Memphis Earlene wanted to go to the Duluth Blues Festival this year, and I dragged her off to France. If Memphis Earlene had a .45 or any other form of Blues weapon she would be aiming it at my head.
“Wouldn’t you like to try some duck liver with pistachio nuts? A glass of armagnac? A slice of Blue Cheese”?
“Non.”
Armagnac is not a Blues Beverage. Blueswomen don’t eat cheese. The sprightly Brittany Spaniel who follows us around the village is no kin to a Hellhound.
Instead of Blues, the French have joie de vivre, and it’s rubbing off on me. Joie de vivre means even if America is held hostage to the Tea Party, China, and Goldman Sachs, one enjoys a slice duck liver studded with pistachio nuts.
Memphis Earlene 