The air reeked when we opened our car doors in the parking lot. There were no vampires to be seen. Another restaurant had gone viral with garlic.

America is a nation that shuns subtlety and abhors moderation. Therefore, when it comes to garlic, ten cloves are perceived to be better than one.

My husband and I have been patiently waiting for the “garlic in everything” phase of American restaurant dining to pass. It’s not, in fact, it seems to be picking up steam or perhaps stink would be a better word.

I have been accused of being a garlic-hater; I am not. But I am against the excessive and pervasive use of the stinking onion.

Garlic is a culinary sledgehammer. Improperly used, it will mask every other flavor in a dish. Perhaps garlic cloves should come with little stick-on warning labels that read, “Caution, use with extreme care”.

Indulge me in one last tirade. People who have just consumed over three garlic cloves should not be allowed on airplanes unless they wear a Hazmat suit.

Flying isn’t a picnic. It’s an exercise in humiliation, subjugation and punishment.

I am not complaining about the screening process. Boarding a plane with a bomb, knife or gun toting fellow flyer is not high on my list of things to do. Walking barefoot and being x-rayed or patted down are acceptable alternatives to having the mad bomber as a seat mate.

My complaints begin after the screening process. All the American carriers (I think we have about 3 left) are trying to make us as MISERABLE AS POSSIBLE so we will buy our way out of their sadistic tricks.

For example, my husband and I forevermore will be the last passengers on the plane. I never check luggage preferring a small carry on that fits under the seat. My husband does likewise, but with longer legs he prefers to stow his bag in the overhead.

In case you haven’t flown recently, here is the new boarding order: Platinum members, gold members, silver members and preferred card members, families with small children (that includes 4 and 5 year olds who are perfectly capable of walking if so inclined), passengers with no bags, passengers with bags that fit under the seat and, lastly, passengers that have bags for the overhead compartments. In other words, “we will punish you for not buying premium tickets, paying bag checking fees or purchasing extra leg room, and we do not care how long it takes to board the plane!”

Since I do not give in to blackmail, I’m doomed to steerage, a word I freely use when communicating with the flight attendants.

The poor do not inherit the earth. They don’t inherit the airspace, either.

I am not attracted to guys in canary yellow suits, but some ladies swoon over them. These ladies would be American goldfinches.

I must admit that the entire goldfinch clan had me tricked for many years. Every summer I enjoyed watching these petite birds which resemble flying bursts of sunshine. Every winter when they “disappeared” I assumed they were languishing in the tropics, soaking in the rays.

Then, one winter day, I was watching the action in our feeders and spotted a drab-feathered bird that bore a striking resemblance to a goldfinch but with his technicolor removed. A quick trip to the bird book confirmed that some goldfinches stay year round while others only move far enough to find food. The guys’ breeding plumage just molts and sober colored feathers are worn for winter when their sex lives grind to a complete halt. Seems like I was the birdbrain.

Last week I saw a goldfinch land on one of our feeders, and he was starting to ripen. His yellow wasn’t glowing yet, but he was already a delicate shade of pale yellow.

“There’s hope for spring,” I said to my husband as I pointed out our sexy, little visitor.

In fairness to male goldfinches, I should add that they are not all about show. They are loyal mates who keep watch over their ladies for the six days the females work in midsummer to build their cup shaped nests. Then they feed the future moms for the two weeks that the ladies incubate the eggs. When the eggs hatch, the dads work tirelessly to help feed their offspring. All in all, stand up guys.

Click here to hear their vocalizing and dream of spring.

I just found out that I am part of a cult. For 39 years I have cherished a paperback children’s book called Who Needs Donuts?. Recently, I discovered that many others share my love of this glorious book. The price of a paperback copy on EBay soared to $700 before the book was republished in 2003, thirty years after its initial publication date. Happily back in print, Donuts is affordable once again.

Who Needs Donuts? was written and illustrated by Mark Alan Stamaty who is the son of two cartoonists and a cartoonist himself. His hyperactive pen and ink drawings first appeared in children’s books but have morphed into political cartoons and social commentary.

Who Needs Donuts? is a splendid love story, the perfect book for Valentines Day. A young boy, Sam, dressed in his cowboy outfit, sets out on his tricycle from his suburban home for the exciting big city (New York) to look for donuts….”not just a few but hundreds and thousands and millions- more donuts than his father and mother could ever buy him”. There he meets Mr. Bikferd, a collector of donuts, Pretzel Annie and the sad old woman who speaks the punch line of the book, “Who needs donuts when you’ve got love?”.

Mr. Stamaty explains the genesis of his delightful tale:

The story behind Who Needs Donuts? began in an all-night coffee shop in New York in 1966. I was in art school (Cooper Union). That coffee shop was one of my favorite places to hang out and watch people, sketchbook always at the ready. So on that particular night, there was an old woman who seemed to be asleep, seated at and kind of draped over the counter near the entrance. After a while, a nicely dressed man in a suit and overcoat came in and asked the waitress for two cups of coffee to go. The waitress asked if he’d like donuts with his coffee. “No, thank you,” he replied. Then, suddenly, the old woman lifted her head, pointed at the ceiling and said “That’s right. Who needs donuts when you’ve got love?”

As soon as I heard that, I wrote it in my sketchbook. When I got back to where I was living, I lettered it out on a piece of paper that I hung on my wall. About 5 years later, I was trying to think of something to write a story about and I looked up at that sign on my wall. I’d always wanted to immortalize that line and the old woman, and here was my chance.

I’ll speak like a true cult follower of Donuts……BUY THIS BOOK!

It will make you happy, no donuts necessary. Click on a picture to enlarge.

Privacy is dead. Although my husband and I both value the concept, we realize that technology has assigned privacy to the trash heap of history. The privacy disclosures that we and our fellow Americans frequently encounter are simply absurd exercises in nostalgia.

Two recent incidents illustrate the lunacy of a privacy statement in today’s world. The other night I commented on the severe weather parts of Europe were experiencing. We were heading to bed with a laptop and a Netflick, and I suggested that we briefly check out the weather situation in the Netherlands. Three minutes later we found hundreds of live web cam feeds from all over the continent. “Eerie” is the only word that describes viewing, in real time, strangers in the pre-dawn darkness cautiously driving down their snowy, canal roadsides.

Two days later we were having dinner when my husband said, “The paths I mowed through our prairie grass last summer look good from the sky.” He had been mapping watersheds with Google Earth and had zoomed in on our small piece of the planet. After viewing the stunning detail of these aerial views, I concurred that our mowed walkways do have a lovely flow.

My only response to our brave, new world is to smile. What else can be done when we are all on Candid Camera twenty-four seven?  “Say cheese,” of course.