Yak Herder Central

Yak Herder and his trusty(?) altered ego, The Swami, are content to provide little content of their own, but delight in providing "helpful" commentary to the blogs of others ....ALL THE NEWS THAT'S FAIRLY UNBALANCED

Saturday, October 07, 2006

Beauty on the Eve of Apprehension

It was a beautiful autumn day in southwestern Ohio. The clear sky, the mild breeze, just the kind of weather to bring the yaks down into the valleys for their winter pasture, if only we were in Mongolia. Fortunately, were able to take The Girls to an amusement park instead of yakking.

Tomorrow Swamette's mother is making spaghetti sauce and meatballs for dinner for 14 at our house. This requires a bit of background. Swamette's father's family was 100% German, her mother's family was 100% Italian. Anyone who knows Swamette understands that her heritage has resulted in her being 95% Italian. I am probably belaboring the obvious. Since Swamette ends in a vowel, of course, she must be Italian.

Oh yes, the apprehension.

The spaghetti and meatballs are fabulous. People come from miles around. Hey, you think all 14 of these people live in the same yak herders yurt! Over the years Swami has endeavored to eat spaghetti properly, spinning it on his fork. He has gotten pr-e-t-t-ty good at it. Until last spring. Suddenly, as The Swami's fork was reaching about 3500 rpm, the end of Swami's turban caught in the fork. Swami's neck was wrenched as he was thrown over the table and into the next room. By a stroke of good fortune the surgeon's were able to form the cast to resemble a turban.

Not to fear, The Swami is all better now. No, really, I am --- but they do want the meds to continue.


At 11:55 PM, Blogger Susan Gets Native said...

Oh, Swami...I will be sorry to miss Grandma Swametti's spaghetti and meatballs tomorrow.
Be sure to send a large turban-full home with Son-of-Swami, okay?

At 8:30 AM, Blogger Mary said...


Oh, the memories are flooding back to me. I had my first authentic homemade Italian dinner with a group of noisy Italians in 1973 (husband's family). They rarely talked in a normal tone and everything was shouted out in a smallish, hot basement/kitchen/TV room in Baltimore. My husband is 100% Italian and prior to my first feast, he warned me not to cut my spaghetti, I learned sauce is called "gravy", and no one buttered their bread, except for me. You learned to like the dryest red wine manufactured especially when a comical fight insued over the last few black olives and pork neck bones. Oh, I needed Advil relief.

Keep that turban away from those forks! LOL



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