I think every good recipe has a story, and this one certainly does. If you don't want to hear it, just scroll down to the main attraction. I'll try not to feel rejected.

We live in Florida, so it was inevitable: my husband and I are thinking about buying a boat. (Gas prices are way up! Perfect timing!) Not only do we live in Florida, but we are in the Venice of America -- so called because of all the canals here -- and some people even consider this the boating capital of the world (although those folks haven't traveled much).

My husband is the one to pick apart the newspaper in the morning, and he pointed out an article on the front page of the local section about a group of moms who volunteer to patrol playgrounds in Coral Springs, where we live. "Moms on patrol!" he chanted with mock importance. I offered him a fake smile and started reading.

Knock, knock! Who's there? Neighbor. Neighbor who? What neighbor? I don't see anyone.... Oh, down there! Hello, Man-cub! Yeah, that's a hilarious joke. But probably only if you were there. See, my son has learned to knock on doors. And while watching him push his stroller around in front of our house, he decided to bolt up the driveway of our neighbor and knock on the door.

My husband's parents just got back from a fabulous trip to Europe. They e-mailed my husband a couple of photos of their tour of London and Paris. We looked at the thumbnail images that showed up in our e-mail program. One photo showed his mother and another woman in their bath robes, with a man standing in the middle. "Who are those people?" I asked my husband. "I don't know," he said. "Did your parents go to one of those European baths, where everyone gets naked and sits in the same big pool together?" I asked.