…so, anyway, Wanda looked at him with murder in her eyes and said—nothing.

It's funnier if you knew her, truly.
But if you know me, you know a little about her.I rarely write of my father's family; not because of lack of interest, but because of lack of knowledge. My father has several siblings, most of whom are still living, but whom I have not seen in years. Moving seven hours away virtually guarantees that you lose touch with many of the family figures that you counted as regulars among your childhood holiday celebrations.

A lot of the time, I write here about the serious, the thoughtful, the life-changing.

Tonight: the silly.

So I finally get to talk to Aaron, to get times and details hammered out for my trip (huzzah! he doesn't care if I go gallivanting about on my own!). In preparation, I spread out papers and such in the guest bedroom.

Immediately, Tenzing does his patented chirrup-hop! onto the bed, looks at my papers, and starts sniffing balefully. The mixed suspicion and curiosity were plain to see.

Today's Friday Five, courtesy of Heather, are questions I can answer quickly, so I'll throw in mine.

1. What did you have for dinner last night?
Meat ravioli with tomato sauce. I need to rethink how I do tomato sauces. Jeff's right.

2. Do you ever get up for a midnight snack?]
*muahahahaha* Of course! I have a raging fancy for cheese at midnight.

3. What's your favorite dessert?
Ben and Jerry's 'Phish Food.' Keep your hands and feet away from my carton!

4. Tell us something about you that would surprise us.

Q: How to know you've probably done too much baking in one day?

A: When you reach out for something with your left hand and are horrified to realize that you're using all four of your fingers together, as one, to oppose your thumb. Just like you would, if your left hand was in an oven mitt.Yes, indeed, the holiday baking is done at last. The final tally of destruction: two batches each of fudge, Boston cream candy, gingerbread, chocolate chip cookies, peanut brittle, and one batch of blondies.

Should I be so blasé about tornadoes? Perhaps not, but any inclinations toward reasonability that I might have are generally blown away (pardon the bad pun) by the ignorance and histrionics of the local weather forecasters.

Don't get me wrong. I have the utmost respect for tornadoes. I remember the one that touched my parents' house when I was a child. A house a mile away was blown to bits, but all it did to our house was delicately lift the cap off of the chimney and set it down in the yard. I've seen tornadoes ravage my home state, seen friends' houses destroyed, spent time frantically calling friends to find out if they and their families were okay.But I only get upset or worried when there's a need to get upset or worried.

This snippet of text, taken from a satirical column in the Huntsville Times, sums our one of our local weather forecasters up well:

Over the years, I've asked myself many, many times why I do this. Why I feel this need. Why, at random times, it galvanizes me into packing a bag, calling up a few friends, and bartering cooking experience for crashspace.

Other people call it "wanderlust." That's probably as accurate a term as I'm ever going to find.It's best described as a quiet ache—of looking at the same four walls and knowing that you've looked at them before. Knowing that you've explored them from top to bottom, inside to out, and that there's not much left to discover.