There is no greater wealth than love and generosity. Money cannot purchase them because they are gifts and must be given away without counting any cost. Read Babette's Feast by Dinesen. I think of this story every time I find a plate of home cooking in my ice box.

Dinner this evening is courtesy of my local village family.

It is like having Christmas several times a year to know them.

They sneak into my house and leave food in the fridge.

Not really. They come over to let Reilly O'Dog out. And leave food in my fridge.

Carl from the Graves Mountain Lodge Trout Farm gave Ruth 9 large trout. Trust me, they are big fishes, too.

This evening, in from class, I have pan-fried freshly caught rainbow trout and home made scalloped potatoes.

Ruth is concerned about my weight. She has offered to sew lead weights into my pockets in case it gets windy this winter.

Ruth is a great-grandmother, diabetic, and she is on social security, but she still cleans houses for a living. For cash wages.

When the cash wages run out in the winter, she closes up the house and goes to live with her daughter.

Whenever she cooks up a storm, she always sends her daughter (my buddy) to invite me to supper. I never decline her invitations, even if I am not hungry. Company pleases Ruth.

Intense competitions over baked goods plague the women of Syria. Gossip about baking causes conflict here, and more gossip. Family relationships have come apart at the seams due to favoritism shown over peach cobbler and apple pie. The Bosnians thought they had it bad!

I was warned during my first week here, a year ago, not to publicly compliment any one woman regarding her pies. The warning was issued by 83 year old Dip Lucy, who actually is a local dignitary. I believe he said "don't go braggin' on one woman's cookin." Jealousies run high over the quality of a woman's baked goods in our community.

Ruth's sister Bertha dominates the pie market. Her pies go for good money at the Syria Mercantile. But, I believe the Syria women have overlooked something in their ratings system. While Bertha's apple pies may be the best pies, I honestly feel that Ruth's rum raisin cake should be voted best dessert. I received a twenty-five pound SLABBBBB of it this evening with my fishes. I shall devour it slowly, one ecstatic bite at a time.

Have I turned into John Walton?

When I drive home to Syria each evening, do I drive through an Einstein Rosen Bridge and jump back 70 years to an age when single women were looked after in their community?

Now, I know that I cannot ever leave Syria. Because the probability of my being able to manufacture neighbors of this supreme caliber in any other location is quite slim.

And now it is time for dessert.

Susie