[JustAmy]

O'Malley Farm Cafe Holiday Egg Nog Pie

Notes:
Recipe by Pat O'Malley, Owner, 403 W. Main Street,
Waunakee, WI.

Ingredients:
1 - 4 3/4 ounce package vanilla pudding and pie filling mix
2 C. dairy eggnog
1 1/4 C. milk
1 Tbsp. light rum
1/8 tsp. ground nutmeg
Pastry for 1 crust, 9 inch pie, baked.
Whipped cream
Nutmeg

Preparation:
Cook mix as directed on package for pie filling, except using 2 cups eggnog and 1 1/4 cups milk.
Stir in rum and nutmeg; pour into crust.
Cover surface with plastic wrap; chill several hours.
Garnish with whipped cream and nutmeg.
Makes 8 servings.

[Jen]

That recipe sounds good. Any idea of the carb count?

[JustAmy]

A large two engined train was crossing America. After they had gone some distance one of the engines broke down. "No problem," the engineer thought, and carried on at half power.

Farther on down the line, the other engine broke down, and the train came to a standstill.

The engineer decided he should inform the passengers about why the train had stopped, and made the following announcement:

"Ladies and gentlemen, I have some good news and some bad news. The bad news is that both engines have failed, and we will be stuck here for some time. The good news is that you decided to take the train and not fly."

[Victoria Delsoul]

Andalusian Nights

The gypsies gather around the leaping flames of the campfire,
little shadow tongues lapping at their faces.
Seated on a wooden chair,
his eyes half-closed against the smoke of the cigarette
held loosely between his lips,
the guitarist fingers the strings of his instruments,
coaxing, cajoling.
The voice of the singer rises in a wild Moorish lament;
a lean dancer claps his hands abruptly,
the heel stamps of his dusty black boots
echoing the ageless rhythm of a galloping Arab steed.
A young woman glides toward the dancer,
her slender arms, lifted above her head,
moving gently with the suppleness of willow leaves
caught in the green dawn's spring breeze.
The male dancer moves toward her with smooth, feline stride;
then, as the notes of the guitar alter,
harshen to fury and desperation,
withdraws in a burst of sharp claps, leaving her alone.
Black eyes shining beneath brows like the wings of a hawk,
dark hair pulled tight from a center parting into a chignon,
a huge rose pinned at her nape,
the gypsy whirls with controlled gestures
pervaded with passion and grief.
Accompanied by shouts of approval,
the cadenced clapping of her audience,
the thump and beat of the guitar,
the shrill wail of the singer,
she dances. She dances!
Her expressive torso, taut in the bodice of her red silk dress,
sways, inclines, twists with slow deliberation;
her hands take flight now, caressing each other,
restrained only by her elegant wrists.
Her head is an exquisite flower on the pure stem of her neck,
her heels beat a mad tattoo as she whirls
within the bright petals of her skirt.

-- Sue Littleton