatever I want even faster by rolling out my lower lip, making it quiver and, after a few seconds, squeezing tears out of the corners of my eyes without using vocals. He said, “It’s really important that you not cry. That way they'll think you’re too choked up.” He was right. 

Grandpa: You did it last night when you woke up in grandma’s arms, looked around and your mother wasn’t in the room. I have to admit, that was pretty darn impressive.

Teddy: Yeah, adults fall for that one hook, line and sinker. I heard you yourself say, “When he does that I’ll do anything he wants to make that lip go back in – rob a bank, steal a car, whatever.” I’ll take a blue Porsche 9-1-1 by the way. See if they have one in a shade that matches my eyes.

Grandpa: I didn’t mean I’d literally do that.

Teddy: You didn’t?

Grandpa: It’s a figure of speech.

Teddy: What’s that?

Grandpa: It’s too hard to explain. Teddy, you are the joy of my life …

Teddy: I know. And don’t think you’re the only one who has told me that.

Grandpa: But I’m concerned you have an inflated sense of self.

Teddy: You’d have one too if you were as cute as I am.

Grandpa: I'm worried about what will happen when you realize ...

Teddy: Name one thing about me that isn’t perfectly adorable.

Grandpa: Umm … umm …

Teddy: I knew it, you can’t.

Grandpa: You’re bald.

Teddy: I’m a baby. It’s acceptable to be bald. It makes me even cuter – the “old man trapped in a baby body” thing. 

Grandpa: I have to admit …

Teddy: Run out to the kitchen and get me a fresh bottle, will ya?

Grandpa: Whatever you say.

Teddy: I know.

Minutes from the August meeting of the Optimist Club

The Choctaw Ridge Optimist Club met for its regularly scheduled meeting at noon on Tuesday, August 12, at the Bluebird Café.

Daryl Stuckenhorst, treasurer, reported that $11.56 was raised at the annual Fourth of July BBQ fundraiser, a figure attributable to the flash flood that swept through Carroll County that day. A total of $6,350.14 was spent from the club’s treasury on meat, salads, desserts and equipment rental. Despite a valiant effort by members of the BBQ committee, none of the foodstuffs could be salvaged for donation to local charities due to the prolonged power outage resulting from the flood.

Marvin Raines, youth chairman, reported that word has been received from the Piranha region of Brazil that Jesus, the orphan the Club has sponsored for the last 11 years, passed away on March 29 from a snake bite. Marvin has asked the foundation through which the club found Jesus to submit photos of new orphans from which one will be selected for sponsorship at next month’s meeting.

Roger Applebee, who was chosen to represent the Club at the District Regional Convention in Petersburg last month, reported the event was canceled after a car crashed through the picture window of the Ramada Inn lounge where the welcome cocktail reception was being held, injuring nineteen delegates including the Regional Vice President who was supposed to preside.

Chapter President George Rudd announced his resignation due to the closing of the plant where he has worked since 1978, which has been relocated by its parent company to Mexico. George said he regrets he is unable to commit the time needed to fulfill his duties owing to the fact he has accepted a position with 7-Eleven where he will be working the night shift. Vice President Jack Hemphill will assume the chapter presidency provided the search party looking for his plane locates it and he is able to serve. 

Members voted to send a sympathy card to the family of Billy Joe McAllister, Jr., son of longtime member Billy Joe, Sr., who drowned tragically following a fall.   

Wanda Jane Stafford, owner of the Bluebird Café where our meetings have been held since the Choctaw Ridge chapter was founded, announced that with the closing of the plant, she will be shuttering her restaurant effective immediately and suggested members appoint a committee to search for a new venue.

There being no more business, the meeting was adjourned at 12:14 p.m.

Lunch was not served due to Wanda Jane’s cook being in jail. Wanda Jane said she was sorry but she wouldn’t be able to refund the money Club members had paid in advance for the meal because he stole it from a locked drawer in her office, the reason she had his sorry ass locked up in the first place.

Next month's meeting will be held at a place TBD.

Submitted in the spirit of Optimism by:

Ralph A. Jones
Recording Secretary

"Well then, how about a martini?"

In the wake of Robin Williams' death I’ve been thinking today about my good friend, Egg. I wrote this post about his death in November, 2004. 

I lost a good friend last week.

His name was Ed but all of us in our fraternity pledge class called him Egg. He was one of the few friends from my youth I made a point to stay in touch with. 

Though Egg grew up in a well-to-do family, he was the most down-to-earth guy you ever met.

After college Egg landed a job at a radio station in a sleepy southern town. To everyone’s amazement, he never left. He married local women, became active in regional politics, even developed a southern accent. He was managing a chain of radio stations when he died.

Egg committed suicide. Turned a shotgun on himself. Didn’t leave a note. Nobody saw it coming.

I learned about it from a message his wife left on our answering machine. His brother, when I called, said he couldn’t bear the thought of standing up in front of a room full of people and delivering a eulogy. He said he would be grateful if I would. So I did. And I’m glad I did.

I wanted people to remember the guy in the polished wood casket for his sense of humor – one of the best of anyone I’ve ever had the privilege of knowing – rather than his exit strategy. I wanted to tell funny stories that would make them laugh, the kind he always told.

So I told them how Egg loved to tell about the time a computer glitch caused his company’s pre-programmed gospel station to start broadcasting vulgarity-laced gangsta rap that was supposed to be playing on the urban station and vice versa, making the phones ring off the hook in his Bible Belt town. He thought it was hilarious. And it was.

I told them about the ancient Shelley Berman comedy album he played so often he not only memorized the dialogue, he nailed Berman’s delivery. His favorite bit was a sketch about a nervous airline passenger who summoned the stewardess (Berman said the plural was “stewardeye”):

Passenger: “Uh, miss … the wing is on fire.”

Stewardess: “Coffee, tea or milk?”
Passenger, becoming agitated: “We don’t have time for coffee, tea or milk. We’re doomed.”

Stewardess, perking up: “Well then, how about a martini?”   

I told them about the time I sent Egg a copy of my book, a compilation of columns written for the local paper. A few weeks later John Grisham came to a bookstore in Egg’s town to promote his latest novel. While Grisham’s back was turned, Egg placed my book atop the stack of books Grisham was signing and took a picture. It made it look like people were lined up to get a copy of my self-published book, not Grisham’s best-seller.

I told them about our national fraternity’s member directory that had mistakenly listed Egg as deceased and how he milked that for all it was worth, telling fund-raisers who called he couldn’t very well donate to the national chapter since he was dead. 

I said I wanted to address Egg directly in case he was listening. I reminded him about the only time I could recall he annoyed me. He had returned from spring break complaining about a rash that itched. Turns out he had measles and passed them on to half the fraternity, causing us to have to cancel our annual formal.

I told Egg that, this time, he had annoyed me again. In fact, he had gone light-years beyond annoying all of us in that room: He had broken our hearts. Then I told Egg that we forgave him.

And while I had no right to speak for his stricken family or friends, I do forgive him though I can’t understand why he did it and never will. Nobody will. 

I’m writing this on the plane coming home from his funeral. In a minute stewardeye will be coming through the cabin with a choice of soft drinks, as well as beer and wine for $5 and cocktails for $6, exact change will be appreciated.

Assuming airlines still sell those miniature bottles of premixed cocktails, I believe I’ll have a martini. Maybe two.

Health insurance hell

I’ve ignored my health. Last year, we were busy packing up and moving from Connecticut to Florida, so I skipped my annual physical. Once we got here, I no longer had a doctor to call if I needed one. So last month, nearly two years after my last doctor's visit, I logged onto my insurance company’s referral web site, found a primary care physician who seemed competent (e.g. he went to a top med school) and scheduled a check-up.

Like all doctors in our litigious society, he needs to cover his ass to defend himself in case I sue him for missing a pre-existing condition so he sent me to lots of specialists who, in turn, ordered all sorts of tests.

Over the last few weeks I’ve been poked, prodded, X-rayed, CAT-scanned and have had cameras inserted in places I had no idea cameras could go. Everything has checked out great so far and only two tests remain. If those turn out fine, I should be good for another 50,000 miles.

I'm sure you're wondering who’s paying for all this medical work. The answer is, I sure as hell don't know.

I have to buy my own health insurance. To keep the monthly premiums affordable, I pay out of pocket the first $2,500 in medical expenses I incur in any given year before the insurance company is obligated to pay anything. I was under the impression that once I paid that amount, insurance would take over and pay the rest of my expenses through December 31. But that isn’t the case.

I keep receiving from my insurance company emails inviting me to check the status of my various claims on its web site. When I log on, I've found that the company is paying fully or partially for services and procedures I thought weren’t covered, but is not paying for expenses I thought were covered. The claims status report shows the amount the provider billed, the amount the company says it negotiated to pay the provider (who is apparently content to accept approximately one-tenth as much as he or she billed) and the amount, if any, for which I’m responsible. It’s confusing as all get-out. Then there are the networks. The company pays in full providers who belong to certain networks, pays partial amounts to providers in other networks and pays zippity zip to those who are out-of-network, even though the receptionists at the out-of-network providers claim they accept my brand of insurance.
  

To wit, I’ve paid $2,000 out-of-pocket since July 1. You'd think I'd just have to pay $500 more before the insurance company starts picking up the tab for everything but no. It claims I still have over $2,100 to go until I’ve satisfied my deductible. Very confusing.

Even more bewildering, the claims status report lists charges from providers I’ve never heard of for procedures I’m not even certain I had. Other services I know for sure I received aren’t listed at all.

Here’s my latest statement:

CLAIMS STATUS REPORT

Insured: Dryden, T
Plan: B
Blood Type: Yes

DATE	PROVIDER	SERVICE	AMOUNT	NEGOTIATED	YOU MAY	NETWORK
			BILLED	RATE	OWE
7/11/2014	HUXTABLE C	OFF VISIT	$950.00	$56.99	$75.11	NBC
7/12/2014	HAUSER D	CYTO/SCAN/H	$46,842.00	$10.00	$0.00	ABC
7/13/2014	FEELGOOD DR	ROTATE TIRES	$594.00	$50.00	7/11	NA
7/32/2014	JEKYLL DR	URINE ANAL	$666.66	$66.66	$6,666.66	N/A
8/1/2014	NURSE JACKIE	BLT N ICU	$100.00	$17.76	$0.00	SHO
8/1/2014	WELBY M	SPAY/NEUTER	$15,320.00	$1,000.00	$5,000.00	ABC
8/2/2014	TROY C	401(K)DEP	$5,999.90	$599.99	$0.00	FX
8/4/2014	HOUSE G	HRT TRNSPLNT	$94,333.11	$00.00	$94,333.11	FOX
8/6/2014	KIMBLE R	1099-E	$3,462.45	$100.99	$500.42	ABC
8/6/2014	ZHIVAGO Y	ANASTASIA	$875.68	$1.11	$485.23	HBO
8/8/2014	QUINCY	PATHOLOGY	$58,376.00	$123.45	$2.99	NBC

The only thing I know for sure is this: If the insurance industry is so screwed up it can't even send statements you don't need to be a CPA to decipher, it's a good thing the government is taking over health care. They'll straighten things out. I'm sure of it. 

Tommy and his amazing Technicolor nightmare

Have you ever had a nightmare so terrifyingly real you had to will yourself to wake up and, when you did, discovered you were drenched with sweat and your heart was pounding so fast you were probably moments from a heart attack?

I had one last night.

My wife and I were in Wilton, Connecticut, in the kitchen of the house where we raised our sons. We were in our old kitchen – the one with the oak cabinets and Formica countertops before the house was remodeled in 1996 –  but we were the age we are now.

We were about to leave for the evening. I was under the impression we were going to meet friends for dinner.

She said she wanted to drive – odd because I almost always drive. I handed her the keys and we got into our teal Volvo 740 DL station wagon. It was the official car of Wilton during the early- and mid-1990s, the car everyone who had kids drove back before SUVs. 

She headed the car south, toward the town center.  I assumed we were going to Portofino, my favorite Wilton restaurant. My mouth was watering at the thought of its signature rigatoni with sausage, marinara, peas and a touch of cream. But when we got to the second stoplight on Danbury Road, instead of continuing south toward the town center, she took a right onto School Road. We wound our way up a steep hill and turned left into the parking lot at Cider Mill School.

“What are we doing here?” I asked, as she brought the car to a stop.

“You’ll see,” she said.

We got out and walked toward the front door but when we got there it was gone. It had been replaced by the box office of our local Regal Cinema here in Florida.

“Hi Kate,” she said to her friend who was seated behind the window. “I have two tickets reserved.”

At that moment I realized I had been tricked into attending a performance of the Wilton Children’s Theater. It’s a volunteer organization run by artistically inclined parents that twice a year stages elaborate musicals in which elementary and middle school kids play all the roles. Our sons were in the chorus of shows like "Lil Abner" and "Cinderella." The high point of their thespian careers occurred during "Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat" when the oldest landed a solo as one of the brothers who sang a song lamenting starvation due to a lingering drought and the younger played a butler who got to sing four lines while relating his amazing dream to Joseph as both languished in an Egyptian prison cell. 

There I was standing in front of the vine.

I picked some grapes and I crushed them for wine.

I gave them to Pharaoh who drank from my cup.

I tried to interpret but had to give up.

Whatever show they were appearing in, my wife made sure we attended all four performances held over the course of the weekend – Friday night, Saturday matinee, Saturday night and the Sunday matinee. The boys, as extras, were on stage for only a few minutes. I then had to spend what seemed like hours watching other peoples’ stupid children in whom I had no interest whatsoever. If given the choice between sitting through four performances of Cinderella or having a colonoscopy, I'd have no trouble deciding.

“I’d rather be water boarded,” I pleaded. “Anything but this.”

Kate, who is our age, was in her late thirties or early forties in the dream. She started thumbing through a wooden box marked “Kraft Cheese” containing white ticket envelopes. It was identical to the one in which my father kept booklets of customer charge accounts in his general store.

“Our tickets are for the back row,” my wife said. “You can slip out after the boys appear. They're on near the beginning.”

“But they're not in this! They're grown! They live in Washington! One's got a kid of his own for Chrissakes!"

“Here you go”, Kate said with a smile, handing my wife the ticket envelope. It was clear my wife had discussed with Kate her plan to trick me into attending. “I upgraded you. You’re in first class, on the front row. Seats 1A and B on the left side.”

“What’s the show?” I asked.

“The Sound of Music,” my wife replied.

“But why?” I pleaded. “Why are we doing this?”

She took my hand and pulled me into the lobby where people were milling about – familiar faces who, like Kate, were in their thirties or early forties –  then into the theater itself. She handed the tickets to an usher, who walked us down the aisle, passing fellow Wilton residents Christopher Walken and Patty Hearst who were sitting in the same row, to our seats.

“You’re not going to be able to get up and leave since we’re down here," she announced. "It’d be rude. Everyone’ll see you.”

“Please!” I begged, as the lights dimmed. “I can’t sit through this. There’s no reason. Our kids aren't in this. We don’t know anyone who has kids. We don’t even live in this town anymore!”

The piano player started playing the overture, “The Hills are Alive.” The curtain began to rise.

At that point, mercifully, my eyes flew open.

I laid awake for a half hour or so trying to interpret but I finally gave up.  

10 seconds guaranteed to make you smile

Truth be told, I always thought my friends who are grandparents were boring old coots with nothing else to do but prattle on and on about their kids' kids. Until I became a grandparent myself on March 19 with the arrival of Theodore Edward Dryden.

Not only is Teddy the world's cutest baby, I freely admit I am the most insufferably obnoxious grandpa in history. My greatest joys are the "Teddy-grams" of photos and/or videos my son and daughter-in-law send their far-flung families via text mail.

Here's my favorite (as of today. Tomorrow I'll have another one). It's a video of Teddy discovering something all of us learned at some point -- that a Bronx cheer is hilarious.

If you're feeling down, ten seconds after you click this video I personally guarantee you'll have a smile on your face.

And if you're already feeling pretty darned good, this will make you feel even better, compliments of the world's cutest baby.

Smartest, too.