Help me out here...

I've read several variations of a particular joke, and it goes like this: A person moves to a certain part of the country and writes a series of letters back home. The first letter is full of glorious descriptions of where the author is now living. The second letter, not so much. With each letter, the description of the place where they're living is more derogatory. By the last letter, the author of the letter is about ready to commit suicide.

My husband, Cliff, loves jokes. I'd like to share this one with him.

Somebody help me, please?

Talk to the butternut squash pro

I cooked butternut squash soup until, honestly, I'm sick of it. It's possible to get too much of a good thing.

I haven't gotten tired of butternut squash oven fries or microwaved squash with a little brown sugar in the hollow where the seeds used to be.

I made a pretty darned good butternut squash pie today, using the pumpkin pie recipe on the Libby's pumpkin label. And that's when it hit me: Stop googling for butternut squash recipes and find all the pumpkin recipes you can, because butternut squash substitutes for pumpkin just fine.

I may yet get rid of the one hundred-and-one squashes taking over my garage.

I've been strumming my guitar this evening, toughening up the ends of my fingers. I think my granddaughter, Monica, and I need to schedule at least one jam session together per week. Because I remember when I was learning to chord, two things helped me learn: a simple chord book, and hillbilly friends who let my strum along in the background, telling me where to find the next chord when I couldn't find it on my own.

Yeah, that's the ticket. Monica, you can keep the capo I loaned you; I'm getting myself a new one. After all, your great-aunt Rena works at Musician's friend; I'll bet she can get me a good buy on another Kyser capo. And there won't be any shipping cost, because she can just bring it home from work!

Oh yeah, notice the new poll on the right, at the top. If you have an opinion, please leave it.