I Know I Was Never Any Good at Math, But ....

OK. Wrap your brains around this one.

As of Saturday, five of my seven cats are the same age as I am.

That's right. Henry, Sammy, Nettie, CJ and Koko who were born on July 24, 2002, turned eight (my how time flies) which makes them the equivalent of 49 human years old. *

Yeah, I know that most people subscribe to that one-year-in-dog-years-equals-seven-human-years stuff. But it doesn't work that way for cats. I'm not even sure it's really true for dogs. It's a complicated and intricate system that's equates to something like 15 human years to a cat's first year, seven or eight years the second year and four years for every year after that.

The part that truly amazes me is how gracefully my cats wear their advancing years. Now that we are the "same" age, I have to admit, they are aging way better than I am.

For example, they can still easily jump six feet and balance themselves on the narrow edge of a doortop as if it were nothing. I can't do that -- I couldn't even when I was eight!

And they are all still so good-looking. For the most part they have kept their lithe figures (well, not all of them. Yes, Ernie, I am talking about you, my love.) with thick, rich glossy coats without a speck of grey. Wish I could say the same.

How do they do it? Maybe it's the 18+ hours of sleep they get every day. On a good night I get about six and a half hours. If I'm lucky, that is.

Maybe, it's because they live totally sans souci. Why should they have worries? They have me to look after their every need and tell them how special, wonderful and beautiful they are 24/7. Hmmmmm. Could be something to that.

Any takers?

* Actually depending on which calculator you use the range for a eight-year-old cat is anywhere from 48-50 years. But then it's pretty common for all of us who are nearing the big 5-0 to fudge a year or so here and there isn't it?

A Trip to the Farmer's Market

The heat and humidity aside, there are some aspects of a Southern summer that I love. Fresh home-grown produce is among them.

While I usually spend my weekends sleeping in, sun-ripened tomatoes and sweet milky corn on the cob are well worth rolling out of bed early for on a hot Saturday in July.

The colors, smells, tastes, even the sounds, of a farmer's market entice me no matter where I am. I seek them out when I travel as well as on my own turf.

Hattiesburg's old-fashioned indoors farmer's market is a step back into time and Southern manners. Everyone greets me and asks how I am before getting down to the business of ... business. Tastes are offered. There's lots of commiserating about the weather.

Yesterday's haul: perfect unblemished eggplants, weirdly shaped yellow, green and red tomatoes, amber honey from Mississippi hives, a bottle of pepper vinegar, six ears of sweet golden corn, still in their husks (the seller politely offers to shuck them for free), and a dense, lemony homemade pound cake. "Child, that thunderstorm yesterday rolled in right when I put these in the oven, so you let me know how it turned out," the lady tells me. Delicious!

Back home, the eggplant was salted, cubed and cooked down to an ugly (yet flavorful) mush with olive oil, crushed garlic cloves and some thyme and oregano from my herb garden. Some of the tomatoes were sliced and slow-roasted with olive oil, salt and thyme and tossed -- along with the eggplant mush, slivers of fresh basil and more olive oil -- into hot pasta.

Tonight the rest of tomatoes will be sliced and topped with more fresh basil, blue cheese nuggets, prosciutto and vinaigrette for dinner. The menu will be rounded out by corn sauteed in a nugget of sweet butter and just a smidgen of bacon grease.

I'm already looking forward to next Saturday! Imagine the possibilities.

(The tomato salad was way prettier -- and yummier -- than it looks in this photo).

So What Do You Get Cats For Their Birthdays?

Yesterday, I received seven birthday cards in the mail. Which threw me a little because my birthday isn't for three months.

On the other hand, my sister's birthday was yesterday. I wondered if some of our family members and/or mutual friends had gotten us confused again . It happens. Then I saw the cards were all from PetSmart. And they were addressed to Henry, Sammy, Nettie, CJ, Koko, Ernie and Roxie.

Is it that time again already?

What do you get cats for their birthdays?

The obvious presents -- kitty condos, catnip toys, scratching posts -- have all been done before. Over and over.

The not-so-obvious gifts: electronic, self-scooping litter boxes, grooming sets, water fountains, well, those have been done, too.

There's always the practical route. But I wouldn't want flea medicine or laxatives (even beef or tuna-flavored) for my birthday. Why would they?

The most unpopular birthday gift to date? According to Henry, Sammy, Koko, Nettie and CJ, that would be July 24, 2005, when Ernie came to be their birthday present/little brother. Henry is still pissed at me about it.

None of which solves my current dilemma. But I still have a few weeks to mull it over. Since PetSmart included some birthday coupons with the cards, whatever I get probably will come from there.

Any ideas?

Andrew Jackson Slept Here (And So Did I*)

"I'm sorry, but breakfast will be late this morning," the hostess at The Cottage Plantation informed us as we enjoyed the misty morning view from the main building's back veranda. "It's going to take a little while to get this skinned and into the pot."

"This" turned out to be a raccoon that got busted in the night while trying to steal the plantation cats' food, and now sat regarding us calmly, if inquisitively, from the confines of an animal trap.

Much to all the guests' (and the prisoner's) relief, 'coon really wasn't on the menu and we were all soon sitting down to a full Southern breakfast of eggs, bacon, grits, biscuits with homemade jam and fresh blueberries in the formal dining room, while the captive 'coon (who was actually damned good company) was transported to the surrounding woods and set free.

So began the 4th of July -- with life, liberty and pursuit of happiness -- just like our forefathers promised us.

The Cottage Plantation in St. Francisville, La., is not quite as old as our Nation, but comes close. The original four-room cottage was built in the last decade of the 18th century. And while George Washington never slept here, another future President, Andrew Jackson, did stay a while on his way back to Natchez from the Battle of 1812.

While the term "plantation" calls to mind a certain grandeur, The Cottage is really more of a really nice, if genteelly shabby, farmhouse. Unlike a neighboring plantation, Rosedown, which underwent a multi-million renovation some years ago, the historic sections of The Cottage wear a slightly worn mantle of benign neglect.

This was a little like staying in your grandmother's house, if your grandmother was a Southern aristocrat who lost her money long ago.

It was certainly a cut above my accommodations during my last trip to St. Francisville as a Girl Scout 40 years ago. Then, I had to cook my own dinner over a campfire and sleep in a screened tent with a bunch of other pre-pubescent girls. Here, I was served in-room coffee in demitasse cups with fresh-cut flowers on a silver tray.

When in St. Francisville, you tour a lot of plantation homes. In addition to The Cottage, I also caught tours at the much-fancier Rosedown, where I was charmed by a nest of resident baby barn swallows, and The Myrtles, America's most haunted house.

Other than that it was lots of good Louisiana cooking, a ferry ride across the False River to Cajun country and the scenic route home through fields and fields of sugar cane, eating boiled peanuts while smelling 4th of July barbecue roasting over dozens of roadside pits.

All in all, it was the perfect 4th.

*But not at the same time.