It snowed over an inch last night and that, combined with the 10-degree cold is causing mayhem in Louisville. Given I lived in Minnesota for six years, where children aren’t allowed to wait outside for the bus if the wind chill drops below -20, I’m tempted to make fun. But Kentucky isn’t prepared for snow and ice like Minnesota is, and when you consider how hilly the terrain often is, any amount of ice can make driving treacherous.
So school’s out, also little Joan has a fever. All of which means I won’t be blogging today. However I’ll leave you for the weekend with the world’s oldest kringle joke. If it seems familiar it’s because variations are a told for all sorts of ethnic pastry: cannoli, kolacky, strudel, rugelach, the list goes on. Come to think of it I’ve heard apple pie and chocolate chip cookie versions too. It goes like this.
An old [insert ethnicity here] man was on his death bed, his doctor had given him mere hours to live. As he lay there, waiting for the end, he suddenly caught a whiff of [pastry] from the kitchen. “If I could only have just one bite of [pastry],” he said, “I can die a happy man.” So he musters the last ounce of his strength to pull himself out of bed and…slowly…down the steps.
At the door to the kitchen he sees a plate of hot, fresh baked [pastry] sitting on the table. He inches forward, his mouth watering. He reaches out with a trembling hand, feeling for the first time in years life and energy flowing back into his tired old limbs. His finger tips are mere inches from the [pastry] when a wooden spoon comes down and raps him across the knuckles.
“You stay out of those,” his wife says sternly. “We’re saving them for the funeral.”