Oh, you know that line on the top of the shrimp? That's feces.

Instead of providing a riveting narrative of Thanksgiving adventures, here is our Thanksgiving Photo Blog.

Ryan's famous catsh*t cookies and me enjoying one.




Here's my turkey progression. Despite having the worst oven on the planet I humbly feel that I dominated the 15 pounder.



Clearly the turkey looks a bit darker than I would have liked, but I can assure all of you that it was moist and not overdone.

Side Dishes: green bean casserole, baked mac & cheese, cornbread stuffing, Paula Deen biscuits, mashed potatoes, and gravy. Everything was made from scratch, even the fried onions that top the green bean casserole.






We had 9 people eating so we had to break out the ZooPals.



Alas I failed to find the necessary ingredients for pumpkin pie, so everyone had to settle for peach pie and chocolate cherry cobbler. There was an epic mishap while creating the weave for the top of the peach pie though it did not involve anyone getting intimate with it (American Pie reference for those more than 10 years behind in their pop culture knowledge).



ThanksGIVING is a time to give thanks and just for some good old fashion giving... like us giving the turkey scraps to Dumpster Cat (there are actually 20 or so dumpster cats). And if anyone wants a cat, Erin and I are perpetuating the rumor that we are gypsies and trying to get people to take our 'pets.'


Enjoying the eats.






The rest are of the gang hanging out watching the Tigers hand the Jayhawks their first loss (complete with pre-game Cuban cigars), relaxing by the pool and some sunsets.







Welcome to the world James Patrick Huffman! Congrats Jen and Jeremy on my new 8lb 6oz nephew born this evening!!!!

-Later gators, Patricio

One day Michael came in complaining about a speed bump on the highway. I wonder who he ran over then?

I miss my shoes. My lushy green Kate Spade loafers, the pink and brown chair upholstery flats, my hideous and ragged but sinfully comfy Uggs, my obnoxious 80s-pink 3-inch tweed stilettos that I can't walk in, my sage-y corduroy tennies. All beautiful. I miss you shoes, but this is not the place for you. Here you will be scarred by gravel, smeared with mud, and scuffed by tiny swinging Jamaican feet. I'd rather know that you are safe in my closet. Although I bet you spend more time touring NKC school libraries than chilling in the closet--which is fine as long as you don't see the inside of Maggie's mouth (oh how I mourn you, black ankle boots!). I might miss my shoes less if I could make cookies. Alas, I am lacking the ingredients, a car to get more ingredients, a store that sells missing ingredients, and the income to buy the ingredients that the store that I can't get to doesn't sell. You can take your pumpkin cheesecake and shove it, Paula Dean.

About forty times a year, Michael gets really sick but has no symptoms. Dwight is always gravely concerned.

I realize that I just posted a blog the other day but in light of recent events I felt the burning desire to post again. Bear Grylls, the guy from Discovery Channel’s ‘Man vs. Wild’, just whizzed on his head wrap to cool off. Just what I would want to cool off, piss all over my head. Mmmmm. Maybe the urination thing gave me the burning desire… not that there is any association between the two, at least personally speaking. However while I was in the hospital yesterday, I was asked (twice) if anything happened to burn while urinating. “Actually, yes miss I do happen to feel a slight burning sensation when I take a leak… it happens to be the same searing pain currently ripping through my skull, and while I thank you for you concern with my manly bits, if you could kindly focus on why I am violently cookie-tossing as a result of intense nociception in my cranium, I would greatly appreciate it.” This response was not necessarily conveyed at the ‘hospital’ as I was fighting the urge to vomit, clutching my excruciating brain and wallowing in my misery. I use the word ‘hospital’ very loosely; in fact to even call it a hospital is sketch as best especially if you consider a hospital to be an institution providing medical and surgical treatment and nursing care for sick and injured people. The idea that this place might actually perform surgical procedures frightens me. We had to wait for hours and hours on a routine blood test because the ‘hospital’ did not have de-ionized water in which to complete the CBC, a rather simple hematological test I could have done myself in my lab at Mizzou. I guess I should start at the beginning with the headache that began on Friday night and carried over to Saturday morning. I woke up and set out to make Erin peanut buttercup pancakes. My headache grew exponentially as I cooked and by the time we started to eat I was dizzy and could only manage to eat a pancake and a half. What a waste of a deliciously decadent breakfast. Anyway I ended up barfing the pancakes. I mention this not to gross you all out with colorful depictions of the day’s early events, but to rather suggest that if you are going to throw up you should consider eating peanut buttercup pancakes before you do so. Because I did I was blessed with a rather tasty vomit and would recommend it over all other vomit manifestations. The decision was made to go the ‘hospital’ because severe headaches accompanied with vomiting is an early sign of Dengue Fever, which coincidentally is currently outbreaking here on the island. We called our taxi driver, Junior, to take us the few short miles down the road to the ‘hospital.’ Junior is a middle-aged, heavyset Jamaican man with a voice reminiscent of the love-child of Bobcat Goldthwait of Police Academy fame and the guy that says, “hey, hey , hey it’s Faaaaat Albert.” He is a very delightful man that has helped on more than one occasion. Despite my current condition he barely slowed over speed bumps and took corners on two wheels all the while trying to feel my neck (I was in the back seat!) and give me his diagnosis of my condition. While watching Planet Earth on Discovery Channel, Erin and I decided we want a likkle polar bear. And she maintains that they cannot show us cute baby animals then show other animals trying to snack on said baby animals, as she continues to loudly cheer for the baby caribou... I say "Go arctic wolf!" Junior did mention more than once that as a man I could not handle illness anyway. So after the harrowing taxi ride we were promptly met by a doctor, who despite her lacking facilities seemed competent. I have heard a bit of lore regarding Jamaican medical facilities but considered many of the stories to be exaggerated but after having experienced them first hand I would not be surprised by anything. For instance they had a digital thermometer, the oral kind that use the disposal sleeve, but they did not have any disposable sleeves and just used the same one taking your temperature by sticking it in your armpit. Admittedly I was a bit out of it, but I did not see them clean the instrument before or after putting the apparatus in my armpit. Also the hypodermic needles used to inject pain medications and antibiotics into my butt cheek, three shots in all, felt about the size of a meat injector. Not that I was complaining, but the neat baseball-sized bruises on my butt are interesting battle wounds. I must give kudos to the phlebotomist as she was able to get my blood despite my veins retreating as a result of the frigid accommodations. Also Erin was a trooper through the whole thing, fighting hypothermia and frostbite in her fingers, reading her book like a champ and checking every now and again to make sure I was breathing. I feel better today though the headache rages on, but the drugs help significantly. Rest assured, no Dengue, meningitis, or VD (remember the burning??). The blood test indicated bacterial infection and the antibiotics should take care of that. Here’s hoping to a speedy recovery as Erin is tiring of playing nursemaid.

VD free is the way to be… and knowing is half the battle.
Patricio out!

And I had to spend the entire winter in shorts. That is what Ryan is like: A fake brother who steals your jeans.

Living on Eastern Standard Time is bizarre. Having the US just ‘fall back’ an hour while the time here remains constant leaves me feeling an hour early. To watch the nightly news (we get NYC news) I must wait until 11pm. I suppose this is a bit trivial, but it really affects my food network schedule. We miss Paula Dean and Giada most days. This is distressing as we both derive great pleasure from viewing Paula’s billion calorie concoctions and I generally enjoy watching Giada chop vegetables. The rain here is beginning to let up a bit, which is nice break from perpetual moistness. The rain has brought out the frogs. Remember when Erin blessed us with the knowledge that Jamaica has 17 species of frogs that have no tadpole stage? Well there have been thousands of tiny little frogs hopping about. These brown-speckled nickel-sized creatures bounce around your feet as you walk and remarkably get out of the way before you squish them. Today all the volunteers in the St. James Parish met with the PC regional security officer. I made a strong push to try to get Vespa scooters for volunteers as a safety measure, but the PC did not see the connection to safety that I did. Oh well. Work is going well as Erin and I are getting better at this whole teaching thing. I know this is a bit surprising as neither of us have much experience nor patience. Not that there are no setbacks. Last week one of our kids almost got expelled from school. When his principal ‘licked’ him he hit back and then went for a pair of scissors (with the intent to stab? I know not). After a meeting concerning the situation he is going to be allowed back at school. Recently I became the secretary of the VAC, which stands for volunteer advisory (or action or something else possibly) committee. This is pretty much student council for PC volunteers here on island. I assumed this responsibility after the newly elected secretary early terminated her service. I did not originally run and was not the least bit interested in the committee. I really wanted the ‘member-at-large’ position which is no more than a member who gets all perks and has no responsibilities what-so-ever (as is written in the VAC constitution). But I ended up with the secretary position and will take it fairly seriously as I think there are some things that the committee can really do to help volunteers. A big weekend in college football this weekend. I want everybody to know now that I am picking Ohio St. to lose (BCS mix up!), a close game and narrow victory for the Jayhawks at Okie St. (top 2 ranking?), and a 52-16 MU rout of Texas A&M at the ‘Zou. Erin is going to make chocolate chip scones for dessert tonight. Domestic Goddess???? Not quite yet, but… soon come!!!!

I’ll catch you on the flip side…
Patricio

The eyes are the groin of the face

I’m fairly sure less work is accomplished during rainy season than any other time during the year. At first I was appalled to learn that many citizens choose to skip scheduled meetings, school, work… due to a little rain. Then I realized how wet and muddy I get walking short distances in the rain, and how quickly my damp clothes and shoes develop a potent odor. Taxis are suddenly jam packed and scarce, and roads flood after 10 minutes of steady cloud excretion. The flooding is almost impressive in it’s speed and scale. Everyone back home should take a second to appreciate gutters and sewers. Really an integral, but often overlooked, component of our infrastructure. The rain (and demonic 4 and 5–year-olds) is what is keeping me from the 400 books that need to be dusted and labeled. The problem is that I am here, more or less dry, on my couch while the books are a soggy uphill walk to the mosquito and rock-throwing-child inhabited basement of a basic school. Otherwise I would currently be contentedly slapping stickers on paperbacks. In an attempt to make use of my morning, I swept and then got down on hands and knees to scrub the floor. After about 2 tiles, my effort became half-hearted and I resigned myself to just hitting the really dirty parts. Domestic goddess I still am not. I just noticed a pile of dirt under the coffee table. I have an admirer. He’s always at the stand I pass on my way to work in the afternoons. He began showing up two weeks ago when Patrick was absent. Every time I step through the hedge next to the stand, he opens his toothless maw and shouts jubilantly, “Teacha!” He usually follows this up by telling me he is back again today (a fact which I can see for myself, thanks) or mumbling something about “baby.” I’m not sure if he is calling me “baby” or if he wants me to have a baby. Either option is likely, and unwelcome. This sudden attention has made me consider running for Miss West Best Fish and Bammy. I think I have a real shot. What a sweet title, right? Who wants to be Miss America if you can instead wear the crown of Miss West Best Fish and Bammy? Not me. Taxi rides always mean a chance to catch up with the fresh new hits on Jamaican radio. Someone hit gold—maybe platinum—with the bag juice song. We were on a bus to Matt’s house when we heard it. Bag juice is sugar water that comes in small plastic bags. It costs J$10 and is the sole cause of diabetes on the island. The dancehall ode praising this adored potable is reminiscent of the peanut butter jelly song. Except that this is no novelty ditty. Oh no, it is serious musical poetry that shares airtime with Sean Kingston and the molestation song. I know it is an actual radio-worthy song because they interrupt it with sirens, air horns, and the Irie jingle. That’s how we roll here in Jamaica.