A Pink Cat and a Green Chick

Seen in last Monday’s paper …

Photo published on http://www.nieuwsblad.be/
on Monday, Sept. 27th, 2010

This poor little kitten – a stray cat that used to roam the streets of Swindon (U.K.) as a bright white feline - has been died pink by an unknown joker. Luckily the culprit was careful enough not the smear the dye in the animal’s eyes or mouth. The cat is therefore in good health, except for its unusual colour.

As there is no effective, yet harmless soap or detergent to remove the dye, the vet who took the animal in estimates that it will take 1 tot 1.5 year before ‘Pink’ – because that’s the kitten’s name from now on - will have ‘outgrown’ its pink coat.

Personally, I don’t know how to react. On the one hand I think it’s outrageous to treat an innocent and helpless creature like that. On the other, you must admit that Pink looks very pretty and cute! Maybe this cat can audition for a part in a new Pink Panther film?

This reminds me of the time when I used to work for a light bulb manufacturer. The international marketing department with headquarters in Switzerland had decided to completely re-look the packaging of our products, replacing the bright apple-green boxes by a more subdued green-bluish carton. In order to promote this new packaging with our distributors, I was asked to come up with an catchy idea for a cover photo for a brochure.

It was around Easter and on television I saw a program about incubators in which little chicks were hatched. The fluffy yellow chicks looked very attractive. This gave me the idea to shoot a photo of one green chick standing amongst a little flock of yellow chicks. The slogan would read: “Quality will always stand out!” or something like that. It sounded better in Dutch!

We hired a professional photographer who ‘borrowed’ two dozen chicks from a farmer. Three days later he came to our office in Brussels carrying thirty or so photos of the chick family. He explained that it hadn’t been easy to get a good shot, as the chicks were very lively and nervous, jumping and fluttering around in the large box in which he had put them. There was one outstanding photo though, with one little chick standing – or should I say ‘posing’ - in front of the flock, his little head proudly held high and with one short leg elegantly placed in front of the other.

Our advertising agency did a brilliant job, ‘dyeing’ this talented little chick in the stylish greenish-blue or was it bluish-green that would be the colour of our new packaging. In order not to upset any animal protection movements – and we have a very powerful one in Belgium, called Gaia - we put a disclamer on the backcover of the brochure stating that the protagonist in the picture had been Photoshopped and not dyed. You just can’t be too careful, can you?

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Spotted in Amboise

A tourist or just one of the locals?
What do you think?

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Brownies

Although I don’t have a sweet tooth and pastry baking is not my favourite occupation, I made some brownies last Saturday. It was my first attempt and they turned out just fine … to my surprise. You can bet that they’ll be awful the next time a try to make them.

I had spent the best part of the morning doing my weekly shopping. In the afternoon I prepared the peas and carrots for Sunday lunch and I hand-washed some delicate pieces of clothing, and watched re-runs of ‘Columbo’ and ‘Murder, She wrote’ on the television. I had unloaded the dishwasher putting everything in its right place and my kitchen looked spic-and-span.

By 7 p.m. I was bored. Outside it was raining and the laundry was drying on a rack in the second bedroom. After watching the 7 o’clock news, I was even more bored. I desperately needed something to keep me occupied till the next program of interest started. So I rummaged through some recipes that I have collected over the last twelve months. Amongst them I found a delicious panacotta with a raspberry coulis, which I made in March or April of this year. I felt like trying it again, just to keep busy. However, I didn’t have the necessary ingredients and by then all the shops were closed. Besides, the rain was still pouring down, and I didn’t feel like going out again.

And then I came across a recipe for brownies. It came on the back of a calendar page – March, I think – and looked really easy. Moreover, I had all the required ingredients in the fridge and the larder/pantry:

- 150 gr. of sugar
- 137.5 gr. of melted butter
- 3 eggs
- 50 gr. flour
- 200 gr. of chocolate

I closely followed the instructions as I know that pastry requires using the exact quantities. I started by melting the black Côte d’Or (in the US a.k.a. ‘the Elephant’) chocolate - 80% cacao and really, really dark and nice and bitter - in a bain-marie. At the same time I melted the butter in a little saucepan. I took the eggs and separated the yolks from the whites. I whisked the latter into a firm white foam. In a bowl I then mixed the yolks with the sugar, to which I added the flower, the egg whites and finally the melted chocolate, until I obtained a glossy and creamy dark brown mixture.

The brownies, nicely rising in the oven.

Still following the instructions on the calendar page, I poured the mixture in a shallow, lightly buttered tray and baked it in an oven which I had pre-heated at 170°C. 35 minutes later it came out, smelling deliciously rich and tempting. When it had cooled down, I cut it into three large strips. On Sunday I cut one of these strips into cubic 4x4x4 cm chunks, which we had for dessert. I gave the second strip to my mother, to enjoy with her afternoon coffee. On Monday I cut up the last strip into equal chunks and laid them on a plate on the corner of my desk at work. It didn’t take long before my colleagues discovered them … and by lunchtime the last brownie was gone …

P.S. I'm aware that I'm taking an enormous risk posting this recipe, as I'm sure that some of you have been making brownies for a much longer time than I have and therefore have more experience and a better result. Your tips are more than welcome!

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Vivaldi or Tchaikovsky?

What happened before …

The next morning, at breakfast, we saw the man and his wife again. They were two of the eight guests (including us) who had spent the night at the ‘Manoir des Charmes’ in Ay. We were the last ones to arrive and the others were already seated around a large oval table. There was some light classical music playing in the background and our hosts were busy serving coffee, tea, hot chocolate and orange juice.

Manoir des Charmes - Ay
Our room and large terrace are on the left.

Suffering from a very bad cold which had been bothering me for the entire week of our vacation, I wasn’t in the mood to make conversation with the other guests. In fact, and to be honest, breakfast is the only aspect of staying at a B&B that I don’t like, especially when all the guests have to share the same table at the same time. In the morning I simply like to chat with my friend, discussing our plans for the day.

That morning, however, our late-night caller turned out to be in a talkative mood. Apparently the man had already made some attempts to start a conversation with the four other guests: a young Austrian couple and two Italian women. Getting little response from them, he turned to my friend and enquired about our evening in the cabin. We replied that we had had our supper there, on which he started to explain the details of his dinner in town. Everybody nodded in silent agreement as he went on and on and on and on … until his wife put her hand on his arm and whispered: “Eat your breakfast now, dear. On which the man fell silent and put a slice of buttered toast in his mouth.

I felt really miserable, coughing and sneezing and feeling slightly embarrassed about it.

As soon as the talkative man had swallowed his last bit of toast, he launched another conservation attempt. “Hum, nice music, isn’t it?” he said tilting his head and listening to the classical music. “Vivaldi, I think.” “Yes, definitely Vivaldi… the Four Seasons.” “Spring, I think.”

Although I know little or nothing about classical music, this certainly wasn’t Vivaldi.

Finally, the Austrian girl looked up from her scrambled eggs and volunteered: “No, I think it’s Tchaikovsky.” “Yes, now that you mention it, you’re right … Tchaikovsky. I should have known.”, our happy talker exclaimed. By then I had ran out of Kleenex, so I excused myself and left the table. Twenty minutes later my friend came up to the room too. He had left the others in the good care of our music connoisseur, who, encouraged by the Austrian girl’s input, had burst into an exposé on the life and work of Tchaikovsky.

Do you likeTchaikovsky?

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The Little House in the ... Vineyard

The B&B ‘Le Manoir des Charmes’ in the village of Ay (Champagne) is a stately villa with a well-tended garden, adjacent a small vineyard. We had seen both from the terrace of our room, where we had hoped to spend the evening having our aperitif and picnic supper. However, the weather gods decided otherwise and sent in some large rain clouds.

The kitchen being off-limits, the landlady showed us to a small cabin it the back of the garden. From the outside it looked like an over-sized doll’s house. Inside, it was nice and cosy, with romantic decorations, comfortable chairs, a miniature fridge and some shelves holding cutlery and glasses.

The perfect place to have a romantic tête-à-tête picnic!

The landlady invited us to put our supplies in the fridge and added that we could use the cabin and the cutlery to have our supper. “You’ll have the place to yourselves,” she added, “All the other guests have gone into town.” “When you’re finished, just leave the dishes where they are; I’ll collect them in the morning.” We thanked her for her kindness and went to fetch our supplies from the car.

While we were having our meal in the ‘Little house in the vineyard’, we saw a car coming up the driveway. It stopped by the house and a man and a woman got out. They unloaded some luggage and disappeared into the house.

About an hour later – it had gotten quite dark by then – we suddenly heard a scratching noise at the door of the cabin. Could it be a dog? We were not aware of our hosts having one. Or a cat? A stray maybe! Or a rodent? Please, NO! Well if it was a rodent, it certainly was a big one, because, to our surprise we saw the door handle move. “Hello, is there anybody in there?” Ha, a talking rodent! The door opened and a large bald head appeared in the opening. It belonged to the gentleman whom we had seen arriving earlier that evening. “Excuse me,” he said “I was just taking a walk in the garden, when I heard voices. I was wondering where they came from. Sorry, if I’ve disturbed you. Have a nice evening.” Before we had a chance to say anything, he had closed the door. We saw him walking up the garden path and disappearing into the house.

(to be continued)

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Stopover in the Champagne region

For as long as I can remember Spain has been one of the Belgian’s favourite holiday destinations. Since recently the Playas have to compete with the Turkish Riviera, where you get more for your money than in Spain. The all-time top destination, however, remains France. Not because it is cheap, as it isn’t, but simply because the country has so much to offer. And of course, there is the food … and the wine!

And it is close. Brussels – Nice is 1,250 km, or about 11 hours by car. Personally, I would never cover that distance in one day, but a lot of people do. Our limit is the Loire Valley. 500 to 600 km (5 to max. 6 hours in the car), that’s all it takes to have a complete change of scenery and to feel completely ‘dépaysé’ - as they say in French.

Other French regions that are extremely popular for a short weekend or midweek break are the Somme Bay and Normandy in the northwest and the Alsace and Lorraine in the northeast and, of course, the Champagne region at less than 300 km. In the eighties and the beginning of the nineties we often spend a weekend near Reims or Epernay, in the heart of the Champagne vineyards. In more recent years we’ve limited our stay to an overnight stop on the way back from our annual Loire Valley trip.

June 2008: 'Montagne de Reims'
The Champagne vineyard between Reims and Epernay.

In 2008 I had found an attractive B&B called ‘Le Manoir des Charmes’ in the village of Ay on the outskirts of Epernay. We arrived in the late afternoon, after leaving Vouvray at around ten in the morning. The house, an early twentieth century villa sat in nice grounds along one of the main boulevards of the little town. The street, the sidewalk, the houses, … everything looked spic-and-span as you would expect in a little prosperous town which has given its name to one of the lesser known, yet better Champagne brands.

We stayed in a spacious and bright room on the first floor, with a large terrace overlooking a small vineyard and the villa’s garden. As usual we had bought a baguette, cheese, charcuterie and some wine for our picnic supper. For our aperitif we had bought a bottle of the local nectar. The terrace seemed the perfect place to spend the evening, eating, drinking and reminiscing over our recent stay in ‘La Touraine’. We partly unpacked our luggage; just some items that we needed for the night, took a shower and settled down on the terrace with our bottle of Champagne, when … it started to rain.

We scurried inside, taking our bottle and glasses with us. However, there was not enough space or adequate furniture in the room to enjoy a drink, let alone a picnic meal. We therefore decided to go downstairs and ask the landlady if we could have our meal in the kitchen. She was just about to lay the table for breakfast and wasn’t too keen on the idea of us upsetting her schedule.

When we said that we had all our picnic stuff in the cool box and hamper in the car, her face lit up … “Follow me,” she said, “I think I have a solution.” At first we were somewhat disappointed, but when we saw the alternative, we were happy to oblige!

(to be continued)

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A happy watering-can

The other day I walked into my mother's veranda
and this unusual set-up caught my eye.

This watering-can looks pretty jolly, doesn't it?

My mother had been doing some gardening and her gardening gloves had become dirty ...
So she washed them. Here they are in the process of drying.

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Wasa: more than just crisp bread

You’re probably familiar with Wasa crisp bread – Knäckebröd in Swedish. It’s a flat and dry type of bread or cracker, mainly made of rye flour. For a long time it was considered as the poor man’s diet. However, it has become increasingly popular again now that people for different reasons – health or body weight - are looking for low-fat and low-calorie diets.

Originally, however, Wasa had nothing to do with bread or even food in general. Gustav Ist was the first member of the influental Wasa family, to become king of Sweden in the 16sth century. One of his descendents, Gustav Adolphus Wasa, who ruled Sweden in the 17th century, was a bit of a warmonger. He liked to spend money by having always bigger and more powerful battleships built. On August 10th, 1628 his latest war toy Wasa, appropriately named after his royal highness himself, left Stockholm’s shipyard on her maiden voyage.

Now if you thought that the Titanic held the record of the shortest maiden trip ever, you are mistaken. As the Wasa sailed less than a nautical mile (approx. 2 km) before it capsized and sank! Wasa was built top-heavy and had insufficient ballast. As soon as the ship’s sails caught the wind, it leaned over. To show off the gun power of the ship, the captain had ordered to open all the canon ports, even those on the lower decks, through which the water came rushing in as soon as the ship made his heavy tilt.

Later in the 17th century most of the ship’s valuable bronze canons were salvaged. The ship itself fell into oblivion, until 1950 when it was discovered as it was smack in the middle of a busy shipping lane. But it would take till April 24th, 1961 before the wooden hull was salvaged. It was almost intact! From 1961 till 1987 the hull was housed in a temporary museum where it was constantly sprayed with different chemicals to preserve the wood.

The stern of the Wasa.

This is where I saw the Wasa in 1977. Actually, I didn’t see that much as it was partly hidden behind scaffolding. The tour – it wasn’t guided - led along some dodgy foot bridges which were at a safe distance from the actual ship and the nozzles spraying the chemicals. Nevertheless, it was an impressive sight. Somehow it felt like going back in time. The whole structure was dimly lit and the only sound to be heard was the dripping of the water. It felt as if it had just been lifted from the seabed. The best part was undoubtedly the artfully carved stern, which had already been restored to its former glory. I think it respresents the gilded arms of the house of Wasa.

In 1987 the ship was ready to me moved to the current Vasa (or Wasa, both are correct) Museum, which over the last half a century has become Sweden’s most popular tourist attraction. Since 1961 more than 28 million visitors have come to see the Wasa. And I am one of them! If you ever visit Stockholm, you absolutely must go and see it.

Note: I got most of the historic data from Wikipedia. The rest is of my own personal perception/interpretation and therefore not necessarily historically correct.

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Royal glimpses of Stockholm

During my first visit to Sweden in 1977, I knew very little about the country or its history. The only thing I did know was that the mother of our present king Albert II, the lovely queen Astrid, was of Swedish origin, thus linking the Belgian royal family to the Swedish royals. Seventy five years ago, on August 29th 1935, she died in a car accident in Switzerland. She was only 30 years old, mother of three young children and extremely popular and loved. I guess you could say that she was the Princess Diana of the 1920-1930s.

My friend Mats’mother, being a former history teacher, turned out to be the ideal guide. One of the first places we went to see was the royal palace. Before going in, we watched the changing of the guards. It was quite impressive with a lot of music and shining arms. The soldiers were frightfully young. Most of them couldn’t have been much older than eighteen.

Inside, in the portrait gallery of the palace, Mats’ mother commented the impressive collection of life-size paintings representing the Swedish monarchs. One of them Jean-Baptiste Bernadotte, a former general in Napoleon’s army, became King of Sweden in 1818. Although he wasn’t of royal blood – his father was a French lawyer – he was adopted in 1810 by the Swedish king Charles XIII and queen Hedwige-Elisabeth-Charlotte who had no children. The actual King Gustav and his lovely daughters Victoria and Madeleine are descendants of Bernadotte. So was our Queen Astrid, whose father was known as the ‘blue prince’, because of the blue uniform he used to wear.

I found the tour fascinating. My private guide was a keen talker and her stories were captivating. When told her so, she smiled and said that she had rarely had such an interested and attentive audience.

The theatre of Drottningholm castle
(photo: Google)

Our next stop was Drottningholm castle, the royal family’s private residence. It’s located on an isle in Lake Mälar in a suburb of Stockholm. It was built in the 17th century under the direction of the architect Nicodemus Tessin ‘the Elder’, by commission of queen Eleonora. Since 1991, the castle, its theatre and the Chinese pavilion in the vast park are part of the UNESCO world heritage.

I have no recollection of visiting the actual château. I do remember visiting the theatre though. It was built in the 18th century. It’s pocket-size and except for the royal box the seats are simple backless wooden benches with red velvet cushions. At least, that’s what it looked like in 1977. I’m not sure about the seating conditions today. Another particularity is the fact that there is no heating. This is also the reason why there are no performances in winter.

The most fascinating part of the tour is backstage, where the original wooden mechanisms to make stage changes are still in place. In 1977 they were still operational.

I really spent an excellent day with Mats’ mother. Moreover we really enjoyed each other’s company. My only regret is that I didn’t take more photos. I therefore had to borrow one from Google to illustrate this post …

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First fast-food experience

History has always been one of my favourite subjects at school. I therefore almost jumped for joy when Mats told me that his mother used to be a history teacher and that she had volunteered to show me the historic sights of Stockholm. But more about that later ...

Mats’ mother was not only an excellent history teacher; she also was a great cook. On the first evening of my stay she made a delicious fish casserole. At the time I wasn’t into food and cooking yet, so I never asked her the recipe. And now it is too late as she died some three years ago. And although Mats is a fine gourmet, something I learned when he came to see me in 2007, I’m not sure he’s a real chef!

The main ingredient of the fish casserole was fresh herring. I’m pretty sure about that. And then there were a lot of onions and potatoes and bay leaves. Maybe you recognize the dish; so if you happen to know the complete recipe, don’t hesitate to send me an email. I really would appreciate it.

During my trip to Sweden I also had my first fast-food experience; although at the time I didn’t realize it. Mats’ mother made something which I, till today, still refer to as a Swedish hamburger. What you do is this: you simple panfry a beef burger. In the meantime, you finely chop an onion and slice a tomato. When the burger is done, you put it on a plate. Next you put a generous blob of ketchup on it, top it with the chopped raw onion, next comes a layer of tomato slices, topped with a generous helping of mayonnaise! Yum!

I know this may sound silly, but I’ve been brought up on solid traditional Belgian food, always including meat, vegetables and boiled potatoes or French fries (of course!). Until I went to England for the first time in 1972, I had never eaten rice or spaghetti. My first rice dish was a cold Indian style dish including rice, tuna, mayonnaise, onions and paprika. My first pasta experience was tinned Heinz spaghetti on toast with a fried egg, sunny side up! And my first spaghetti bolognaises goes back to my first year at university in 1975. That's a lot of 'firsts', isn't it?

I like to believe that I've come a long way since ... 

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Elks, aquavit and an upside down house

In 1977 my Swedish friend Mats lived with his parents in Nacka, an eastern suburb of Stockholm. Arlanda, the Swedish airport, is located in the wooded region north of the Swedish capital. The distance between both is approximately 55 km. I know the drive took almost an hour, but I can’t remember what the area looked like. There is one thing however that I’ll never forget; it was this traffic sign… You’ll find it all over Sweden and Norway.

It’s an elk warning traffic sign.

According to this website, "the elk warning signs are very popular. Foreign tourists steal them (Mind you, I didn’t!) and local hunters (?) use them as shooting targets. You had better take these signs seriously, though. Up to 800 kilograms of long-legged animal through the windscreen is kind of overwhelming. Elks tend to use their established tracks, even long after the town has expanded beyond the tracks. Notice also that they usually (but not always!) flee from people, but they're not afraid of cars and may even attack the car. This is the Eurasian Elk – Alces alces (or machlis). It's often called moose because it looks like its American close relative – Alces americanus (or the Alaskan Alces gigas), and because in America elk is a large deer also called wapiti (Cervus canadiensis)."

Personally, I think that the elk in the sign looks as if it has had too much Aquavit. Aquavit or Akvavit (also akevitt in Norwegian) is a flavoured spirit that is produced in Scandinavia and typically contains 40% alcohol by volume. Its name comes from ‘aqua vitae’, the Latin for "water of life". (Source: Wikipedia). Like vodka it is distilled either from grain or potatoes. Unlike vodka, which is colourless, Aquavit has a pale yellow colour. The bottle is kept in the freezer and the aquavit is served in tiny one-shot glasses. It’s very strong stuff and I’m not a big fan of it.

The house in Nacka was a complete surprise to me, as it was so different from what we are used to in Belgium where we are known to ‘have a brick in our stomach’. This expression refers to the fact that the majority of the Belgians will do everything within their power to own a house (I’m probably an exception!). Moreover, houses in Belgium are traditionally made of bricks. The house of Mats’ parents was completely made of wood, though and … it was upside down …

To get to the frontdoor, you had to climb a flight of steps. The door led into a hallway on which several doors opened, which in turn led into the kitchen, the drawing room, the dining room and an office. At the end of the hallway was a staircase going … down. It led to the three bedrooms, a bathroom, a shower room and a den. The back wall of the den was a ceiling-to-floor sliding window offering a magnificent view of the garden and the woods.

I was warmly welcomed by Mats’ mother, who was a very beautiful woman, with blond hair and bright blue eyes. Later that evening I met Mats’ father, who had a terrific sense of humour, as I would learn later.

That evening, after dinner we all went down to the den. The room was pretty dark with only one small light burning. We were sitting there in the semi-darkness, chatting and sipping our drinks, when Mats’ father suddenly turned off the only light. “Sssht, don’t move and look outside.” he said. I didn’t know what to think or expect. Until my eyes got used to the darkness … and then I saw it. Outside, by the edge of the wood, two bright yellow eyes were staring back at us. It were those of a lynx! Slowly it crossed the garden, walking up to the house. It stopped at about one meter from the window. Never in my life have I been closer to a wild animal. Although we were all sitting there perfectly still, the feline must have felt our presence as all of a sudden it turned around and leaped back into the woods!

When Mats’ father turned on the light again, I realized that I had been holding my breath the whole time. “It looks to me like you need another drink …” he said teasingly, and poured everybody another small brandy.

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Flying to Sweden

On July 11th, 1977, the Sabena flight with destination Copenhagen and Stockholm left on time. As the check-in clerk had already mentioned, there were only 12 passengers for the first part of the flight. In those days, I still loved flying and I particularly enjoyed take-offs and landings. Since 9/11 I feel less comfortable about taking a plane. As far as I can remember I haven’t been on one since 1995. Not because I’m too scared, but simply because over the last 20 years I’ve mostly travelled to France, which doesn’t really require flying.

Brussels – Copenhagen takes about 50 minutes; just enough time to have a coffee and a sandwich. The stewardess having little on their hands with only 12 passengers to attend, willingly chatted with those who wanted to. I learned that more passengers were expected to board the plane during the stop-over in Copenhagen. This made me slightly nervous, as it meant that I might have to give up my seat for the flight from Copenhagen to Stockholm, as I was holding a free ticket.

When the plane landed, everybody had to get off, even the passengers for Stockholm. I was one of the three people who were travelling all the way. The nine others had Copenhagen as their destination. We were asked to wait in the transit zone. After ten minutes or so, we saw a large crowd walking up to the boarding gate. I silently hoped and prayed that there would still be room for me on that plane. I didn’t want to get stuck in Copenhagen, on standby, waiting for the next plane to Stockholm.

When boarding started, I inconspicuously slipped into the queue … When it was my turn, the gate officer gave my boarding pass a quick glance. I held my breath … “Okay.” he said, handing me back my pass. On the plane I quickly returned to the seat I had occupied earlier. The plane filled up rapidly and I still feared that some one would come up to me and claim my seat. It was only after the stewardess had firmly closed the doors and the plane had started taxiing, that I was able to relax.

Almost there ... Arlanda and Stockholm are somewhere down there.

Photo: google images

The second part of the flight took approximately one hour and ten minutes, during which drinks and nibbles were served. We were flying high above the clouds and it was only when the plane started its descent, breaking through the cloud deck that I caught my first glimpse of Sweden. We were flying over large forests of fir trees. Occasionally I saw a clearing were several roads seemed to come together. Not much later the “Fasten seatbelts” light flashed on and the plane started its slow descent towards Arlanda airport. Arlanda is the official name of Stockholm’s National airport.

The plane landed exactly on time. I was beginning to feel a bit nervous. I hadn’t seen Mats since 1974, when we were both 17 and silly teenagers. Now we were 20 and both responsible young adults. I was nervous about meeting his parents too.

I walked through customs and saw Mats waiting behind the barrier. He hadn’t changed a bit. As soon as he saw me, he hurried towards me and gave me a big hug. He took my suitcase from me and gallantly carried it to his little red car. He told me it was actually his mother’s, but that she had lend it to him to pick me up at the airport. Little did I know then that, during the next two weeks, we would travel over 3000 km in the little red car …

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