Toto, We Aren't in Kansas, Anymore!

It is November, and turkeys everywhere are edging over to the far side of the confine. The Short, Happy Life of Francis Macomber comes to mind whenever I see turkeys in November.

But that is sad. I also think of Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz, when she turns to Toto and says: "I don't think we're in Kansas, anymore."

In spite of endless days driving from the Midwest to Arizona, I have never lived in Kansas. Actually, once, a lifetime ago, we stopped in Liberal, Kansas, and visited the literary launching pad for Alice and her most excellent adventures. Another ad in our local Tucson newspaper reminds me that this is not Kansas, either.

I cooked tripe, once, when we lived in Minnesota. We had a party, almost every year, to celebrate one or another absolutely obscure "Day" someone had proclaimed around the end and beginning of calendar years. I believe it had something to do with "Pepper Pot Day"--some such thing--and I had found a recipe requiring tripe. I also found a butcher shop in the Old Stockyards area of South St. Paul that sold tripe by the ton, or wheelbarrow load.

I do not know whether I did something wrong, or whether I did it all right, but the tripe soup was nearly as awful as the odor in the kitchen. I switched recipes.

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