Food of the Future – what’s on your plate in 2025?

Welcome Loungers! Happy not-quite-Friday.

Have I mentioned I love food? I feel ripped off anytime someone suggests ‘brunch’. They stole a meal right from under me! Give it back, now! Today I’m planning my meals 10 years into the future (as well as thinking about my lunch).  I’m a progressive little Vegemite.

So, what’s on the menu? You’ll need to promise not to hold me to this, because even visionaries can get it wrong occasionally. Back to the Future told us we were meant to have our hoverboards by last year, and it’s looking like we may in fact have a couple more years still to wait. Disappointing.

Anyway, without further ado I present my top 5 predictions for the food of the future:

1. Meat – from the printer, not the butcher

Did you know they can print 3D guns now that actually fire? Did you also know they can print replacement organs for the body? It’s only sensible, then, that they should leave Betsy the cow to graze in the paddock her udders un-muddled (umm.. though printing milk could prove messy. We may hang on to those udders) instead of sending her to the handbag factory. Instead, they can print my eye fillet. It’s all the rage on the latest season of Gray’s Anatomy, don’t you know. The docs are all fighting over whether the printing of a new hand or a new liver should take priority. (Tough call, that one. Hand needed to lift the wine glass… but liver needed to process the alcohol. Glad it’s not my decision.) Clearly an eye fillet will beat printing over the gravy beef, however, and we’ll all have champagne beef tastes on a printing budget, while the forests grow and Betsy moos a long and happy life. Everyone’s happy, except the unemployed butchers.

2. Insect sticks

Mmmm a bug barbie. Grasshopper kebabs at the night markets, washed down with a little grass juice. We’re health conscious MOFOs these days (no, silly, the 2025 days), and insects pack an energy and nutrient punch. And the crunch when char-grilled with a little soy, ginger and chilli? Delish.

I guess that will stop them getting away. Chilli sauce or BBQ?

I guess that will stop them getting away. Chilli sauce or BBQ?

3. Chocolate tubes 

Remember sweetened condensed milk in a tube? Our mums would catch us sneaking it and snatch it from our mouths? Well, the health conscious future will make chocolate in a tube, but it will come from cacao nibs. Silken tofu and various other binders will give it a velvety texture, and it will somehow taste great, and be good for you. Not at all like the dairy-free gluten-free friand I ate the other day that tasted like glue. This stuff is actually yum-good as well as good-good. Remember kids, a squirt of chocolate a day keeps the doctor away!

4. Avocado milkshakes

Ewwwwww. I know. That’s what I say too. Ewwwwwww. But, as our gullets circumnavigate the globe, from China, to Thailand, then to Japan, India, Korea, Vietnam, Spain, authentic Mexican, and we’ve ‘conquered’ all of these cuisines, we’ll be looking for our next big flavour adventure. We’ve been doing the mole and agave tequila drinks for a little while now… I suspect the next unexplored culinary frontier will be Africa. And in Africa, they LOVE their avocado milkshakes. I know, I know. But hey, who would have thought balls of tapioca would taste so good swimming around in tea?

Gah. Savoury to sweet is like mixing my metaphors. I can't do it.

Gah. Savoury to sweet is like mixing my metaphors. I can’t do it.

5. 100 year old Peat Bog eggs

You’ve heard how the Chinese eat their 100 year-old-eggs as a delicacy, I suspect? While not ACTUALLY 100 years old, they are some seriously BADDASSLY-preserved eggs. Think about how well the Peat Bogs of Scotland preserve things, like dead men. Remember the Peat Bog man? If a bit of good peat can keep a man who’s ?? years old looking this good, just think about the health benefits of preserving your food in a good bit of peat. Before you know it, everybody will have a nice sunken Peat pit in their back garden, and will be inviting each other around for Peat Pit Pickling Parties on the weekend.

I can’t wait. xx

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Book snacking on The Lounge

Zemanta Related Posts ThumbnailDo you ever eat your books in three courses? Have one on the go as your entree (like a biography), one as main course (like ‘literature’), and one for dessert (like trashy chick lit)? Or is that just me? Sometimes I even eat them like Maccas Happy meals.

I get that it’s the usual way to eat your books like noodles in a box. You start at the start, and stop when there’s none left. I have never, ever finished a box of noodles. I get bored partway through, and just stop eating. With books, I sometimes like to mix up the flavour depending on my mood too, and have a few on the go at a time so I can munch on the right one at the right time of day. So I’m not eating figurative dinner books at figurative breakfast book time. Yep. I know. I’ve been told I’m crazy already. Too late to change now.

Over summer I snacked on the hard copy Hunger Games while on the beach (sand – you know. Ate some of that too. Crunchy.) I reserved the main meal books for the Kindle back at the ranch (aka the beautiful beach house de friend I love dearly). I’ll outline my course choices for you below, and explain why the flavours complement each other so beautifully.

The breakfast read:
An area I’m fairly sure I could excel in 2014 is as trash mag rogue photo editor. This is not even a book, but I need to read something while I eat cereal. A trashy mag sits in front if me? I’ll read it. Beats the milk carton nutrition information. Perfect for the slowly unfurling brain. Now, beware… I’m not sure if you want to copy this look as they suggest, but I sure as hell don’t. No extra appendages for me this year, thanks.

What's wrong with this picture? Look closely. Is Kate sporting an extra appendage?

What’s wrong with this picture? Look closely. Is Kate sporting an extra appendage?

The mid-morning entree
The Princess Bride – William Goldman. A classic. Hilarious, light, funny. It has adventure, swords, princess Buttercup, and razor-sharp narration from William Goldman that you miss out on in the movie. And bonus? It was only 99c on the Kindle store. Read. This. Book. If you need any more convincing, do I need to remind you? “My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare, to die.”

I’ve quoted this line with such glee so often over the years, completely randomly and out of context, it’s been really enjoyable seeing it in its true home.

Main course
The Elegance of the Hedgehog – Muriel Barbery. This is LITERATURE, people. But also very, very good. Smart and funny, brilliantly witty writing with an intriguing and unusual story about  interpersonal relationships and hidden identities slowly creeping to the surface. I love the nuances in this book. It takes time though, to soak in the words.

Afternoon tea
Me talk Pretty One Day – David Sedaris. Cheese and biscuits. A light snack for me. He’s very witty and amusing, but this is real life, and I don’t like too much of that. Reality? Pah. He is clever though.

No-one ever Has Sex on a Tuesday – Tracy Bloom. This one is pretty obvious. Marshmallows with Persian fairy floss on top. My tired tiredy-pants brain is often skipping straight to dessert at the moment. This is fun fluff about a woman accidentally getting knocked up. Token gay bestie, two men fighting over the same woman, etc. It’s a good larff, with an ff. Can’t remember much else about it but it’s funny. Oh, and it was only 99c at the Kindle e-store.

I think you can probably understand the benefits of my literary nutritional style. I get all the value, without the bloat. I should point out though, that I haven’t actually finished ANY of these books as yet. The concept kind of assumes I have vast uninterrupted barrowfuls of time to gorge myself on these book meals, rather than having, say, CHILDREN. So I eat them like fast food. Munch on a cold chip here and there, for about 3 months. Eventually I finish them. I enjoy them just the same.

Mmmmmm books. YUMMY.


I can make people

Adulthood doesn’t present many opportunities for achievement. I’m not too sure what it means anymore. It was a simple concept in childhood, defined by good marks and smiling teachers. By uni, it simply meant finishing the bloody degrees. These days I wear so many hats, as worker, mother, friend, sister, daughter, and wife, that it’s more likely I’ll feel able to tell you about my ONE BEST FAIL rather than my biggest achievement.

But then I remember, I have an extremely special talent. I can make people. I know nearly all of us can, but in the humdrum and cacophony of daily life I’m quick to forget the miracle of this, my best achievement. It didn’t come easily. Making humans is bloody hard work.

Just two for me, thanks.

Just two for me, thanks.

The first human I made was 6 years ago. I was told to try and make one soonish since I was all endometriosis-y, and had had surgery and a short delightful jaunt through drug-induced menopause. Fun for all! Luck was ours, and the human put herself in my very cranky womb quickly and happily.

After all the usual retching and fainting, and a couple of good migraine months, things became more challenging. Commuting daily became a game of ‘catch the guilty shifting eyes’ as the wheels on the bus went round and round and the preggo lady tried not to fall over. Then the techtonic plates shifted, (or the joints in the back and pelvis anyway) and I effectively fell apart. I saw a physio every week to put me back together, and she gave me a super sexy belly band in ‘nood’ to hold me in one piece and to funk up my outfits all at once.Winning!

I started contracting around 35 weeks – with an ‘irritable uterus’. Medical descriptions are so cool in their suckiness sometimes. I’ll say it was irritable. It was saying ‘Eject! Eject!’ The contractions were painful, pant-worthy and regular, so I stopped sleeping and was put on meds to stop labour.

Luckily I produce ENORMOUS babies, so Little L being born weighing almost 4 kg at 38 weeks was not a moment too soon. I just had no idea I was in labour, since the pain had felt the same for the last 3 weeks nonstop. Do you think I want an epidural? Do you think there’s a reason I’m laughing like a hyena when you ask me that question?

Did you know babies also decide to come while you’re sick with the flu and have a fever and chest infection? I stupidly thought they would just wait until it was a good time. Ten days later I’d cracked a rib from coughing and had my first round of pneumonia (with a couple more to come over the next few years). Good thing I make sturdy babies, hey.

I still find it fairly unbelievable that only nine months later I went back and chucked another human into this very cranky womb. Of course it was very cranky again, and tried much harder to chuck its goodies out. Little A, the fighter that she is, just kicked back of course. A story for another day.

So while I’m not very GOOD at cooking people, the fact that I can and have made two of them, who I’m very, extremely grateful and proud to wrap in my arms each day, is more than enough life achievement for one me.

A desert island Top 5 of flotsam from a commitment-phobe

Something you may not know about me is that I find it hard to commit. I need to be sure before I do that I’m making the absolutely, really, truly, beyond-reasonable-doubt correct choice of sandwich filling when I’m confronted by a shop’s ‘Top 10 combos’. Mistakes are bad. They can be defining. Me? I like a more fluid approach. A bite of my sandwich, a bite of yours. The best of both worlds. Don’t tell That Man. He thinks he gets to eat his own lunch.

Hence this weeks’ Lounge topic was difficult for me. How to choose my Top 5 books, movies or songs? They shift with the tide. With my mood. On the current. With the jetsam and seaweed. As Patrick would say, I’m ‘Like the Wind, through his tree’. So, I’m going to give you my ‘at this moment in time’ favourite movies. See if you spot any of my ‘not-favourtite-but-very-well-liked song’s’ lyrics on the way through.

1. Donnie Darko – Love this. Baby Jake Gyllenhaal and his big sister Maggie in the same movie, fighting at the dinner table. Awesome lines, like: ‘Why are you wearing that stupid man suit?’ He hates these blurred lines between reality and the dream-world he taps into, and becomes agitated and confused, believing the world’s going to end. You would too if you kept seeing a man in a giant rabbit suit.

I knew you were trouble when you walked in…

I knew you were trouble when you walked in…

2. Les Mis – I know. Just released. Overhyped. Yes, yes. I can hear you all singing, angry men. But I loved every single minute of it. Hugh spends all his time on the duck and weave hiding in doorways cos he looks like somebody that Russell Crowe used to know. And while he’s not at his hottest in this movie, he gives good voice (unlike Russ – meh). When he really lets rip he does remind me a little of Barney on the Simpsons, tonsils jangling visibly in the back of his throat. Voice projection people. It’s important. I’ve never seen it before, but it brings back memories, since Castle on a Cloud was one of the first songs I learned to play on the piano. And Eponine? She just breaks my heart. ‘On my Own’ has to be one of the best torch songs ever. Though, why she’s lusting after that simpering blonde whelp is baffling. She can’t live, with or without him. One of the classic flaws of musicals is the tendency of characters to fall in love for no particular reason, just because there’s a girl or guy standing in front of them. I accept it though – for the music. Movies, musicals. You’ve gotta keep em separated. You know this about muscials, so you leave your brain at the door.

Hey, I just met you, and this is crazy. But here's my number. Gotta run - can hear some people singing a song of angry men.

Hey, I just met you, and this is crazy. But here’s my number. Gotta run – can hear some people singing a song of angry men.

3. Fight Club – Right here, right now, we’re actually NOT going to talk about Fight Club. You know why, don’t you. Tyler Durden’s like a mole, digging in a hole, except the hole is his brain. The first rule of Fight Club is: you do not talk about Fight Club. OK. So, I’m out. I just did, sorta. Probably for the best. My biceps are imaginary.

Heeeeey, come out and play!

Heeeeey, come out and play!

4. Being John Malkovich – I would sure pay money to climb inside John Malkovich’s brain through a tiny door on the 7 1/2 floor of an office building; wouldn’t you? They climb through the little door, then get sucked in through John’s ear canal, where the streets have no name. I’d also pay money to climb inside the brain of whoever came up with this genius movie. It’s so crazy it makes sense. A comedy/fantasy – Hallelujah! The ultimate genre. And Cameron Diaz’ hair!!! It has everything going for it, PLUS JOHN CUSACK. I give this 50 million stars.

I want to run, I want to hide.. inside John Malkovich's brain. Where nobody will see my hair.

I want to run, I want to hide.. inside John Malkovich’s brain. Where nobody will see my hair.

5. To Kill a Mockingbird – only a COMPLETE change of pace here. It’s not often you can have one of your (ooh ahh here comes a HUGE COMMITTING STATEMENT) favourite books also translate into one of your favourite movies. Gregory Peck helps this transition immensely, since he is exactly how Atticus looked inside my head (only – imagine this – BETTER!) It’s such a powerful story and has one of my favourite quotes that I try to follow: ‘You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view – until you climb into his skin and walk around in it.’ I always screw it up, of course, but then I get to picture Gregory Peck when I try to follow it again. Unfortunately I can’t say I shed my skin and put my bones into this list… because no doubt I’ll read some other Lounge posts and go ‘YES’! I love that movie more. And THAT one defined the turning point in my adolescence’ (not that there was one, defining point so much as many points of excruciating existential angst… but you know). But I’ve written my disclaimer. I’m like the wind. I’m blowing away now. (Through Patrick Swayze’s trees … )



Love Story – a dream of fur and loss

Herbie is our Oliver Barrett IV – his love means never having to say you’re sorry. Even when you dress him up like a fool.

Sleeping is great. Dreaming is even better. Sometimes, however, you wake from your dreams so rattled and upset it takes a minute to breathe and realise that reality is not the place you’ve just come from, but the place you’re blinking into.

Last night my beloved Herbie died. It was an intense, mad, running around to places everywhere kind of dream. In the midst of it, Herbie was there, and something was wrong.

This is my second mate, looking like he’s about to walk the plank.

He was lying down, and losing consciousness. Someone told me he was dying, and I gave him water from my water bottle which he lapped up, and then stopped breathing. I cried and cried, and continued to cry any time I had to tell people what had happened. Then, for some reason, I started delivering meals to homeless people, cooking chicken kebabs for a wedding (that stubbornly stayed raw), and tried to work in an office (all at the same time). Oh, I also snuck in a bottle of champagne in a cafe in Greece, where That Man and I were trying to dodge whinging kids at all the surrounding tables since we were alone. Totally normal dream behaviour.  Shut up, Freud.

That Man always jokes about Herbie being decrepit or washed up, and mentions his death fairly flippantly. I feel a pang of panic when he does. Why the attachment? It’s his constancy, and unconditional brand of love. I’m not invisible to this dog. While the kids ignore what I’m saying ten times over, until I ponder the kind of dramatic action I’ll be forced to take to be noticed (fake anger – always a good look. RESIST THE BOTOX PEOPLE – or your kids will NEVER respond); this dog? He is watching, waiting, itching for me to speak to him. When That Man is stressed and tired and distracted, unable to hear me calling from another room or asking a fairly simple (but yes, boring) question, this dog has his supersonic hearing attuned to the tones and nuances of my voice, ready to come trotting to my aid if he perceives he could help out. Hell, he’d grow thumbs if he could. He already talks. He even eats cucumber. He’s a special dog.

Deck the dog with festive antlers, fa-la-la-la-la…

When I’m sick, he sits and watches me worriedly, beside my bed, and licks bits of me that protrude beyond the covers. Sweet and gross. As I type this he’s behind my chair, dreaming of rabbits. I can’t watch any movies with dogs in them, since Herbie wants to take them on and is convinced they’re in his living room. He’s huge, and in my way, and barks at the door constantly, and drives me crazy when I trip over him since he’s behind me most of the time, but I would miss his presence like a limb.

So when I woke this morning, tears on my pillow, panic in my chest, the sound of his snuffly snore beside me on the carpet was the most reassuring thing I’ve heard since the sound of my girls sighing in their sleep. Herbie? Can we do a Dolly the Sheep and clone you honey?

Just how bad is junk food TV?

I don’t know about you, but sometimes I need a little junk food TV for my eyes. This differs, slightly, from eye candy. I’m very very willing to consume that too, particularly since it has no chance of going to my hips. (Yes – very literally – you filthy-minded people you). Reality TV though? Nope. No good can come from that parallel universe.

My dear friend C, languishing over the great divide of the Tasman in the land of sheep and long clouds that are white, inspired me with this thought-provoking image:

Why yes. Yes it does.

HOWEVER TV, as a medium, has much to its credit I reckon. We’re all very happy to review and discuss the latest movies, but TV, as a medium, is considered decidedly lowbrow.

There’s good reason for this. Reality television has played a deplorable role in the
de-edumacating of our society. We sit, glazed, while orange-coloured humans contemplate the couple of brain cells playing ping-pong in their skulls, occasionally colliding to form words, and even sentences. Indeed, if there’s alcohol involved, the meeting of common ping-pong buddy-balls may cause a long and consternating discussion as to which club is more awesome and worthy of their presence. Yeah, ok. I admit I’ve watched a couple of episodes of Jersey Shore, purely for anthropological purposes. I’ve come to the conclusion that this type of TV is part of the de-volution of our species, back towards Neanderthal times. In the following dialogue ‘NDM’ represents ‘neanderthal man’. A typical episode goes something like this.

NDM1:’You, woman? Me drunk. Want come play with joystick at my crib? Have single bed. We share. Good. Yes?’


[Woman. Nods. Pulled by hair (Ok… I may be dramatising here, just for dramatic purposes.)

Woman. Nods, stumbles glazed, giggling and zig-zaggedly down street.]
NDM2: ‘Dude, that not woman, that man. You no do that.’
NDM1: ‘Arrggg (in style of pirate). Thanks dude. You lifesaver. You, chick, you out. You no good. You have dick.’
[Woman: Still not spoken. Throws things, is ignored, leaves.]

I hate this show. I won’t bother even going in to all the misogynistic, stereotyping, yada yada places it goes to because it’s all just too stupid to waste brain power on. The point is, it gives TV a bad name, and TV IS AWESOME. Just not that kind of TV. That time, I’ll take a book, thanks.


What is a Snooki?







Oh crap – he found me!!!

A lot of ‘all or nothing’ people I know, particularly book people, find TV a brain-sucker and have a blanket ban on it. I am a passionate book devotee, and have been since about the age of 6 when I discovered Enid Blyton. Despite this, I’ve learned so much culturally, scientifically, anthropologically (being SBS-serious now) and about the nature of interpersonal relationships from TV, while I read books mostly for escape and pleasure. And entertainment-wise? There is nothing like the hook of an incredible show to keep you coming back once a week for another fix of quality, not quantity.

So how do we define this quality? For me it’s easy, but of course it’s subjective.

Mad Men, how do I love thee? Let me count the ways. Awesome acting, a window into an era, and Don Draper. The woman, particularly Peggy and Joan, are strong, yet frustrated daily in their struggles in a man’s world. Fascinating stuff.

And the United States of Tara? Such an amazing show, totally driven by Toni Collette. She plays a woman with dissociative identity disorder (multiple personalities) and it’s fascinating to see how this plays out in the context of a family situation. It’s also quite hilarious watching her trying to out-teenage her teenaged daughter.

I love Breaking Bad, because it breaks the mould. An ordinary chemistry teacher turned meth cooker, and I love 30 Rock because Tina Fey is just so smart and funny, and the whole show has me doubled over laughing. Also – Alec Baldwin got kind of re-spunky in his older years. Weird. But I don’t complain.

And Grey’s Anatomy and Packed to the Rafters, for some good schmaltzy aww stuff. Cos I’m a girl and I like hugs and people (particularly Jesse Williams) hooking up. And all the blood and gutsy drama stuff, cos I’m a drama sucker, and sometimes my brain needs to be washed over, and not stimulated any further lest it pop off at the neck and spew forth foam (made of angst, stress and exhaustion).

Let’s not forget, there are plenty of crap books out there. Just because it’s printed on paper doesn’t make it quality. Do we have to mention that stupid book again? Dammit, I do. Because pop culture. Popularity doesn’t spell quality, and 50 shades of grey (I deliberately lower case this book) is proof of that. The medium is not the determinant of quality.

So go forth, one and all, and throw your arms around your telly. Unless of course it’s a large plasma, in which case i’m probably preaching to the converted. Just try and keep the reality this side of the TV, and you might have a chance of keeping your brain intact.




My Christmas Wish List – thanks Santa – NOW.

There’s a little wishing game going on, and the lovely Kelly at HT&T has bestowed upon me the honour of making my very own little wishy (I did not say washy cos I’m pretty bloody demanding) wish list. So, please, Santa, bring me all of the following. Preferably now, because it’s been a hell of a hectic week, I’m impatient, and I shouldn’t even be writing this post. I’m stealing my own working time and I’ve been awake since 5am. I want to wish for altruistic things, but I’m feeling like a cranky 5-year old right now. So here is my cranky 5-year old wish list.

First of all, dear slightly rotund man with rather flattering forest moss-like facial hair (because we all know flattery will get you everywhere, right?) I would like some world peace. WHATEVER. I’m not in a beauty pageant. Let’s start small. I would like some house peace please. Just baby steps. Let’s not bite off more than we can chew, hey? Santa … you and me – we’ve got this. We work together, pull this off, I reckon we’ve got the other wishes IN THE BAG. Metaphorically speaking, of course. I really need you to grant me this one though please, because this one is more than I can bite off and chew by myself. I’m tired, I’m poor, I think I meant to say time poor, and they just. keep. arguing. I want some little cherubs all wrapped up in shiny packages under my tree please, hugging each other and saying ‘yes mummy, of course we’ll brush our teeth and go straight to bed, because bed is LOVELY and so is sleep.’

Oooh look! Presents containing perfect angel children! Weeeee!

Now that you’re warmed up, I would like you to bring me something slightly more challenging. The Fountain of Eternal Youth. This fountain should be made from champagne (french – preferably Veuve). You’re laughing at me now, but really, I’m not asking for too much. I swear. I’m ok with growing old … I just want to LOOK awesome while I do it. Rot my organs, atrophy my pelvic floor, but for goodness sake, let my skin not sag below the jawline! I’m not being vain, just pragmatic. Nobody will listen to me about the world peace thing with a sagging jawline.

Slight tack change here. A karaoke machine. This one sounds selfish too, but it’s not. Everyone has a drinking ‘curse’. Mine is singing. Get a few under my belt (you’d know about that, right? I always leave you a coldie on Christmas Eve, and I’m pretty sure I’m not the only one…. you’ve got elves to steer that reindeer ship, right?) and I’m compelled. It’s a force of nature and I can’t fight it. I simply must sing. Maybe if there was a karaoke machine in my house I could stop singing into bottles, hairbrushes, using tables as my stage and generally tormenting family and friends. Maybe. And you know what? The kids would just LOVE it. (They’re genetically programmed, see.)

I look just as cute as Taylor Swift when i sing into a hairbrush *she says snorting tea out her nose*

A bottomless cup of tea. I understand. You probably only give away one of these each year, and clearly the rightful recipient should be Catherine at Cup of Tea and a Blog but since she decided to forgo her wish this year by instead jumping in the tardis, I’m putting my hand up. Tea tastes SO much better when it’s made by someone else, and I just keep boiling the kettle, and boiling it, and boiling it, and then nothing else happens … As a recreational activity it’s ok, but if you could make me a cup of Assam Bold (Twinings, thanks – or otherwise Yorkshire Tea, since I’m sure you have access to it) that keeps magically refilling, piping hot, I’d be MOST GRATEFUL. There’s even a kiss in it for you if you deliver this one ;)

Tea, to the power of 5! K?

One more. All of the books. All of them my kids and I ever want to read. This would take up a considerable amount of space, obviously, so we’re going to have to call on that old faithful here.

The bottomless pit of books – all the storage you could want, plus an unoriginal idea. Who, me?


Now – I’ve left this wishing game rather late, and many of you may already have played, since I’ve been out of bloggy loopy land this week. So please point at me and laugh if you’re already tagged. If not, I’d LOVE to see your list:

The Things I’d Tell You

The Kids are All Right

Lydias Lunchbox of Thoughts

Declutterbug vs Captain Stingypants