And then after he and Sheryl had been married for a while we went over to their house to watch...the Daytona 500? Maybe?...and Leah decided she had to look out the window I was sitting next to, so she determinedly shoved her way up between the chair and wall, parted the curtains, crossed her arms on the windowsill, and exclaimed loudly, "Well, god DAMN!"

She doesn't remember any of that.

So when Tim came out for the week (he and KC work for the same company now and there was a training in the NJ field office) we made all kinds of plans; he and Sheryl moved out to California a couple of years ago and we miss them terribly. The first thing he wanted to do was see a Phillies game, as he hadn't been to the new park yet.

Tim is a big man, tall and heavy, with a full beard. As he came out and hopped in the back of the truck next to Leah, she ducked her head and pretended he wasn't there, playing studiously with a long black string. ("Do you know where where where I got this string? Do you know? It was my my my my tap shoe string, my tap shoe string, and it came out and unraveled and unwounded and it got this this this big and long, it was kuh-RAY-zee!" KC, in a stage whisper: "It came from my old boots.") Tim leaned over and asked her, "Wanna see how you make a butterfly?" and that was it. He is the Pied Piper, man, I can explain it in no other way. By the time we hit the Whitman she was firmly convinced that her Uncle Tim was the greatest man alive.

We had a splendid time at the game, of course...the Phils whupped the Braves, Ryan Howard nailed another dinger into the crowd, Leah got to hug the Phanatic when he burst into our section and I had a picture-perfect view of Pat Burrell's fantastic rear end every time he was at bat. Finest ass in baseball, thankyouverymuch.

The main reason I am rambling on about all this, though, is the dinner I made on Thursday night. When I found out Tim was coming, I said to KC, we will have him over for dinner. Find out what he wants and I will make it for him, we'll have beer and hang out and it will be cool. For Tim was my grocery shopping buddy, who taught me how to make a good meat loaf and attempted to show me how to stir a roux and saved my butt at the last minute quite often, especially when I made gravy. And the answer came back, as I half-expected: "He says he wants that shrimp and pasta thing you guys used to make all the time." Sure, no problem, I actually have most of the things on hand to make that.

An hour later: "He thinks maybe instead he wants glop. No one makes glop like you do, he says."

Glop. Have I ever explained glop? Glop is what my father named the fabled concoction my mother would whip together as a special "treat" for dinner on rough days. It is hamburger mixed with...Velveeta Shells & Cheese. No, seriously. The "secret" ingredient? Is a heavy hand with the store-brand jar of italian seasoning.

As it turns out, yesterday was the day from hell, so despite my most noble intentions, I was actually kind of glad to have a request that simple; I can make it in my sleep and was able to chat while cooking, and he was so excited. "Someone asked what you were fixing, and I had to tell them I was really kind of hoping you would make glop." When he was asked what the fuck exactly that was, he answered, "It's tough to explain. Basically, we were all broke eleven or so years ago and we were all beginner cooks and two boxes fed us with leftovers."

I am not sure whether to laugh or cry that in the following decade my culinary skills are most appreciated through the medium of processed cheese food and ground beef, but on the other hand, who couldn't love a guest who is that easy to please? And I would make him glop every day if it meant he and Sheryl would move back here so we could all hang out and drink Yuengling Lager and watch baseball and quote Cheech and Chong at each other again.

God, nostalgia's a bitch. I blame Kraft Foods.