Last weekend’s Groundhog party/convention/reduction was exceptional, in large part because of the effort of our pledges. They kicked things off very well, presenting the female elders with corsages — something that’s never before been done. Fred’s efforts with making rutabagas edible were well-received. After stinking up the house while experimenting with fries (which we tried — not bad…), chips and juices, he settled on rutabaga fritters, one with a traditional cornmeal breading — those were a little iffy, because you could still taste rutabaga — and a parmesan-garlic fritter, which covered up the rutabaga taste very nicely, especially if you dipped it into some of the apple-pepper jelly he whipped up as a side. They both wrote songs for the reduction, and everyone was appreciative of their efforts, if not the results. And they let their creative juices flow on the written exam, coming up with answers that may not have been, um, correct, but clearly highlighted what they were ready to bring to the table. Remember when I said they were both Pledge Of The Year material? The elders granted them co-POY status, another first.

Why rutabagas? Umm, it’s a thing with us.

Their performance at the burrow more than made up for their arrival, which was delayed by the fact that they missed their exit by, oh, about 45 miles. See, Ethel was taking a nap on the ride up from Columbus, and Fred got himself a little distracted by the radio broadcast of the Ohio State-Purdue game, which turned into the Bucks’ first road conference win of the season. By the time Ethel woke up, they were near Ashland and had to double back. But once they arrived, we found that Ethel could make a passable vodka martini and that both could hang well past their usual bedtimes, if they had enough time to rest up beforehand.

We also found the joys of Jager Bombs — a healthy shot of Jagermeister dumped into a half-can of Red Bull. At least, I discovered this over the weekend … good and good for you.

The final revelation was the tentative proclamation by Secretary Sal that next year, the men would be responsible for all the cooking. On the surface, that’s not a big deal — many of us, especially Fred, our newest male hog, are adept in the kitchen. But we also tend to hit the various elixirs a bit harder than our female counterparts, something we’re going to have to deal with as we prepare dinner and breakfast. Shouldn’t be a big deal … I got that breakfast burrito thing down, yo.

When I get home tonight, The Wife and I are going to discuss a weekday vacation to Snowshoe, down in West Virginny … they have a special, two nights, two days of skiing, $99 per person. The fact that The Wife actually sounded like she thought it was a good idea is reassuring — she told my parents about the skiing thing over the weekend — they have been pestering her for years — and she got enough positive reinforcement that I think she wants to keep it up.

I think for Valentine’s Day I’m going to get The Wife one of those nipple-sun-things Janet Jackson was wearing for the Super Bowl. She’ll love it. Or maybe not.