Amazon Category:  Humor Publisher: PublishAmerica ISBN-10:  1588519791 Type: Fiction Pages: 187 Copyright: Jan 29 2001 In Serving Gravy with a Slotted Spoon, the author takes an ordinary event and gives it a humorous twist to tell an anecdote, mostly lampooning herself and her husband, Hal. Subjects covered concern a hypothetical investing fortune--and loss, forgetfulness (my brain's out for breakfast and isn't back yet), the refrigerator that's too full to close, the brush, floss and rinse diet, egg on the floor, water saving toilets, chocolate battles and the Mother's Day lottery, Serving Gravy will teach you how to understand Martians, a surefire method to open a pickle jar, illegal behavior on the computer, info about the length of a candle wick, the importance of being #1, significant facts about exercise and will allow you to laugh for no reason at all. Excerpt Okay, you already know that Hal likes to shop--often. He buys everything he sees and more of it than he should. Just imagine for a moment that Hal bought potatoes on Monday, then again on Tuesday and Wednesday, and as a result, there was an overly abundant supply of potatoes. Then the next week, he repeated the procedure, forgetting he had bought potatoes--several times--the previous week. Remember the new stainless steel flatware with 12 place settings? When that was put into the appropriate drawer, the old had to be put somewhere else. I opened a cabinet to do just that and thought it had sprung a leak! There was liquid coming out of it. My first impulse was to close the door and run--so I did. I opened the door again. This time I remembered one of the reasons I closed the door quickly on the first round. It was because of the odor! It definitely was not perfume. Research revealed this was the cabinet in which the potatoes were stored. Some of the potatoes had gotten, shall we say, "ripe." TWO CHAPTERS FROM SERVING GRAVY WITH A SLOTTED SPOON Hiding Hal and I have been married so long each of us knows what the other is thinking before either one ever has the thought--and we delight in interjecting our opinions onto the thoughts of the other. We can look at each other and either nod or say "yes" or "no" or "I believe you misunderstood what you thought I was thinking because I wasn't thinking the thoughts you seem to think I was." Even when we deviate from the norm with our extra-marital affairs of volunteer work, shopping sprees, computer addictions and cleaning obsessions, we're still usually on the same page--except for the time when I decided to hide under the desk. I may be working in the office, cleaning the bathroom, on a ladder painting or something else that is interesting and absorbing to me, and Hal will be in the kitchen. Suddenly, I hear him calling--with urgency. Despite the fact that I know him well, there is always the possibility he really needs me this time. Probably the sky was falling and his hands were full--so he needed help. So far, however, the sky hasn't fallen; Hal has simply thought of something he wanted to say to me. Instead of going to where I was, he called for me to go to where he was. Sometimes I don't mind--and sometimes I do. Today I did. He called several times. Wanting to add some spice to my otherwise predictable life, I chose to ignore him. I decided to let him look for me. Soooo, in my infinite humorous wisdom, I crawled under the desk and pulled the chair in to hide me. I could visualize his accepting the fact that I was not going to him so he would look for me. He would walk through our home, calling me. He would be flabbergasted. I'm not the type to disappear. He would look on the balcony, on the landing and keep walking and calling. Well, I thought this was so funny I nearly split a seam laughing. Remember my cramped space--and the fact I had forgotten to visit the bathroom before crawling under the desk. These factors made it difficult to laugh--silently--without an accident. When Hal did not come looking for me, and I decided to make myself miraculously appear, my legs didn't understand the message my brain was sending because I couldn't quite get them untangled. Bear in mind I had been folded up under the desk for several minutes. The desk was only 22 inches deep to begin with--and not very wide. In addition, there was the chair to contend with. In the first place, it was not one with rollers--and it didn't want to be pushed on the carpet. I wasn't in much of a position to negotiate with it, and I certainly didn't want Hal to see me in my compromising position. My legs continued to defy me and refused to unfold themselves. They were, if you'll allow me to say it, stiff. It occurred to me that Hal had probably eaten dinner, gone out for a walk, had met friends and might not be back for two or three hours. Or worse yet, he might have sat down in one of the comfortable rocker/swiver chairs on the deck and gone to sleep. When he woke, if this were the case, he would go directly to bed and wouldn't be sufficiently awake to know if I was in bed or not--or even alive. I was beginning to feel uncomfortable. Suddenly the situation that held such mgnificent humor a few minutes earlier, no longer did. My desire at this point was to get me out of the present predicament. I didn't care if I had to crawl under the chair--although that was distinctly not an option. There was, indeed, a chair--but for me to crawl under it was not going to happen. I felt an overwhelming need to escape from my hiding place before Hal caught me there. Can you imagine a 68-year old woman hiding under the desk--playing hide and seek with her husband who doesn't even know she's hiding or that he's supposed to seek? Can you imagine my distress when I realized my mind-reading skills had failed, and I learned that Hal was sitting on the deck reading a book? BOX OF CHOCOLATES It was a difficult nine days. However, I persevered, was diligent, faithful, persistent, kept my nose to the grindstone--and now I'm proud to tell you I've been triumphant. The chocolates are gone! Finished, devoured, extinct, caput. They are now on my hips, tummy and thighs. The three-pound box of chocolates now weighs 23 1/2 pounds on me--and mostly in one blob. Next time, I'm going for the gusto and eat all of them at once! There was not one unlikeable chocolate in the box. I hid the box, put it in a high place that was next to impossible to reach. I had to get the step stool each time the chocolate urge hit--which was often. Getting it was a pain in the neck, so I just put the chocolates on the kitchen counter to keep them handy--after I made every possible effort to forget about them--and even went to the extreme of filling my time with meaningful activities. Still, in the end (sorry about the pun), I overcame all obstacle and persisted until every chocolate was gone. The clothes that I already had difficulty fastening around me now chuckled out loud as soon as I touched them to consider their wear ability. The few items that did make it totally around the challenging middle looked like a tent. There's an expression that "What goes around still fits." Not much of my wardrobe fell into that category. The three-pound box of chocolates that translated itself to 23 1/2 pounds after entering my body had, and has, no redeeming grace. There is absolutely nothing good that can be said about chocolate. Many people are allergic to chocolate. Some cannot handle the calcium that's in the chocolate. All are transformed by the chocolate. Chocolate is a drug--different in design from cocaine and others of that ilk; nonetheless, it's a drug. It's addictive and harmful to health. It causes muscle cramps and headaches. It's instrumental in the development of kidney stones. Everyone knows it, like nothing else, lives up to its full potential of satisfying the moment and multiplying thereafter forever more. When I eat chocolate, I ask myself, "What's in it for me?" Along about the fifth piece, I realize the answer is 84 pounds. Still, there's the federal law that kicks in big time. It states something to the effect that if a box of chocolates is in a room, it's better to eat every piece in one day and see how much fat can be added to one's bulk rather than to spread them out over several days--because the same bulk, or more, will be added with the same or less pleasure--assuming you live until the next day to enjoy the pleasure. Since there are uncertainties in life about whether or not anyone will be around tomorrow and about the lifetime effect of chocolate if spread out over several days or weeks, it's best to consume the entire box--cardboard and all--as quickly as possible and enjoy the sure thing.

Serving Gravy with a Slotted Spoon
Freda has a style that permeates and makes the reader anticipate. Freda's the Erma Bombeck of St. Petersburg. This collection of anecdotes is the written equivalent of enjoying coffee with a good friend. I giggled a lot and enjoyed the book because of the short stories. Where do I start? Actually my favorite was the beginning--hiding and the A Double S. I read it in one night

Serving Gravy with a Slotted Spoon
Freda Ward has the unique gift to see the humor in everyday life. I really loved reading it. Freda writes on subjects relevant to all of us Her warmth, wit and infectious personality exuded from every page. The book is definitely a pick-me-upper. My husband began reading Serving Gravy and laughed aloud. I seldom hear him do that. So I took time to read parts of it. It is hilarious! Every wife and mother can relate to Freda's writing. She has a speciala gift that enables her to see the funny side of life, even in stressful situations.

Serving Gravy with a Slotted Spoon
Freda writes with warmth and humor on topics ranging from computers to chocolate. The book is wise, witty and wonderful. From the first laugh-out-loud paragraph, Freda Ward will delight the readers with a wry, gentle humor. Make room for a new star. Serving Gravy is a humorous but realistic slanted look on life. I started reading Serving Gravy at lunch today and laughed so loud someone came to see why. It was the juicy potatoes. You've taken life's little foibles and embarrassing moments and with a conspiratorial candor, confessed to the crime. Quick publish another book. Freda refers to God as female. Does she know something we don't?