I am sitting at the most beautiful, creatively made, inspirational piece of furniture on the planet ever. EVER. It is a dark brown writing desk made out of old barn wood. The planks are wide and some of them have tree knots in them, the front of it has an ancient looking door hinge ....i can't describe it except to say that it is a true work of art: genius. It inspires me incredibly. And it was made by none other than Ian Palkovitz. I dare someone to find something that this boy cannot do and do well. I don't think it can be done.

Anyway...last night, while waiting for the Newark fireworks display, I was keeping my eye on a rambunctious little group of hooligans who were running through a wooded area in the pitch dark with multicolored glo sticks. And a dear friend of mine (who was also keeping a close eye on these crazy kids with me) reminded me that it was time to move on from Duckfoot Leafis and write something new. My crisis, when I sit down to write, is that it is really hard for me to "keep it light." I usually have something obsessive inside that I am trying to process, and I find it difficult to not write about it. But it's crap that's just too personal to put out there for God-only-knows-who might stumble upon this website while doing a google search for "Duckfoot Leafis."

This aforementioned friend suggested that I just tell some childhood stories. Many people who read this weblog are those who know me quite well and have no doubt heard the story of Magic Raisins. But i am going to tell it anyway.

When I was a little kid, my mom only let us have sugar on holidays. And our school lunches consisted of a glob of gelatinous grape jelly and a smear of peanut butter on whole wheat, a brown-spotted mushy banana, a thermos (which perpetually had a hint of mildew smell to it) full of New Castle tap water, and a box of Sunmaid raisins.

Every day at lunch during third grade, I would look around the room and see happy kids with Little Debbie StarCrunches, Twinkies, Ho Hos, Hostess Blueberry Pies....peanut butter and fluff on white bread...even now, the envy pulses with hot blood through my veins....but onward with the story.

My desk was next to the desk of my friend Amy Seng. Amy was one of the Lucky Ones. On occasion, I had spent the night at Amy's, and I had scoped out her mom's pantry: a veritable Mecca of tasty snacks and treats, all individually wrapped in their boxes, waiting for their turn in Amy's lunchbox. Every single day, I was forced to hear the crinkle of that plastic wrapping as she opened her StarCrunch, her Butterscotch Krimpets, her Ding Dong. And with every crinkle, my heart would sink a little deeper into my stomach, and a stronger loathing for little red boxes of Sunmaid Raisins would invade my being.

Maybe it's universal, but in my school, kids would trade snacks. Lunchtime would come and the classroom became Wallstreet of Treats; a red ticker tape going across the top of the chalkboard, the kids clamouring to make the best trade. There was an unspoken hierarchy; everyone knew who had the best snacks. In the hierarchy, I was a pariah. So much so, that while other kids proudly splayed out the contents of their lunch boxes all over their desk, I hid mine in my lunchbox, furtively taking bites and then stuffing the shameful thing back into it's place next to Mildew Thermos.

One day, I could take no more. I was so overcome with a lust for a Little Debbie StarCrunch that my judgement was impaired, and I blurted out, "Amy! Do you want to trade me your StarCrunch?"

Amy eyed my lunchbox. "Whadya got?"

The hit was hard to my gut. I was instantly overwhelmed with the reality that I had not thought this transaction through. The moment of truth was upon me. What was I thinking? Uh... what'll it be, Amy? A mushy brown banana? Mildew water? A clot of jelly seeping through stale bread? or a box of raisins?

The seemingly lesser of all the evils, the box of raisins was the only option that was even utterable at that point. I put on my poker face. I couldn't back down now. "I got these raisins, Amy."

Brace yourself, here it comes.

"Raisins?" she sneered. "Yuck!"

Heads turned to look at us. Stuffed little mouths stopped crunching their chips to hear.

Shitskies,as Dad would say.

Then, a miracle. A little drop of golden manipulative genius: a thought.

"But Amy...." I moved in closer, as if I was sharing something so intensely personal that we had to be only centimeters apart. I whispered, "These are magic raisins."

"Magic raisins?" queried Amy, picking up the box. "No they're not!"

I knew it wouldn't be easy. I knew it was going to take a little work. I knew I had to kick it up a notch.

"They are. They're magic." I reached for the raisins. "And you know what? I want them back."

I took the box. I dramatically closed my eyes and popped a raisin into my mouth. I let the power of the magic raisin take me away. When I opened my eyes, I saw that Amy had been watching me with rapt attention.

"Can I try one?" she pleaded, obviously moved by the magical experience I had just had.

"No. These are my magic raisins. I changed my mind. I don't want to trade, ever. Never!"

Um, was this really going to work?

"Please! Just let me try one!" she begged. "I'll trade you my StarCrunch!"

I cannot believe this! Score! Bring it on home, baby. Close the deal!

"I don't want a StarCrunch. They're not magic," I said, with a new confidence that this was going exactly where I wanted it to go.

"Please! I will give you my StarCrunch and my Fritos."

"Well..." I paused, furrowing my brow to show the internal conflict this was causing.

"Just this once," I aquiesced. "But only because you are such a good friend. I will trade you."

Amy quickly made the trade. My magic raisins for her glorious, coveted StarCrunch--and Fritos on top of that! How lucky could a girl get?

Actually, a girl could get even luckier, as I was to find out the next day. Every single day, at Amy's insistence, she would trade anything remotely good in her lunch box for my magic raisins. It was an incredible rest of the year. I felt a little guilty about the transaction, but only until I bit into the sugary goodness of whatever Amy had brought to school that day. Besides, she seemed happy enough. She swore she could taste and feel the magic, and I wasn't about to press the issue by asking about details, for fear that the precarious racket would disintegrate.

I enjoyed the fruits of my manipulative and conniving behavior until I went through a very unusually intense stage of being overcome with guilt about all of my sins to the point of near hyperventilation, at which point I confessed, crying, asking Amy to please forgive me for being so wicked. That was not before I had consumed months and months worth of the Seng's hard-earned supply of treats for their daughter's lunchbox.

One day in the future, the Seng family very well may open their door to find an anonymous truckload of Hostess and Little Debbie snacks delivered to them. As restitution. If they do, I'll let you know. . .