Driving without a license!

When I wrote about my grandfathers in my previous blog, I didn't consider that there was another back story to "The Burglar" until my Aunt Jerry added a bit from my Uncle Mick, who was a young teenager at the time the story took place. When my grandfather left the Boy Scouts on a camp-out because he was sick, I didn't think to find out who took charge after he left but obviously someone had to be in charge of those boys--someone who could take them home and someone who could drive. But there was more to it than that, especially regarding driving. And that got me thinking. Just when did drivers' licenses come into being?

~*~

During my research on the subject I discovered that each state in the early 20th century issued them at different times. But apparently, the world's first driver's license was issued in 1888 to Karl Benz, the inventor of the modern automobile. And all along, I thought the inventor was Henry Ford! Sometimes research can bring more information than one might want. Other countries began to issue drivers' licenses before any of the American States did. On September 29, 1903, Prussia was the first locality to require a mandatory driving license and test. Other countries, especially Germany and France began to require them also.

~*~

Because there were many automobile-related deaths in North America, legislators were provoked into studying the French and German laws as models. On August 1, 1910, North America's first driver test law went into effect in New York but only applied to professional chauffeurs. In July of 1913, New Jersey became the first state to require all drivers to pass a test before they could receive a license. Because my grandfather stories both happened in Oklahoma, I decided to limit my research to that state.

~*~

The history of Oklahoma driving goes back almost as far as statehood. According to Wikipedia, "In 1912, there were only sixty-five hundred automobiles in the entire state. But by 1929, over 600,000 vehicles were being driven up and down state roads. Oklahoma had become a state on wheels, although the roads those wheels were rolling over were designed for horse and buggy travel. One clear indication of the arrival of the automobile age in Oklahoma was the shocking number of people killed in vehicular accidents - about five hundred a year by the mid-1920s." However, Governor E.W. Marland, the 10th Governor of Oklahoma, pleaded for a Department of Public Safety and he prevailed over a hesitant legislation on April 20, 1937 and by July 15, 1937 the Department of Public Safety was a functioning agency.

~*~

Now I come back to the story of Grandpa Kennedy, my Uncle Mick, and "The Burglar". If my mother (Cha) was a senior in high school when this happened, then the year must have been 1934 and Mick must have been about 14 years old. However, this is what my Aunt Jerry wrote recently, adding to the story: "The one he (Grandpa) put in charge of the boys was your Uncle Mick. At the time he was 15 or 16 years old. He drove the boys back in a lumber yard truck (a big flatbed truck with no sides, and all the 12 to 14 year old boy scouts rode there). Of course, Uncle Mick did not have a driver's license, but neither did anyone else. No one in Oklahoma had a driver's license at that time." And now we know why they didn't.

~*~

And Granddad Chancey didn't have one either when he almost drove off into a gully.

Grandfatherly Wisdom

Stories can come from anywhere: from our imaginations and fantasies; from episodes in our lives; from observing people while sitting on a park bench or on a bus or on a towel at a beach; from the tales of our ancestors. And there are many more places where inspiration or our muse can strike. A few years ago at a family get-together in Oklahoma, one of my cousins stated that there are tales in our family that have been lost forever because no one wrote them down. Sadly, that is true but I have tried to collect as many as I can remember.

From time to time I will share those tales from the family archives: the Chanceys on my father’s side and the Kennedys on my mother’s side. This week’s stories are about my grandfathers. My brothers and I called our Chancey grandfather Granddad and our Kennedy grandfather Grandpa.

My grandfathers were quite different. I always thought of Granddad as the country grandfather and Grandpa as the city grandfather.

Granddad Marvin Chancey lived on a farm all of his adult life. He married at age nineteen and my grandmother was sixteen. After marrying he worked on a railroad before settling down in a cabin in Oklahoma and later building a very nice two story farmhouse. He was the kind of person who seldom worried or let life’s downturns get to him. My grandmother Amy was just the opposite as this first little vignette will demonstrate.

A Sunday Drive

“Nice day for a ride,” said Marvin absentmindedly as he drove the Model T Ford along the country road that led to their farmhouse.


“Yes, I guess so,” said Amy, “but I wish you would watch where you’re going.”


She had never gotten used to Marvin’s lackadaisical attitude about driving.


“Nothing to worry about,” said Marvin.


But Amy did worry. She worried all of the time. She knew she should relax and enjoy this Sunday afternoon drive but Marvin just wouldn’t keep his eye on the road ahead of him.


The road went straight for a few miles between fenced-in fields then meandered alongside a deep gully with a creek running at the bottom of it. Amy could see that Marvin was driving too close to the edge but she bit her tongue and kept quiet, holding fast to her seat.


Suddenly they came to a sharp curve and just when Amy thought Marvin was going to make the turn she saw that he wasn’t paying the least bit of attention to the road.


She screamed hysterically as the car headed straight for the gully and the creek below.


Just in time Marvin came out of his reverie, grabbed the steering wheel, and steered the car back onto the road.


“You lacked an inch going off into that gully!” yelled Amy.


“An inch is as good as a mile,” replied Marvin nonchalantly.


He drove on as if nothing had happened.


~*~

Grandpa Jo Kennedy ran a department store in northern Oklahoma with his brothers until the Great Depression came and then he moved his family to another town in east central Oklahoma where he became manager and part owner of a lumber company named after him. The following story takes place when my mother was in high school. Her nickname was Cha and my grandmother’s name was Daisy.

The Burglar

One hot summer day, Jo took his Boy Scout troop out on an overnight hike. He took his young son Mick along also.


The female members of the family, namely his wife Daisy, his daughters Pink, Cha and Em decided to sleep in the backyard. They dragged their mattresses out there and, after looking at and discussing the stars and the constellations, they finally fell asleep.


Cha woke up in the middle of the night and saw a light moving around in the house. She immediately woke her mother who saw it also. Daisy went to the next-door neighbor’s house and called the police.



While waiting for their mother to return, Cha, Pink, and Em huddled together and whispered among themselves, wondering who could be in their home. Daisy returned and soon a police car drove up. She met the two policemen by the side of the house and tried to explain about the mysterious light moving through their house.


Suddenly, a voice called out of the nearest window, “What’s the matter, Mommy?”


Mommy was the affectionate name that Grandpa always called my grandmother. He had felt sick and had left someone else in charge of the Boy Scouts and came home. He didn’t want to wake the family, not knowing they were sleeping outside, and had crept around the house with a flashlight.


The next morning he said sternly to Cha, quoting from the Bible, “It’s a wise child who knows her own father.”

"That Book Made Me Hungry!"

When a relative finished reading the draft for The Pig Farm, she exclaimed that it had made her hungry. My characters had eaten a lot of Caribbean style dishes, which I had added to give authenticity to the setting. Then I remembered reading the novels of the late, great Virginia Rich who perhaps started the culinary mystery novel sub-genre. She always included a recipe or two at the end of her novels. Sadly, she died after only publishing three novels. But culinary mysteries are now a staple of the cozy and not so cozy market. Diane Mott Davidson “sprinkles” recipes throughout her books as do many other culinary mystery writers. So, I added a recipe section at the end of my novel and titled that section, A Taste of Palmaltas. The sequel, The Pool Lizards, takes place in Florida and once again I added a recipe section at the end with original recipes by the main female character of both novels. As I finish the trilogy with The Groundhog Lounge, I will once again end it with a recipe section.

But there are many authors who do not write culinary mysteries but do insert food, and lots of it, into their novels. One of my favorites is Lawrence Sanders, author of the Deadly Sins, Commandments, and Archy McNally series plus many other books. And his novels definitely are not cozy. His Deadly Sins novels have so many mouth-watering recipes for sandwiches that I started writing them down and adding them to my own recipes. I love reading about his sandwiches as much as I do reading his novels. And his Archy McNally not only likes a good sandwich but haute cuisine as well.

So mystery writers like food. But what about romance writers? If there is a culinary romance sub-genre, it has eluded me. However, I have included a lot of food descriptions in my romances. (The novels in the trilogy mentioned above are quirky mysteries.) A Caribbean Summer takes place on the same island, Palmaltas, as The Pig Farm does. Although food is not as prominent in that novel as in the first one, the characters do sample Palmaltan cuisine. My next romance Amorous Ambush, which takes place in Texas, might very well fit into a culinary romance sub-genre. Both female and male protagonists try to outdo each other in the kitchen. In my third romance A Colorado Destiny, the female protagonist does not cook but the male protagonist does and he whips up a fairly sexy dinner for two.

When I mentioned to one of my brothers how much I loved reading about food, especially in Lawrence Sanders’ books, he replied, rather gruffly, “I skip that part. Has nothing to do with the story.” Maybe, maybe not. I also wrote a comical mystery where the lady of the house hired a young man who claimed to be a French chef. He wasn’t, of course, and the dishes he served were beyond ridiculous but they fooled the lady. When she died eating a salad, he became the prime suspect in her death.

Oh yes, I love reading and writing about food. My protagonists love to cook and to eat. And so do I.

Interview with Joan Conning Afman, author and editor

This morning I am starting a new monthly interview section with authors who write in various genres. My first guest is author and editor Joan Conning Afman who writes both paranormal and suspense thrillers.

Good morning, Joan, and welcome to the Island of Palmaltas. I hope you enjoy the visit.

1) What kinds of books do you like to read?

My very favorites are political intrigue novels, and I especially like to play tapes of them when I’m on a long drive. I also like stories with a mystical bent.

2) Who are your favorite authors, past and present?

I grew up on Louisa May Alcott and Ray Bradbury and -- The Sherlock Holmes guy—Arthur Conan Doyle. There is a series of books by an English author, Susan Howatch, who writes novels about clergy with all their faults and fetishes. Love that series! And, Jodi Picoult, and Anita Shreve, and Ian McEwan.

3) Are there any authors who have inspired you to write and, if so, who are they?

I don’t think so, really. I could always put words together, and my mother, a former English teacher, always said to me, I think you could write. I used to answer, “I know I can write, Mom, but I don’t have anything to say.” At this stage of my life, it just seems like what I should be doing. I love language, the way words make pictures on paper. It’s a different kind of art. And now I say that to my daughter, Heather. “Heath, I think you could write…”

4) How do you choose your characters’ names?

Oh, that’s so much fun! I’ve always loved names, had so much fun picking out distinctive and beautiful names for my own kids. I use some family names, like my son Dane’s name in “The Last Time We Were Here”, and my three daughters’ (Mindy, Heather and Sarah) in “Death Island”, coming out in June. Otherwise, I just use names I really like, and then the characters grow into them. For sci fi stories, like “Cheetah Princess”, which I hope will get published some day, I made the names up…Dsanna, Vadent, Arshane….

5) Do you plan your novel from beginning to end either in your head or by outline or jotting down notes? Or, are you a “pantser”?

The idea is pretty much in my head before I start. I usually know, vaguely, what the plot is and what the outcome will be. But I write by the seat of my pants! If I did an outline and tried to stick to it, the characters would wander off course and do their own thing anyway.

6) What kind of writing schedule do you have?

I’m most geared up in the morning, so I write or edit for a few hours then. If I can’t use that time, I write whenever I do have time. But, every day I write a little bit—or if the spirit moves me, a lot.

7) How do you choose your titles? Do you have a title in mind before you start writing or does something occur after you have begun to write or after you have finished?

Yep, the title comes to me when I think of the idea. “The Last Time We Were Here” is what my daughter said to me when she was about three. “You know, Mommy, the last time we were here, you were my baby.” So when I decided to write that novel, with a reincarnation theme, that title was a natural.

8) Do you base your characters on real people or are they completely from your imagination?

Both. In “The Last Time We Were Here,” I based many of the characters on my high school classmates. I’m just lucky they’re still talking to me! But—the “Cheetah Princess” people are totally made up, as are the “Death Island” crew. The minister’s wife in that might be a little like me! And sometimes I put the characters from one novel into another—that’s a lot of fun.

9) Have you used real life experiences in your novel or is everything from your imagination?

I use real life situations when they fit into the story. The two childhood incidents in “The Last Time We Were Here” really happened—whether anyone believes that or not. “Kingsley Woods”, which doesn’t have a publisher yet, is based in Pittsfield, MA, where I grew up, and there are “real people” and places in that. And a lot of made-up stuff, too. It all jells together in my brain.

10) When did you realize that you wanted to write novels?

I took a course in writing for children—banged out about a dozen kids’ stories, and got totally bored with that. Took a course in writing novels, got involved with other writers in a critique group, and that was it. Started editing for a publishing company, and they published “Last Time.” I don’t think I’ll ever run out of ideas—there are so many broiling up there in my head that I’ll probably run out of time before I run out of plots and people to perform in them.

11) Where can readers find your books?

"The Last Time We Were Here" through Wings-press.com
and “Death Island" through Camel.press. Both also available at Amazon.com


Thank you so much, Joan. I can identify with running out of time before running out of ideas. I have read both books and enjoyed them and our little chat immensely.

When in Doubt?

Whenever I traveled through non-English-speaking countries, my first inclination was always to speak Spanish. Considering that most of my travels had been in Spanish-speaking countries such as México, Puerto Rico, and Spain that seemed only too logical. Even when I traveled in Portugal I relied on tried and true Spanish although I had very mixed results.

Then I went to England and thought I was leaving Spanish behind. My two extended visits to England were mostly in the West Country, that is, Devon and Cornwall. I assumed that speaking and understanding English couldn’t possibly be a problem. Well, speaking it certainly wasn’t, but understanding the local lingo? Good grief! My host and his daughter spoke impeccable Brit English but when we ventured into the countryside and the small villages I discovered that at times I didn’t understand a word that was spoken. They were speaking English, of course, but with what I assumed to be a Celtic accent. I remember my joy once in a pub out on the moors of Dartmoor discovering that someone in the room was speaking Spanish. I searched the environs and saw a handsome, touristy Spaniard regaling a group of friends with his adventures. Spanish tourists in Dartmoor? Well, why not? I, a tourist from Oklahoma, was there, wasn’t I?

When I was with my hosts I didn’t have to worry about understanding the locals—they interpreted for me if need be. But when I set out on my own, that was a different story. One day I rode the bus into downtown Plymouth, that bustling city by the sea, from where the Mayflower supposedly set forth. I walked around the busy outdoor mall, inhaling the salty sea air and shopping for spices and herbs, especially cilantro, in the various Indian shops and markets that abounded there. Finally the aroma of baked goods enticed me into a shop where I noticed a long line of people [a queue in England] waiting patiently to order pasties, those delectable confections of pastry filled with meat, cheese, potatoes, and vegetables such as onions, leeks, turnips, and rutabaga. I took my turn in line and waited. When finally I reached the counter the clerk asked me something but I couldn’t understand what she said. Naturally she must have asked what I wanted but I was so surprised at her accent that I felt compelled to reply in Spanish. Since neither of us could understand the other, I finally pointed to the pasty I wanted. When I asked, ¿Cuánto es? she looked at me as if I were a deranged lunatic. Then I held out my wallet and pointed to it. She picked out, hopefully, the right change and I left with a most tasty pasty [please note that those two words do not rhyme).

That evening I related my tale to my host and his daughter who laughed heartily at my misadventure. “But,” said the daughter, “you both spoke English. Even if you couldn’t understand the clerk, she would have understood you.”

Well, of course, I should have known that.

When it was time for me to leave England, the daughter and a friend accompanied me to a travel agent to make my reservations for my return flight home. They asked my name and when they couldn’t understand me, I spelled it out for them—H-e-r-n-a-n-d-e-zee. My host’s daughter burst out laughing. The travel agent looked at me in a perplexed manner.

“It’s zed,” said the daughter.

“What is?” I asked.

“The last letter in your name.”

Now I thought I was using the English alphabet. Since when did x-y-zee become x-y-zed? Of course, in reality, I supposed, it was the other way around—somewhere in American history zed became zee. Perhaps I should stick with equis-y griega-zeta.

Then a few years later came my trip to Hong Kong and I knew that if I were in doubt what to speak there, it definitely wouldn’t be Spanish. Or would it?

Hong Kong, December, 1995—a year and a half before the British relinquished control of the colony to the Chinese—I assumed that everyone would know how to speak English. I couldn’t have been more wrong. Yes, the hotel employees and the tour guides spoke English but everywhere else Chinese dialects were the languages of choice.

Although this was bustling, hustling overpopulated Hong Kong, the stores displayed Christmas wares everywhere. On both sides of Victoria Harbor, tall buildings were decorated in bright, colorful lights with Christmas trees, Santa Claus and reindeers, angels, manger scenes, the Three Wise Men—everything and anything that one could conjure up as Christmasy. At night these Christmas lights danced their reflections on the harbor giving an even more festive holiday mood. And everywhere I went I heard the sing-song tones of the Chinese dialects resonating with traditional Christmas music filtering out from the open doors of the stores. A strange but pleasing mixture of two very different cultures.

Our tour included breakfast every morning in the hotel restaurant that overlooked Victoria Harbor. That was the only opportunity that my traveling companion and I had to speak English with other travelers. The rest of the time we were left to fend for ourselves in the Hong Kong jungle of strange dialects. One morning we found ourselves seated at a table with two ladies from Switzerland. My companion discovered that one of the ladies spoke English and proceeded to converse with her. The other lady, however, did not speak English. So, falling back on my old standby of when in doubt, I spoke to her in Spanish. [I noticed that my companion rolled her eyes when I did this—probably thinking “There she goes again with the Spanish!”] To my astonishment the Swiss lady replied in Spanish! As it turned out she was from the Italian-speaking section of Switzerland and could speak not only Italian but French and Spanish as well. She was thrilled to find someone besides her companion who could speak a language that she spoke. And, to tell the truth, so was I.

So, when in doubt, speak Spanish—even in Hong Kong? Well, why not?

Taco Talk

Mexican tacos, Puerto Rican tacos, Indian tacos, Navajo tacos, Anasazi tacos, breakfast tacos—I have eaten them all. In the simplest terms a taco is a sandwich made with a tortilla. They are usually made with soft [steamed] corn tortillas or fried corn tortillas folded over. The tortillas can be filled or topped with whatever the cook desires.

[Please note that when I say tortilla in this piece, I’m referring to corn or flour tortillas. In many Spanish-speaking countries a tortilla is an omelet, especially an egg and potato omelet.]

Of all of the tacos I have eaten, the ones I like best are from the street vendors of Mexico, made with steamed corn tortillas and filled with roast pork or chicken or as in Ensenada, freshly caught fish, and topped with a homemade salsa of finely chopped tomatoes, jalapeños, onions, cilantro, and lime juice. Now, that is a taco. Or perhaps they are my favorites because they were the first tacos that I ever ate and I use them to base my comparisons with all others.

However, I also fell in love with Puerto Rican tacos, those spicy, deep-fried meat or seafood pies. There is no comparison between a Puerto Rican taco and a Mexican taco. Each has a different origin and a different taste. Each is equally good.

In the American Southwest, some of the most delicious tacos take on names of indigenous peoples. They were first called Navajo tacos but are now called, for the most part, Indian tacos and are eaten at pow wows all over the country. In the Four Corners region of the U.S.A., I ate an Anasazi taco, which consisted of delicious Indian fry bread topped with pinto beans, grated cheese, shredded lettuce, chopped tomatoes, guacamole, and sour cream. I doubt very seriously that the real people who some refer to as the Anasazi ate anything that luxurious. In the same place I ate a Navajo taco that also started with fry bread and was topped with green chile sauce, beef or lamb stew, shredded lettuce, chopped tomatoes, and grated cheese. In other places such as Oklahoma, the tacos were called, simply, Indian tacos, as they are in most pow wows. The Indian tacos that I have eaten In Oklahoma were similar to the Anasazi and Navajo tacos in that again fry bread was topped with seasoned meat and beans, cheese, and lettuce and tomato with salsa on the side. These tacos in some ways resemble tostadas or chalupas more than the folded corn or flour tortillas.

American fast food places compete greatly in creating diverse fillings for tacos with soft flour tortillas rapidly becoming the shell of choice. The fillings usually consist of beef or chicken fajitas, guacamole, salsa, sour cream, refried beans, grated cheese, lettuce, and tomato. However, these concoctions sometimes become burritos or chimichangas, which could be separate topics in themselves. I first ate breakfast tacos in Southwest Texas—soft flour tortillas filled with eggs scrambled with potato or sausage. I always added a great dollop of salsa to each one.

Corn tortillas are considered to be much healthier than flour tortillas but, of course, healthy has never been a mainstay of American fast food anyway. I personally prefer steamed corn tortillas—the flour ones are too heavy and to me not as tasty. Those crisp, packaged things called “taco shells”, however, are [in my humble opinion] at the bottom of the ladder in taco-land. Many people do like them and fill them with cooked ground beef, cheese, lettuce, and tomato—a far cry from the tacos of my Mexican street vendors.

Of course, a taco, like everything else, is an individual choice. Anyone can fill or top the shell [whether a deep-fried pastry, a corn or flour tortilla, or fry-bread] with his/her choice of fillings. A taco can be whatever you want it to be and the taco police have yet to arrest anyone for going beyond the norm. Let’s face it, as far as a taco is concerned, there isn’t a norm.

Say Cheese!

When I first wrote this column for a bilingual website in 2001, it was a mild diatribe about the cheeses used by Americans in international dishes. I havc calmed down a bit since then and don't get so upset when someone uses a cheese from one country in a dish from another. At that time I was especially peeved with Cheddar in Mexican dishes.

Recently that changed when I started to wonder why nachos were called nachos. Nacho is a nickname for guys called Ignacio. So, I did a search and found out immediately that the creator of nachos was indeed a gentleman from Rio Piedras, Mexico named Ignacio "Nacho" Anaya. In 1943 just as he was closing the club where he worked, a group of American women came in wanting something to eat. He hurriedly put cheese (either a Wisconsin cheese or sharp longhorn Cheddar) on tostadas (fried tortilla pieces) and topped them with jalapeños. The full story can be read at http://sabatos.net/index.php/the-history-of-nachos-revealed/. After reading that article and a slightly different one on Wikipedia, I realized that I had to change my attitude about how cheeses are used in various dishes.

Many American grocery stores sell an item called Mexican 4 Cheeses--or something like that--but the cheeses are Monterey Jack, Cheddar, asadero, and queso quesadilla. It's true that asadero and queso quesadilla are Mexican cheeses but Monterey Jack and Cheddar? How did they get in there? Monterey Jack was supposedly created by a Scotsman named Jacks from Monterey, California in the 19th century and not someone from Monterrey, Mexico. However, there are some who claim that the cheese came from Spain via Mexico to California and that Jacks simply appropriated the cheese as his own. Whichever story is true, Monterey Jack is now considered to be an American cheese. And Cheddar originated in Cheddar, England!!!

México has many wonderful cheeses. Why then, would someone include an American and an English cheese with Mexican cheeses and call them al Mexican? Now, I’ll admit that I have substituted Monterey Jack for Mexican white cheeses and the taste is similar, I suppose, but that’s because I don’t always have access to Mexican cheeses.

Many years ago when I attended the Instituto Tecnológico in Monterrey, México, the cafeteria there served fabulous meals--my first foray into eating Mexican meals. My favorite dish was chiles rellenos—poblano chiles stuffed with white cheese--queso blanco, cooked in a batter, and served with fresh salsa. Several years later my son and I went to a popular chain restaurant in Oklahoma that supposedly specialized in Mexican cuisine. Noting that the restaurant offered chiles rellenos, I ordered some and eagerly awaited the dish. As I began to savor the first bite, I realized in dismay that the chile was stuffed with, of all things, Cheddar! The taste was not the same, to say the least.

However, I do like Cheddar cheese but chiles rellenos conjure up a delightful memory for me--of a very special flavor from my college summer in Mexico. It’s the cheese that makes the taste so unique. From my point of view, certain dishes require certain cheeses. A Reuben sandwich needs Swiss cheese, an Italian pizza must have Italian cheeses, especially mozzarella, and English shepherd’s pie is made very tasty with, yes, Cheddar. I, at least, expect a certain taste when I bite into certain dishes and changing the cheese changes the taste.

Of course, the cheese police aren’t going to arrest anyone who mixes and mismatches cheeses. According to cheese.com, Cheddar is the most popular cheese worldwide. I find that rather hard to understand although I love Cheddar in American macaroni and cheese casseroles and there's nothing like a grilled cheese sandwich made with sharp Cheddar.

Americans, of course, specialize in mixing up ethnic dishes (a true melting pot) and I’ll admit that there are many combinations that I love. I’ll eat a fajita pita any day. But if you’re going to mix things up, why not give these dishes a new name? I first ate nachos in Matamoros, México many years ago and, to be honest, I don't remember what kind of cheese was used, but the cheese was not that processed cheese glop that some fast food places use. If one wants to make a dish similar to Mexican nachos with gloppy cheese why not call them glopchos? Okay, I'm being silly. No one is going to change the name. And please don't forget the jalapeños. Or call all dishes that are derived from Mexican dishes Southwestern or Tex-Mex? The new combinations may be as tasty as the old--although that’s open for debate.

A friend once told me that he must have Cheddar in tacos, on enchiladas, and on pizza. But wait a minute, on pizza? Well, to each his/her own.