This is the most uncommunicative blogger of this blog. My neglect of this site has been gnawing at me of late (after all, it was my idea! It think), and so I am here to remedy my problem, or at least be able to tell myself that I really am a good blog hostess. Yes, you may call it self deception, but I'm not listening.
I am here to share with you, gentle reader, a most profound truth that came to me the other day. Now, usually, I hide such things from the general public, because the depths of them cannot be plumbed by the average American. In fact, I doubt that anyone reading this will understand the beautiful truth they are about to be exposed to. Unless, of course, I get a French reader, perchance. It is as follows.
Stick pretzels are a balm for the troubled heart and mind.
There. I did it. I told you that you wouldn't understand. But this truth was not discovered easily. It took a singing practice in which one soprano had a croaking amphibian in her throat that would not be dislodged, and an alto who was too easily provoked to laughter. All the ladies were pronouncing vowels like bumpkins. The male ranges, well, 3/4 of them had head colds. It was dirge-ish, ghoulish, and altogether frightening.
But then, we pulled out the pretzels. Not the twisty kind, for those only depress you further by reminding you of your current mental condition. The straight, stick ones. And by the time the un-local singers had been trotted out the door, smiles reigned supreme. It was beautiful. It was inspiring. It was possibly life-changing.
Never forget the lesson of the pretzels.
