Tom Corrigan Press reporter

OK. This just makes me sad and angry. And frustrated. All at the same time.

Someone I know just received some of the most devastating news you can get, summed up succinctly in one word: cancer. Two ugly, evil, little syllables that can completely change your life and that of those around you.

So how do you react upon finding out those syllables have targeted you? And your family and friends, who are going to be affected by whatever comes next? The first feeling to arrive has to be disbelief, followed quickly by fear. Fear, and then probably anger and hopelessness. I’m sure I don’t need to point out what a joyride this all isn’t.

At some point, of course, you have to sit down with your doctor, a person who literally has taken an oath to help you. Most likely, that doctor is going to urge you to fight, is going to tell you that your very being isn’t something you have to just give away. Words such as “chemo” and “radiation” are likely to come up, just as they did in the case of the person I’m writing about. This person’s particular doctor also suggested a particular medication on top of those other treatments. Probably not that unusual, to be prescribed a simple bottle of pills.

Did I mention this bottle carries a $100,000 price tag?

Let me repeat that for effect: A $100,000 PRICE TAG!

This is not a joke. This is not an exaggeration. It’s an obscenity. This person’s insurance co-pay for one treatment is going to be $20,000. And that’s just for the pills. It doesn’t include the chemo and so forth or any other necessities that are bound to come along.

One more time: $100,000!!! For a bottle of pills!!!!

Are they experimental? No. If they were, the insurance likely wouldn’t cover them at all. So, what kind of pills can cost $100,000? Hopefully, the kind that can save a life. Still, to my knowledge, they don’t exactly come with a money back guarantee.

How does this happen? How did we get stuck with a medical system that actually would dream of charging somebody more money than most of us make in a number of years for pills? One assumes what patients taking this medication ultimately are paying for is the research that went into it. Obviously, research is important and obviously somebody has to pay for it. But why have we chosen, or allowed, the medical system to put the financial burden on people who are fighting for their lives and maybe, just maybe, already have enough on their minds without having to worry about bankruptcy?

Honestly, the questions seem almost endless: How is this in any way fair? How is it that we allow it to continue? How can we seriously think we’ve had health care reform when this kind of idiocy is allowed to go on? How do doctors, who are sworn to protect life, tell people who can’t afford the bill to just go curl up in a corner and die?

I don’t pretend to have any answers. Somebody does indeed need to pay for medical treatments and research. But it says here the current health system is unacceptable and morally wrong. If that sounds preachy or melodramatic, so be it.

Bob Taylor Press sports editor

My last name might fool you. Actually, I am half Finnish and darn proud of that heritage.

The half comes from my mother’s side of the family, or as she always said “my best half.” Her father, Peter Kopra, came over from Finland in the late 1890s in hopes of striking it rich in the gold fields. Grandpa Peter never found gold, but he did discover the United States was a land of opportunity.

After securing a job down in California, he saved enough money to bring over Grandma and the rest of the family, which at the time included two boys. He also purchased a farm in Southwest Washington.

It was on this farm where my mother was born. It was later on a section of the farm, which my parents purchased from one of my uncles, where I was raised.

In this community, the last name Taylor was unique because most families were Finns, Swedes and Norwegians. However, I grew up proud of most Scandinavian traditions.

But there was one tradition I could never partake in — eating lutefisk.

Dave Niehaus, the late Seattle Mariners’ broadcaster, had the perfect description for lutefisk — “the stank!”

Next to the potent smell of the paper mill down in Camas, which we sometimes got a whiff of when the wind was blowing wrong, nothing else rivaled the pungency of lutefisk (pronounced lewd-uh-fisk). Finns call it livekala.

Lutefisk is dried cod that has been soaked in a lye solution for several days to rehydrate it. According to the Finnish recipe, burnt birch ashes are used in preparation of lutefisk. Since we never had birch trees on our farm, my guess is that mother used an old Norwegian recipe.

After the lutefisk has gone through its bathing period, a layer of salt is spread over the fish an hour before it is cooked. Then, when it is ready for cooking, the salt is rinsed off.

Lutefisk is then boiled or baked, or in today’s modern age, microwaved, and served with butter, salt and pepper. It has the consistency of Jello. However, I would recommend lime or orange Jello over lutefisk. Usually lefse is served with lutefisk. I like lefse. In fact, I like most Scandinavian delicacies. Lutefisk, however, is not a delicacy.

Lutefisk is usually served during the holidays. My mother often cooked up a pot of this stuff even in February. She never had to call her neighbors and friends to let them know about the lutefisk feed. They showed up like bloodhounds tracking down a scent.

Often, she tried to get me to try lutefisk. However, one look at this fish Jello and there was no way it would ever reach my lips.

Over the years, I have talked to numerous second- and third-generation Scandinavians and asked their opinion of lutefisk. To date, the results of my unofficial survey is 98 percent against.

I think Garrison Keillor, in his book Pontoon, probably best describes lutefisk – “it looks like the desiccated cadavers of squirrels run over by trucks.” Keillor also adds that “It can be tasty, but the statistics aren’t on your side.”

Jeffrey Steingarten, author of “The Man Who Ate Everything,” says “Lutefisk is not food, it is a weapon of mass destruction.”

The history of lutefisk apparently dates back to the Vikings — no not the NFL team. According to a legend, the Vikings had burned a village. Returning villagers found wooden racks of drying cod. They poured water on the racks to put out the fire. Then, they buried the fish in the ashes. They later rinsed the fish and boiled it. One brave villager tasted the fish and declared it “not bad.”

Finns, Norwegians and Swedes all brought their favorite recipes for lutefisk to the United States.

Surprisingly, there are people in the nation who love lutefisk. In fact, there is a song dedicated to lutefisk. I have even heard that some grocery stores in the Midwest actually sell lutefisk TV dinners. I will stick to fish sticks.

Bob Taylor: 392-6434, ext. 236, or bobtaylor@isspress.com. Comment at www.issaquahpress.com.

Debbie Berto Press publisher

Storm coming, so get prepared. Yeah, yeah, yeah. The weatherman never gets it right.

My husband Tom and I are certified members of a CERT — Citizen Emergency Response Team — here in Issaquah.

Sadly, we found ourselves not so prepared last week.

On Tuesday, Tom suggested he should charge the generator. He didn’t follow through, but it did start when the power/phone/Internet/cable went out Thursday morning.

But we only had two gallons of gas on hand to keep the generator going. Uh oh.

Tom siphoned some gas from the 4-wheeler but learned that our cars have anti-siphon devices. A call to the police department confirmed that The Grange did have gas and a generator to pump it, and about 40 cars in line for it. We decided to wait for city power to return.

With plenty of fireplace wood, a blanket over the stairwell to preserve heat and a couple of hours use of the generator, we were warm for the time being.

On Thursday night, three Four Lakes neighbors let us know that a tree’s root ball had broken the water line and the water would have to be shut off. We had just enough time to fill four cooling pots. No more toilet flushing for us, but we did have our emergency supplies inside a portable toilet/bucket, and we gave the toilet its first try. Now if only we’d stocked some hand sanitizer.

Bored out of our minds with only the evening glow from the fire, we turned to playing cards. Finding those tiny holes on a cribbage board is no fun when the light is dim. Hey, wait, in our CERT backpacks we have headlamps! Sadly, mine had leaking batteries and a burned-out bulb. We shared the light from Tom’s.

Ah, dinnertime. We had stocked hot dogs, our power outage staple — but only had one bun. We have a gas barbecue, but no stove to even heat water. A hot plate is now on the list of future buys. If the generator runs out of gas, we’ll dig out the camp stove — assuming it has fuel that is.

After tequila shots to keep us warm (and they did!), the hot dog on a piece of bread was just fine. And we slept really well.

On Friday morning, the 100-pound, ice-encrusted tree limbs began falling. Tom headed out to get gas for the generator, but had the sense to wear his CERT hard hat. The neighbors who came to borrow a chainsaw to clear a tree thought the hard hat was pretty funny, but he did not want the last laugh and wore it anyway.

With power lines down across the roads, we settled in for the long haul. With power back on in town and the roads clear, we could go to the office, get a hot meal, shower at a friend’s house and refill the gas cans — before returning to turn on the generator again, but with our “emergency prep” supplies in hand.

You just never know when the weatherman will get it right.

Warren Kagarise Press reporter

Journalism often requires reporters to meet people under undesirable circumstances — behind police tape or against a flickering backdrop of emergency lights.

Under such circumstances, we strive for compassion, but sometimes, we forget about the people on the other side of the notebook amid the clamor to chase down a story or ferret out some key detail.

I experienced a story on the other side of the notebook early Jan. 16 and, hopefully, came away a little more enlightened and understanding.

Just before 4 a.m., a neighbor pounded on the door to my apartment in Seattle’s Queen Anne neighborhood.

“Get out! There’s a fire!” he yelled, and then headed down the corridor to warn sleeping occupants in other apartments.

I sat up in bed and switched on the nightstand lamp, still confused and more than a little skeptical. Then, commotion in the hallway outside confirmed I needed to get outside — and fast.

I slipped a coat on top of the T-shirt and flimsy pants I wear as pajamas, then started to search for slippers before I realized I needed something more durable to stand up to the ice and snow on the ground outside. In the next instant, I stuck a cap on my head, grabbed my keys, phone and wallet and lurched into the hallway.

“Is this real?” I asked a next-door neighbor shuffling to the exit.

“It smells real,” he replied, as smoke started to waft into the corridor from a fire on the floor above.

Outside, neighbors in assorted combinations of sleepwear and winter gear crunched through the snow. Some clutched cats in carriers and dogs on leashes. I wondered if I should have grabbed my iPad on the way out.

Together, the crowd trundled around the corner to the building’s facade. Flames surged from a blown-out window on the second floor. Smoke hung heavy in the 30-degree air.

Belatedly, I started to consider the possibility of the fire spreading to consume the entire building.

The building sits at the top of Queen Anne Hill. Snowfall from the previous day left the streets slick and treacherous.

“What if the fire trucks can’t make it up the Counterbalance due to the ice?” I wondered, moments before Seattle Fire Department trucks screamed down the street. (Steep Queen Anne Avenue is also called the Counterbalance.)

Then, as my neighbors and I clustered on a corner across from the building, firefighters headed inside to search for trapped residents and to extinguish the blaze. TV reporters followed soon after.

I started to notice some similarities present on either side of the notebook, for both journalist and subject. Crises involve a long wait for information. In the meantime, the hems on my pajama pant legs kept freezing to the icy sidewalk.

The firefighters kept us in the loop as much as possible and offered to let us warm up in the fire trucks’ cabs, although for whatever reason — pride, maybe — nobody accepted the invitation. Instead, after about 90 minutes, a King County Metro Transit bus pulled up, and my neighbors and I trundled aboard. Slumped into seats, bleary-eyed and shivering, we waited for coffee shops to open and repeated stories about escaping from the building.

I sat near a neighbor dressed in enough winter gear to put REI to shame. Uncertain about the danger, he said he spent the extra moments putting on proper clothes to protect against the January chill.

Just after 6 a.m., firefighters allowed us to head back inside. The blaze had been contained to a single unit on the opposite side of the building. Mercifully, my apartment had been spared smoke or water damage. But the neighbor in the destroyed apartment had to rely on the American Red Cross for temporary shelter.

During the wait on the bus, I checked out news accounts of the fire on my iPhone. Though the stories had the basic facts correct, details about the building and the number of residents lacked precision.

The incident offered a teachable moment about the gap between the outsider’s perception and the subject’s reality. The fire did not rank as a major story — just a moment on the morning news and a few hundred words in online news outlets — but the experience lingers, just like the smell of smoke in the hallway of my apartment building.

Christina Lords Press reporter

This isn’t something I’d wish on a worst enemy — even you, Celine Dion.

It creeps up on me when I wake up in the morning. That instant thought of … something really bad happened, didn’t it? And then I remember. And it hits me with shock and awe, like a pie to the face.

I’ve cried, sure. I’ve also rotated through the five stages of grief. Why is it that the whole denial phase always seems so much more attractive than, say, that … wait, what is that last one? Acceptance?

Yeah. Acceptance. I’ve been dumped.

I’ve been walking a fine line of plate after plate of french fries and Bob Dylan’s “Blood on the Tracks” on unwavering repeat for two weeks now. Greasy food and great music has offered me superior comfort to anything else so far devised, so I’m rolling with it.

The problem is I’m still fairly new around here and most of my favorite comfort food spots are at least 300 agonizing miles east in the potato starch capital of the world: Idaho.

So I put on my big girl belt and set out for a survival plan to eating (and, to a responsible extent, drinking) away heartache in Issaquah. Here’s what I’ve come up with:

Red Robin — Everybody knows this chain offers endless golden brown steak fries to accompany its famous burgers, but are you aware you can cut out the middleman and order only endless fries? No pretense. No front. More importantly, no judgment. Just fries. And keep the sides of honey mustard coming, please.

Jay Berry’s Café — First, let me say this place’s menu has some of the best offerings for comfort food this side of the Mississippi. And as someone who can burn water, a tendency that consequently leads me to eating out often, that’s saying a lot.

Since The Change, I’ve discovered — and rediscovered — Jay Berry’s baked penne. A four-cheese sauce loaded with browned cheese melted on top of buttery, cheesy noodles? Yes, please. I’m convinced this meal takes at least 72 hours off my life each time I eat it and a heart attack is still forthcoming, but it’s worth every bite.

Rollin’ Log Tavern — I’ve discovered that exactly two and a half 16-ounce Pabst Blue Ribbon’s (cans, of course, no one is exactly aiming for class when they’re rapping at the door of rock bottom’s basement) is my threshold for feeling better. Anything more and things take a turn toward the morose. But who can abandon those last few gulps to be tossed aside? There are too many sober people in Utah for that kind of talk.

Thankfully, the bar staff and fellow patrons have sat through several rounds of my Aretha Franklin songs flowing from the jukebox as their cook fries up yet another late-night Philly cheese steak dripping with Cheddar cheese for me. Bless their hearts.

XXX Rootbeer Drive-in — The ex and I once shared a chocolate malt during a car show this summer under blue skies and sunshine at this iconic Issaquah eatery — real sugar-and-rainbows stuff. But since The Change, every time I’ve driven by there all I can do is fantasize about torching the table where we sat. Unfortunately, the idea of a first-degree arson charge doesn’t really offer much comfort, either.

Maybe conquering a malt of my own might be a more constructive exercise.

Have you seen these things? They come out overflowing with delicious malt goodness, with whipped cream oozing over frosty glass rims. The wait staff practically needs a flatbed truck to haul it out to your table. I was convinced you really did need two people to finish this monster off, but no more. A female scorned can put away this massive malt, a ’49 Woody and fries and still have room to wash it all down with their famous root beer. I am woman, hear me roar, and all that jazz.

And finally, for dessert …

Confetti Cupcakes — Some say they’re too pretty to eat. I say sometimes you just gotta dig deep and destroy something beautiful.

So while everyone keeps reminding me that there are other fish in the sea — and deep down, I know there are — I keep reminding them of something English novelist and poet George Meredith said long, long ago.

Kissing don’t last, but cookery do.

And by God, a girl’s gotta eat.

Kathleen Merrill Press managing editor

They say it’s better to give than receive. I think both feel pretty good.

In my mind, though, giving lasts longer.

Purse strings have gotten tighter for many people in the past couple of years, and it’s hard to give to others when you’re receiving less.

Then again, I think many people overthink giving on a regular basis. We see pleas for $50 or $100, or sometimes even more (such as in the case of tickets to fundraising events). I don’t know about you, but I often can’t afford $50, let alone more than that.

However, even as paychecks and benefits have gotten smaller, many people have found ways to give. I was thinking about this the other day when the reporting staff was discussing the subject of compassion fatigue. People do get tired of being asked to give when their expenses are going up and their salaries are not going up to match.

But here’s something I’ve learned: Even the smallest things count to someone with little or nothing.

Case in point: Last week, the Humane Society sent out an email saying it really needed help helping others feed their animals. Organizers of the fundraiser had set up an Amazon.com account where the society’s delivery address was already plugged in. You could go online and purchase just one can or bag of cat food, or dog food.

I thought about how long a bag of cat food lasts my cat, and how long a bag of dog food lasts my dog. A few clicks later, I was the proud donor of two of the most-needed items on the list — bags of cat food. I thought about how maybe an elderly man or woman on a fixed or low income could keep his or her beloved feline that much longer with just one more bag.

In a store recently, I purchased two cans of vegetables for a holiday food drive. I didn’t have much extra to spend that week, but I knew those cans would make a difference to someone who needed them.

See, it isn’t always how much you give — it’s that you do give.

A few dollars here, a few items there can make all of the difference in the world to someone who has less than you do. And no matter how little you have, there is always someone who has less. Think about that when the bell ringer at the grocery store asks you if you have any change in your pocket.

I remember one year many years ago when I was having a really tough year, physically and financially, that someone I didn’t know very well brought me groceries for Christmas. A ham, canned yams, marshmallows, stuffing, potatoes and gravy, green beans, and bread and rolls meant I had meals for nearly a week that I didn’t have to pay for. They even included a toy for my cat and food for my fish.

It was one of the best Christmases I ever had.

Kathleen R. Merrill: 392-6434, ext. 227, or editor@isspress.com. Comment at www.issaquahpress.com.

David Hayes Press reporter

A funny thing happened when I was asked to play the role of Santa for Northwest Pugs — a meetup group my wife co-organizes for local pug owners.

Cute photos of their dogs with Jolly St. Nick would have to be without me, for you see, I didn’t fit into the silly suit.

Who in China designs a costume of a fat man that an actual horizontally challenged person cannot fit into? Luckily, my wife found a more svelte volunteer to fill the position.

However, once my services were no longer needed, I decided to turn the tables and think about what I would ask of Santa, if I were to discover one with a lap ample enough to hold my weight without risk of injury.

My wish of the bearded one would be an emphasis on the return of the true meaning of Christmas to include more of the original bearded one. That would involve getting the ACLU’s grubby little paws off the holiday.

Some of the most beautifully written music ever for Christmas are the religious ones — “Silent Night,” “O Holy Night,” “Away in the Manger” and “The First Noel” to name but a few. However, back when I covered Issaquah’s schools’ beat, a music teacher once told me he couldn’t have his students perform those songs, thanks to the ACLU’s war on Christmas. Specifically, their continued misinterpretation of the First Amendment.

Here’s what my trusty pocket Constitution quotes: “Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof…” Seems to me, if you make a law prohibiting the performance of a religious song, you’re prohibiting the free exercise thereof. And since when are second-graders singing “Hark the Harold Angels Sing” establishing some sort of national religion? Is the ACLU arguing that upon hearing their angelic voices, you’ll be compelled to run down to the nearest church and convert?

Then there’s that fun little organization, the Freedom From Religion Foundation.

In the past locally, both Foothills Baptist Church and Issaquah Christian Church have hosted live nativity scenes, providing no better way to depict the original Christmas. Unfortunately, the organizers better never have plans to expand to public property, thanks to the FFRF. The group just recently succeeded in shutting down a nativity scene in Henderson County, Texas.

Apparently one nameless resident was “offended” and the group took up his cause, citing what I feel is misguided precedent by the Supreme Court, prohibiting religious displays on public property. Once again, I’d take my trusty pocket Constitution, throw it in the group’s face and ask, “Please turn to the section that says you have the right to not be offended.”

Our country seems to have survived just fine wearing its religious origins on its sleeves before the ACLU and FFRF started chipping away at those freedoms.

Speaking of religion on sleeves, what if those sleeves are part of a uniform? I am officially jumping aboard the Tim Tebow bandwagon. He’s now 7-1 as a starting quarterback for the Denver Broncos, disproving his legion of naysayers in the sports media who were critical of Tebow since the team drafted him, no less since he became their starter. You see, a big part of their gripe over Tebow, outside his mechanics as an NFL quarterback versus just being a successful college quarterback, was his religious conviction.

I’m pretty sure God doesn’t look down and bestow favor upon one team over another just because someone is devout. Teams, from our local high schools all the wayup to the NFL, have long participated in group prayer before a matchup. Tebow’s point in every post-game interview regardless the question, “First I have to thank Jesus Christ, my personal lord and savior” is actually thanking God for giving him natural ability, but leaving it up to him to follow through on it.

Tebow has been ridiculed by the press and mocked by other players. But his conviction hasn’t wavered and he’s even managed to convert some skeptics into believers along the way.

So, Santa, please take time as other kids shuffle past your perch this season to remind them of the true meaning of Christmas. While religious in origin, “Do unto others as you would have others do unto you. [Matthew 7:12]” seems pretty universal to me.

David Hayes: 392-6434, ext. 237, or dhayes@isspress.com. Comment at www.issaquahpress.com.

Greg Farrar Press photographer

Never fear! Although the passing of Steve Jobs has left many of us Applemaniacs saddened and adrift, there still are people with many good ideas for products which, in the tradition of this great inventor, Americans don’t know they have to have until they get in long lines to buy them.

One of those idea people is me. Although these products are not available this Christmas, by next year they’ll be at Issaquah’s Best Buy, Fred Meyer and Target stores in time for the Black Friday mobs.

Of course, since there is no improving on the perfection of either Jobs’ inventions or his marketing skills, my first idea is to make sure to slap a lower-case “I” in front of everything I want to sell.

One product idea came to mind just this morning, it will be called the “iScraper” and it will instantly remove all of the snow and ice from your car each morning in the Issaquah Highlands. The GPS in your car will send its coordinates to a satellite in orbit, which in turn will send a microwave burst down to heat your car. Think of it as your own personal microwave oven in space! Just to be clear, I will not be responsible for anyone going all Dixie Chicks and putting Earl in the trunk first.

My next invention, which everyone will find indispensable throughout the rest of the century, will be called the “iMe” and will basically replace primitive Facebook and Twitter social media. All you have to do is wear it like a baseball cap. Y’know those little vent holes? Those holes will contain microphones, cameras and smell sensors, and broadcast your life in 360-degree, 3-D, 24/7 real-time high definition. Your friends will never miss a moment of your life again!

One of the problems nagging at people forever has been traffic. Doesn’t matter if it was horse drawn, the Model T or light rail, it’s been nagging! Now I know what you’re thinking, “Greg just wants to invent the transporter from Star Trek.” Well, that’s silly. I mean, I could invent it, but that depends on a transporter pad being at the other end everywhere you want to go, which restricts your mobility.

No, I’m just going to add the magic “i” and give a whole new meaning to the word “carhop.” Nobody serves food to your car at drive-ins anymore, anyway, so it’s a perfectly good word that needs recycling.

There’s just one more thing that needs inventing, and I feel I’m the one to do it. Heaven knows I’m the one who needs it the most! Now some of you may recall all those DeLoreans on Front Street this summer during the annual car show. Nike made headlines recently with its production run of Marty McFly’s shoes from “Back to the Future.” And there was a serious news article about the physics of hoverboards being studied. The confluence of all these things got me thinking.

What I really need is to be able to have this Off the Press finished before deadline. Voilá, the “iTimewarp” wristband! Imagine having all the money saved for your child’s college education on the day he or she is born! Expect to have all of your Christmas shopping done by Labor Day! Forget a spouse’s birthday, get a do-over!

Steve Jobs, thank you so much! Rest in peace, we will miss you. Now it’s my turn!

Greg Farrar: 392-6434, ext. 235, or gfarrar@isspress.com. Comment at www.issaquahpress.com.

Tom Corrigan Press reporter

Is it too early for a holiday column? I don’t think so and I hope not because, well, here goes…

… And let’s start at the beginning. In search of inspiration with which to fill this space, I started looking through old columns written years ago for another paper in another state, basically in a previous life. I came across a Christmas column that, embarrassingly, got slapped with a special disclaimer:

“Perhaps Ebenezer Scrooge himself paid Corrigan a visit as he penned this piece, which certainly is a departure from the typical warm and fuzzy seasonal column.”

Of course, I was specifically aiming for a departure from the typical warm and fuzzy seasonal column. I love the idea of Christmas; I fully admit some of the realities bug me. Commercials advertising this or that escape from the joys of the season prove that I’m hardly alone.

Call it a hunch if you want, but I believe the flourish with which I ended that long-ago piece was the problem, an ending I am not about to put in print again. I admit I got carried away. Allow me to submit, however, that getting carried away in one form or another is a symptom of the season.

Take Christmas lights. What can I say? I love the stupid things. And at this point, you are encouraged to come up with some obvious joke at my expense, perhaps something to do with small minds and attraction to shiny things.

Anyway, back in that previously referred to previous lifetime, I easily spent hundreds, if not thousands, on strings of lights and plastic Santas, all of which went up on my house year after year despite the fact I was single with no children. Despite the fact that putting up those lights was the source of myriad annoyances: carefully laid decorating plans that never worked, strings of lights that, of course, refused to light. Spending hours in Midwest cold.

Now living in an apartment, I haven’t even been able to put up lights on our patio that for reasons unfathomable isn’t equipped with an electric outlet. I still, however, have boxes of lights and hot air decorations and may have figured out a way to get power out to the patio. It’s not a complicated plan and basically would utilize a long cord, a window and some duct tape. Not sure it’s worth the effort or doesn’t lean a bit too much toward goofy. Still, there is that whole getting carried away thing…

Pretending for the moment that this whole column is something different, allow me a personal indulgence long enough to note that I am starting to feel nauseated by the Christmas spirit.

In those old columns, I used to be a lot more sarcastic. My wife claims I’ve mellowed. She might be all too right because about now I’d like to get greeting card mushy. If I had the skills, I’d really like to write about a philosophical sweetness and light, “the ever-lasting yea” as somebody put it. “We are such stuff as dreams are made on,” a different somebody once wrote and in December those dreams are Disney-colored cartoons come to life.

By the way, yes, Virginia, there is, in some way or another, a Santa Claus.

I suppose I could go on, but my teeth are starting to hurt. Still, despite a cynical approach to most things, when I write “Merry Christmas,” the expression is heartfelt.

And more importantly, since Christmas technically only lasts one day, Happy New Year.

A “yea” would definitely be getting carried away, wouldn’t it?

Tom Corrigan: 392-6434, ext. 241, or tcorrigan@isspress.com. Comment at www.issaquahpress.com.

Bob Taylor Press sports editor

Ever since Issaquah Salmon Days, I have often been asked by people in the community how I enjoyed that turkey leg.

They were referring to a Salmon Days story written by Issaquah Press reporter Dave Hayes, our staff gourmet. Dave interviewed people who were dining on some of that scrumptious cuisine that is always at Salmon Days. One person he interviewed was Bob Taylor, who apparently enjoyed gnawing on a turkey leg.

That Bob Taylor was not I.

There is no way, and I reiterate, there is no way a turkey leg gets to my chops on Thanksgiving or any day.

I do not enjoy turkey legs, or even chicken legs, for that matter.

It has everything to do with my childhood. When I was just a little lad, every Thanksgiving my mother would put a turkey leg on my plate.

“You will enjoy this,” she would say.

It was not until I was almost 14 that I ever tasted the white meat of a turkey. I still prefer white meat, especially with a little gravy over it, along with dressing, some mashed potatoes and candied yams. Now, that is a plate to enjoy. A green vegetable is good, too.

Speaking of green vegetables, it was not until I discovered the wonders of frozen peas that I could eat those little buggers. My mother always insisted on shoveling canned peas onto my plate. Well, the peas stayed there for a long time, often past the end of the Texas-Texas A&M football game.

It was an aunt who finally got me to eat peas. One time at a Thanksgiving dinner at her house, she had prepared a dish of peas with pearled onions. My mother told her, “Bob doesn’t like peas.”

My aunt, who was very shrewd and a very good cook, put a dish of frozen peas next to my plate. I ate them. They were good. On that day I thanked God for Birds Eye!

Now, I do not want anyone to think that I was a finicky eater as a child. Finicky? Well, perhaps a little, but looking back now, it was more self-preservation. There were just some foods that my parents would put on my plate that did not look good, thus I thought they must not taste good, either. In many cases, I was right.

Take wax beans. Please, take them. My mother often cooked yellow, yucky wax beans. She would put a scoop of them on my plate. I tried several ways to dispose of those beans, even offering them to our old collie dog. He would not eat those beans, and that old dog ate just about everything. Even chewed up a bamboo tree once. But wax beans, even the mutt wouldn’t try them. So, those beans had to be bad.

I mentioned that I do not enjoy chicken legs. Again, it was another horror story from my youth. Every time we had fried chicken, I got a chicken leg. I was about 14 (again) when I first tasted a chicken breast. To this day, when we have chicken, I eat white meat.

As a child, at least during the early 1960s, you always obeyed your parents. When they suggested a certain food, you just thought you had to try it, right? For instance, take Chinese food. Every year when our family went into Portland, Ore., to do some Christmas shopping, there was a Chinese restaurant near the old Montgomery Ward store. My mother loved eating the No. 1 special — chow mein, egg foo yung, chicken fried rice, and sweet and sour pork.

My father, a veteran of World War II, did not enjoy Chinese cuisine. He always ordered the veal cutlet. He had also convinced me for years that I would not like Chinese food. So he ordered me a cheeseburger.

It was not until I was in college that I discovered the delights of chow mein and other delectable Chinese dishes.

So this Thanksgiving, I am thankful for many things — good food, especially pumpkin pie, good people — and no turkey legs!