Another Cooking Failure in Israel

So tomorrow is my birthday (hint hint) and my research group has a very backward tradition that the birthday girl or boy has to bring their own cake.

Seeing as I dislike cake, I thought "hey! I have leftover marshmallows from the BBQ. I'll take Rice Crispy Squares instead!"

Problem #1: While pacing the cereal aisle before Hebrew class this evening, I came to realize there are no Rice Crispies in Israel. Bright yellow corn flakes it is. Should be a tasty substitution.

Problem #2: About half my leftover marshmallows are pink, and as they started melting in the pot, I realized they were strawberry flavoured.

The result are the most radioactive and unappetizing rice crispy squares ever prepared.

I am finding this blog template kills colour in my photos, so click on the image to get the real colours.



I think I'll be going to the store to pick up some cakes early tomorrow morning.

What makes a man?

Today I had answered for me that one great philosophical question of growing up. Seeing as I never had a father-son relationship myself, I can only imagine what my father taught my brother about what makes a man. I would like to think that he learned from Dad that a man is made of things like responsibility, loyalty, earnestness, and perhaps (especially in my family) an innate need to chainsaw things.

But today, I learned that instead a man is made of other, less abstract, more edible, things. This nugget of wisdom was imparted to me by the back of the hot dog bun bags, five of which are left over from last night's very successful BBQ.




According to the image, a man is made of milk, eggs, cheese, vegetables and, of course, a hot dog bun.

You may be wondering how I ended up with so many hot dog buns. Well, the Israelis never cease to amaze me with their nuttiness. I should have guessed that they would prefer to put their hot dogs in their beloved pitas, purchased for dipping in the ever present hummus, rather than the buns. Oh well, they thought The Chicken and I were strange for wearing hats when were were a bit chilled late in the evening. They thought that perhaps hats at night was "a Canadian thing."

We successfully fed about twenty-five people, with vegetarians and kosher folks thrown in the mix. Gabi's team won the quiz, clinching the win by successfully choosing the correct definition of a"skidoo."

The s'mores were a bit of a hit. Ido's girlfriend, as soon as I mentioned them, was at the BBQ ready to start roasting the marshmallows. Apparently she spent one summer as a camp counselor in the states. From the sounds of things, the s'mores were the best part of that summer for her.

The real rare treat was when Itzik unexpectedly pulled out his accordion from the trunk of his car. He once told me that years ago, he gave up a future as a professional player (no kidding) to pursue chemistry. This was the first time I had heard him play. I must admit, I didn't know any of the tunes, but I enjoyed it greatly all the same.

TGIF

Winter, if that is what we can call it, is over. The day time high was over 30 degrees today, and the heat sent me digging though the closet looking for a tank top and a skirt. I have officially started working on this season's flip flop tan. It seems like only a week or so ago it was pouring rain for four days straight, and we were freezing with wet clothes draped all over the apartment.

Wait one sec... let me check... yep that was 12 days ago. This place is crazy.

I don't have that much to say other than it is Friday and we went shopping at the shook. James got a hair cut and used his Hebrew. He has made it his goal to try out as many old-man barber shops as he can in the city. In a fantastic coincidence, the Hebrew word for barber or hairdresser is the same as the word that means to tell a story. Both of which were going on in full force at this barber shop.

While The chicken was getting his feathers trimmed, I bought carrots and zucchinis and red peppers, then headed elsewhere for tomatoes and then to another spot for oranges and apples, then a pomello as a treat for me, some dill from a fresh spice seller, then come cucumbers when I saw some good ones for three shek a kilo ($1). On my way back to meet James at the barbers', I got yelled at by about half a dozen insanely loud shook guys "Gaveret, Gaveret!" "Miss! Miss!" and chased down because I forgot my 30 cent turnip at one of the stalls five minutes earlier. Love it.

Then we went for lunch (hummus and stuffed vegetables) next to a courtyard full of old men gossiping and playing very serious games of backgammon.

And this is just a gratuitous posting of a photo of a little scene at the shook. I am a shameless people watcher and a photographer from the hip.

Second Chances

Well, the paper just went out to the next wish-on-a-star journal. But this time, when it gets rejected, my paper will almost certainly be directly sent to one of the offshoot journals by the same publisher- which are also very good. Wishing on a star and getting a meteorite instead isn't so bad.

I rewarded myself this afternoon by doing lab work- I did a simple distillation of chloroform over P2O5: kickin' it old school. Why did I have to do this? Because I put dry chloroform on the "TO ORDER" list two weeks ago and found out today that it hasn't yet been ordered.

The Chicken too is getting a second chance. He made a call and the Hebrew folks are letting him take another exam next week so he has to study study study.

Butter tarts anyone?

It is Christmas Eve at 7:54 in the morning and I am lauging at the consequences of last night's genius idea to make butter tarts - a traditional Canadian treat- for my labmates.

I have yet to find shortening here, lard of course would take an act of god, but I did find packages of premade pastry in the freezer section last night. I picked one with a promising looking pictures on the package. I let it thaw in the fridge overnight and this morning got up nice and early to make warm, gooey, melt-in-your-mouth butter tarts.

You know, sometimes you just have to laugh. This is what happened:



Hopefully this is not foreshadowing for tomorrow's turkey.


Update: it is 11:23 am and I am cleaning the pan. I took the buttertarts to work anyway after taste testing one for breakfast. Despite looking odd, the locals didn't know any better and gobbled them all up.

For the Record

As I promised I got my butt in gear. For the record, today I:

Cleaned the bathroom
Figured out how to stop the toilet from constantly running (well that was embarrassingly easy)
Cleaned out the U trap in the bathroom sink (I am considering shaving my head now)
Took out the really nasty U-trap gunk filled garbage
Swept the floors
Mopped the floors
Changed the bag on the vacuum
Got the rug out for the winter
Vacuumed the rug
Did two loads of laundry
Made grilled cheese
Instant messaged with James (his talk went well. He schmoozed very successfully and got the inside scoop on some jobs)
Talked to mom and wished her a happy birthday
Tried to change a light bulb and flipped every circuit breaker in the house
Found flashlight, turned off dinner on the gas stove
Called Dad and then Asaf for advice
Got lights back on without being electrocuted
Finished making dinner and ate it
Noticed my comment on Solar Energy In Israel article on the CBC webpage is the "most agreed" with (Yea!)
Studied Hebrew and did my homework
Wrote 8 Christmas cards
Updated my CV
Started seriously pondering research proposals for job applications (Any good ideas, anyone)?


Well, I think it is time to put my feet up and watch another chick flick, how about you?

Uh, Thanks Mom

A bulky package arrived the other day from my Mom. Knowing it was a gift, we video conferenced with her when we opened it. I should have known when she started giggling before we even got the scissors out.

Years ago, I told The Chicken that we have opened ourselves up to years of poultry jokes and chicken related gifts of every variety. Indeed, I once received a huge yellow stuffed chick from my normally very serious mom-in-law's hubby Major Pete, which I then had to take through security in the TO airport. "Nice Duck" the security guy said as the chick, perched in a grey bin, was conveyered into the X-ray machine. I was afraid to correct the guard at the time. Then there was the time an old friend gave me a itty bitty tiny rubber chicken and said "I don't know why this reminded me of you, but I thought you would like it." Then there was the time The Chicken Dance was requested by the bride and groom at a wedding I MCed as "our song". And then there are the various chicken related birthday cards and such that have found their way into our lives over the years. Not that we mind. We like that we are in your thoughts and we like that you appreciate our unique personal endearments of the Hen and Chicken. But this year my Mom takes the cake.

So when we opened the package, with Mom giggling on, I was expecting silly. But this was extraordinarily silly, with the added bonus of chicken-ness. She had knitted us matching touques covered in a chicken and eggs motif. To top it off, instead of pom-poms we each have three wee chickens hanging off strings.

Mom says we don't have to wear them in public, but I have no shame. Can't you see these hats on the ski hill with chickens streaming behind in the wind?

And they will be great for the winter about the house here. Since our apartment is usually the same temperature as outside, it means the day time high in the living room was about 15 degrees today. This afternoon we were both wearing our new hats in the kitchen as I gave The Chicken his first baking lesson. We were listening to the greatest baking music ever, Black Sabbath, and head banging our pom-pom chickens around the kitchen.

Perhaps it is best that the neighbors can't see us though the kitchen window.

Husband Training

A year ago today, James was arriving at the door having flown from TO through Kiev to Tel Aviv. This is a real milestone since it was also the beginning of us living together. It is not our wedding anniversary, but rather our marriage anniversary. It has been a year of adjustments to be sure. Mostly for James since I was born perfect, and he of course is constantly trying to achieve the same, especially under my caring guidance and tutelage.

To tell you the honest and humble truth, I have husband training down to an art form. Let me tell you some of my achievements to give you examples of a hubby that is well "hen" pecked.

I have the chicken shopping trained, oh miracle of miracles. Normally he would wear clothes until they fell off his body, but not after training. I gently start mentioning his ratty clothes weeks before to get him primed for the event. I carefully choose ONE store to blitzkrieg, because I know that only one store is what his patience will handle. Last Thursday, I dropped him and his bags in front of a full length mirror and just started tossing medium sized sweaters and shirts in his favorite colors (blue and green) at him. Twenty minutes later, we left with two shirts and two sweaters. Now he looks schnazy.

As well, I have the chicken well trained on Friday mornings. Janet-sleeping-in time is sacred and he brings me coffee once I wake up. All this time, James quietly hangs out in the living room and reads what ever boring book he is obsessed with this week or plays a baseball computer game, and doesn't complain a peep.

Later in the afternoon while I clean the bathroom, James diligently moves all the furniture around to sweep and mop the floors, like a good, well heeled hubby.

And if I get on a sewing blitz, James entertains himself (see pic courtesy of Siu- and yes I realize we are wearing matching sweaters like septagenarian love birds).

On weekday mornings, James makes the PB&J sandwiches and packs four pieces of fruit for our daily lunch meeting at 11:30.

I could go on and on about the amazing progress he is making.

But wait. Now that I read this over, I am noticing a few things. Clothes shopping down to twenty minutes? Leaving James hours to read and play computer games and nap? I hate cleaning the bathroom! I used to eat lunch like a normal person at noon.

What the heck is going on here? Could it be possible? Am I a trained wife!?!

Lord of the Twizzlers

We are still slowly savoring the treasure trove of Canadian candy that arrived courtesy of Mom and Siu. We have a carry-on suit case with treasures like Twizzlers, Coffee Crisps, Salt and Vinegar Pringles and oh-so-tasty Reese's Peanut Butter Cups. I keep our booty in this suitcase right next to my side of the bed, only inches away from my ears.
James likens me to Smog the dragon from The Hobbit. Poor Bilbo can't take any of the gold for fear he makes a noise and wakes the dragon sleeping atop. James tries to sneak up while I slumber, but the rustling of the plastic packages, immediately wakens the sleeping hen and the deadly flailing of limbs. "Noooooo!" I yell, as the foot suddenly flies out from beneath the covers to block his passage. Bilbo, I mean James, giggles and makes a hasty retreat.

This Shabbat morning, we lounged in bed and snuggled up with a couple of cups of coffee and a movie on my lap top. James kindly suggested that I could have the first shower after the credits rolled. I, being the trusting person that I am, thought my husband a very considerate man, but was brought back to reality ten minutes later. Wrapped in a towel, James tried to get a kiss, but I shied back at the last moment. "YOU!" I exclaimed. "YOU have eaten a peanut butter cup! I can smell it on your breath!"

Now, I am not only Smog the Dragon, I am also the dreaded Eye of Sauron, that sees all. James claims I am going to terrify our children because nothing gets past me.

HA! Any child of mine will be smart enough to cover their tracks better when they sneak candy. Like brushing their teeth afterwards!

The Oven Saga

We wanted to replace the old broken oven and we found a cheap used one in the English online classified. We called the lady, Miriam, to come and see it and she gave us lovely ambiguous directions like "take the street that goes down the hill and then turn right at the street that is at the bottom." Jerusalem, if you have never been here, was built on a landscape like bubble-wrap and the street layout planned by a four-year old with a crayon. We ignored her vague directions and with he help of google maps, we found the place.

While inspecting the oven, opening the door and peering inside, we discovered that it was gas. Or rather, she told us it was gas. Then she told us repeatedly that ALL ovens in Israel are gas. I didn't believe her since our current old beastie was electric.
But whatever, it was not what we needed so we left.

Ten minutes later, after climbing halfway up the big hill in the rain, we get a phone call. "Did you mean the inside part? Well that part is electric." So back down the hill we go. Then she emphatically tells us that ALL ovens in Israel are electric.
Regardless, it is electric, it works and it is cheap.

So then I had to organize a movers. Unfortunately, the guy that was recommended to us speaks only Hebrew so I had to get a labmate to organize (he will get the first batch of cookies). But we were told the mover was honest and he was cute. (I have to admit, I was dodged out by the movers advertised in the English classifieds. Many said "Only Jewish Labour". Frankly I don't care who your mom was as long as you do an honest job and it bothers me that they would advertise such a thing.)

Then the other morning, after Siu and I got back from schleping in the pouring rain to and from Miriam's apartment to give her money for the oven, we get a call from the mover. "Where Miriam? She not here!"

Miriam has her cell phone off. Grrrr.

Anyhoo. Eventually the mover got the oven to our house. My eyes just about boggled out of my head when he just tossed the oven on his back and hauled it up four floors of stairs. But let me tell you, the recommendation was a little off. Sure he was honest and efficient and all sorts of good things, but unfortunately he would only be cute if I was about 50. Too bad! I was all ready to ogle some moving-man muscle.

Here is a pic of The Chicken with our inaugural chicken.

Rush Rush Rush

Argh!

James and I spent all yesterday cleaning our coop.

In the next hour I have get to the mall to buy sheets and a pillow and make it back home because......

SIU IS ARRIVING!

Yea!

We need the Maytag Man

Elvis, our violently shaking washing machine who lives on a couple of cinder blocks beside the tub, flew off the handle last night. Or rather, the handle flew off. Right off into James' hand leaving a load of white t-shirts hostage inside.

But we will not let such an icon die. Who needs a handle when you can use a butter knife to open the door? My husband, the pantsless wonder, demonstrates the technique:


In other news, the oven died a few weeks ago when the glass on the front broke. Incidentally, right after I spent two hours cleaning it. Normally one can repair this, but our oven is circa 1960 and the thermostat didn't work anyway. On top of the that, a previous owner had removed the range and replaced it with a piece of vinyl covered plywood.


Only the classiest appliances for us!

Lah di dah di dah

Things have been a little stressful and at the same time boring in the house of Chez Janet and James lately. James is applying for "real" jobs and writing up these intricate research proposals, teaching statements, blah blah blah. To add to the stress, the hiring market is really poor right now, as so even though he is slaving in front of his computer, he knows he will be competing against hundreds of equally qualified applicants for every position. He feels it will be a miracle even if he gets one interview. He has spent hours and hours on his applications, which means that during all of these holidays, we have not gone on a single adventure. My job is to be a sounding board, to proof read and to provide an endless supply of hugs.

In the mean time, what have I been doing? For the most part, a whole lotta nothing. Work is slow because the TEM is closed for the week and the deuterium lamp burnt out on the spectrometer and no one is around to order a new one during the holidays.
Really, the most exciting thing was yesterday while trying to buy underwear, I got stuck in a parade that lasted for two hours. Thrilling, I know. I have been keeping abreast of the news online, writing blog posts when the muse speaks to me and quilting. Each one of those blocks takes and unholy amount of time, so it has been keeping me out of trouble and building a weird callus on one of my fingers. I feel a sense of achievement with having six done, but I don't even want to think about how much work is going to go into making a whole quilt worth, and then actually quilting it.

But because all of my real chemistry work is put on hold, and the boss is away, I get to do Secret Chemistry. What is Secret Chemistry, you ask? It is your whacked out ideas that you try when the boss isn't looking. You only tell him later if something cool happens. Or, if it all goes to poop, you let it fester quietly in your lab book. It truly is the most fun part of my career choice. Many a great projects have been born from secret chemistry, and many great idea flops have been avoided by secret chemistry. Think covert canulating. Mysterious magnetic stirring. Surreptitious syringing. I laugh in the face of failure! Bwah Ha Ha! I will kick some reaction butt. All with my super sexy super hero costume: lab coat and glasses!

Back to the bat cave! Er I mean, Fume Hood!

Mystery Fruit #13: The Pomme-granate

This morning, I laid siege upon the kitchen armed only with oven cleaner, Ajax and my trusty blue cloth. I cleaned behind the fridge and in the fridge and on the fridge. I cleaned beneath the microwave, in the microwave and on top of the microwave. And worst of all, I cleaned in the oven, behind the oven and beneath the oven.
There was much grunting, creaking joints, horrible sounds of appliances dragged across tile and the odd curse thrown in for good measure.

While the battle ensued in the kitchen, The Chicken fought gallantly at the most crowded of fronts: the shook on the day before a holiday. Yes, yet another holiday, Succot, starts tonight. He came home with the spoils of war. He presented his fair, oven soot streaked wife with a whole basket of new mystery fruit.

These fruit are great. They have a wonderful strong fruity smell that is currently masking the stink of oven cleaner. I just want to go into the kitchen to sniff. The white flesh was pretty tasty too. James bravely ate the peel, but I scooped the flesh out with a spoon. "Not bad" we both exclaimed. But oh, the smell. Our kitchen smells like fruit heaven.

They have a weird spiky crown like a pomegranate but have a colour and flesh texture closer to that of of a pear or apple. Therefore, I name this definitely-a-repeat-buy mystery fruit "pomme- granate". (I know, subtle but important spelling difference, here.)

Fetal Cow Fiasco

Never have I been so relieved to be wrong about something. Turns out I misread the letter dalet for the letter resh and the word I thought meant "fetus" actually means "processed." We did not eat "roast calf from fetus" but rather "roast calf processed." Guess I had better stick with those Hebrew lessons.

All the same, the roast was so under par, the fact that we even considered it was fetus goes to show just how bad beef is here. What I wouldn't do for a Triple A Alberta T-bone, medium, on the BBQ.

Worst Meal Ever

It is Friday night – the start of Shabbat – and James and I always cook a big special meal. But this one will go down in the record books as one of the most special.

First of all, we decided to finally cook up some of the Karah. Thanks guys for your suggestions and investigative journalism. Polly's farmers' market guy was a little vague with "You cook. You eat.", as was Bryan's slightly better suggestion of "Soups and stuff." Siu's ideas were more specific but unfortunately shrimps and oyster sauce are not kosher so not available in our grocery store. (Which, as you will read, is somewhat tame compared to what we discovered IS available in the grocery store)

So I went my own route and tried frying slices, because everything tastes good fried. Right? The whole thing was like a cucumber out of control. Well first of all, the skin was like boot leather and I almost lost fingers cutting the slices. The inside had watery flesh, a non-descript smell and huge seeds. I fried them up, sprinkled them with salt and pepper and hoped for great things. The reviewers comments?

"These are awful. F-ing awful."

Two thirds of the plate ended up in the trash. Of course, I still have a foot an a half left of this not very tasty vegetable. Any takers?

But the real epicenter of the meal was the roast beef. We have not cooked beef since the spring because it is expensive and not very good here in Israel. But every once in a while I have to let my inner Alberta girl out and gnaw on some red meat. We decided to splurge on a roast from the frozen food section that was next to some other roasts with pictures of cows on them. I swear we spent at least five minutes trying to make sure we bought the right animal this time.

This afternoon I roasted it up, but the result was very disappointing. The flavor was so odd that we questioned whether we had accidentally purchased a piece of old mutton or something. To figure out where we had gone wrong, after dinner I dug though the slimy pieces of karah skins in the trash to locate the label from the roast started translating it. First word meant "roast" and the next "calf". So far so good. Roast veal. Not bad.

But what did the last word mean? I now wish I had never looked it up and would still be in blissful ignorance. But no..... I had to know it all. I looked it up in the dictionary, and when I saw the translation, I immediately shut the book, put my hand over my mouth and exclaimed "Oh, God." I told James. He turned pale and said, "I think I am going to hurl."

The last word meant "from fetus."

Who would sell such a thing in a grocery store! And there is no getting rid of it. The whole house smells like roast cow fetus. I have been laughing hysterically with tears rolling down my face and poor James is switching between denial ("It can't be fetus!") and getting shivers of the heebeejeebees. Nasty. I think we will just stick to chicken from now on.

At least the boiled carrots were ok.

Mazel Tov to Us!

Today is The Chicken and I's third wedding anniversary. Mazel Tov to us!

If we look like we are having fun in this pic, it is because we are. Me telling a story and James giggling. We still do that a lot and are still having a blast on our adventure together.

This year has proven to be the best year yet. Especially since we now actually live together and our celebration won't be as pathetic as the last two: phone calls.

Anhoo. Cheers to the Chicken.

Now I get to be mushy:

Mushy Mushy Mushy Mushy SMOOCH!

On Pins and Needles

To keep my hands busy on the long and hot Shabbats, my friend Renske sent me a hand applique quilting block to work on. The patch has been sitting in my house for a couple of weeks unattended because I had yet to find pins to start the project. Pins?
No problem, I could find those at the Zellers or at the Fabric-land. But of course this is Israel, and nothing it seems easy or straight forward for me- although, of course, it makes perfect sense to the locals.

There are plenty of fabric stores in each city which seem to nestle together like colourful Easter eggs. In Jerusalem, there are half a dozen or so fabric shops near the corner of Jaffo and King George, right beside the turn off to walk to the shuk.

Each is a long narrow shop, plied to the ceiling with crowded bolts and rolls of fabric in every hue and texture with very little or no order. The shops are so full that the bolts spill out onto the street both as vibrant advertisement and to provide a little breathing space inside. In the indoor area that these outdoor bolts vacate each morning usually you can find the proprietor or proprietress, ready for business. They are almost always near the door seated on a folding chair or behind a very small and crowded counter barely big enough for the cash register. Despite the sameness of the each store set-up, if you look carefully, you will notice that each store has a specialty: fabrics for curtains, upholstery, ball gowns, clothing, head scarves, etc. I am kicking myself for not taking the camera with me yesterday.

Even though all the fabric jumbled together is overwhelming enough, there were some curious things missing. Where were the threads, needles, pins and buttons? I finally managed to buy pins yesterday off one of the counters displayed as an impulse item like a chocolate bar or a People Magazine. It took two stores in Tel Aviv and three stores in Jerusalem, some bad Hebrew and some funny hand signals to find them. Heaven help me if I ever need a button.

By bedtime I had the quilt piece cut and basted. Then I got up and started stitching, and found it quite addictive, so I kept stitching and stitching. Needless to say, I finished the block this afternoon.

There really isn't much to do on Shabbat but quilt and write blog posts.

My Hero

Of late late I have been "digestively unstable" and I finally asked the ol'doc-in-law about it. Turns out, I have probably picked up a bug and the ol' doc suggested a 24 hour liquids-only fast to starve the little jerks hanging out in my intestine into submission.

To most people, this wouldn't be much trouble, but I can hear the groan of sympathy coming from my Sister's Husband now. Dominic knows all too well that a Macdonald woman without food is a scary beast indeed. We can lash out without warning both with vicious words and any limb that is within striking distance.

Throughout the day, I avoided letting my inner beast randomly attack those around me with a strict policy of avoidance. Poor James lives with me and had to take the brunt of it, and did so with a level of bravery and stoicism usually only seen in romance novels involving pirates or white steeds. He even bypassed the free pastries at a chemistry talk in the afternoon just to share in my misery. (I would not have been so nobel as to pass on free pastries, especially those yummy croissant shaped poppyseed ones. Mmmmm. Hungry...)

By 9 pm last night, all I could do was lay on the couch, watch TED talks and plaintively ask what time it was every fifteen minutes. When my fast was over, I ate a bowl of cous cous since not eating ironically causes nausea. There I was listlessly shoveling food in my mouth on a stool in the kitchen as James fussed around me like a mother hen, handing me apricots and glasses of water. Once my tummy felt less empty, I promptly shuffled to the next room and went to sleep. James tucked me in.

Then he went back to the kitchen and washed my cous cous bowl for me. My Hero.

Dumpster Cats and the Odd Duck

I have been doing my best not to nit pick at the hubby too much, but he hit a whole new level of Odd Duckiness this weekend.

The Chicken has an odd obsession with the numerous Dumpster Cats of Jerusalem (his Calendar will be out in time for X-mas). We will be walking to work and then all of a sudden he will disappear. I know now to look behind me and I will see him talking yet another picture of some mangy cat. Admittedly, some strays are an amusing part of our daily lives and consequently, Theo-cat-tra, Cat-tom and Prego-cat will get their own post in the future.

In our photo album, interspersed with great pics of our adventures, are many, many photos of dumpster cats. James went out for a walk today and came back all excited about his latest photo-shoot with the urban wildlife. He takes photos of all aspects of their being: sunning themselves, fighting, eating chicken scraps from the garbage, but today he photographed in a brutally honest close-up and in perfect focus, two cats making kittens.

I am l little disturbed to say the least. He swears it is for educational purposes only and then giggles. I have decided NOT to put the offending photos in this post but if any of you want a biology lesson or know a good shrink, please send an email to James.