"What's he doing now?"

"Running around in his skivvies, shouting, "I'm a squid, I'm a squid."

- The tail end of a conversation I once overheard

REAL MEN DON'T EAT QUICHE....

...ESPECIALLY WITH PEANUT BUTTER

Author's note: I wrote this while I was in Bosnia doing wonderful things for God, Country and Uncle Sam (or something like that).

Last week I scored some peanut butter up in Zagreb (Croatia). I had been prattling on and on about my need for peanut butter for the better part of three weeks, I had even gone so far as to venture out on midnight raids of the camp kitchen; intent on a daring theft of a jar of Skippy. Each raid was aborted because of the presence of Kitchen Trolls in the target area.

The Kitchen Trolls, btw, were those Multinational soldiers who lurked in the kitchen at very late and odd hours and were never seen in the daylight (hence their pale skin and Golum-like features). They were incredibly rude and were more than likely responsible for our steady (read constant) diet of carrots as our only vegetable.

After much rejoicing and cheering from my Multinational colleagues, (no doubt pleased to hear me stop sniveling about peanut butter in the first place) I decided to celebrate this event by swiping some pineapple cake from the kitchen after dinner.

Chuffed beyond all belief, I returned to our TV/Crew room and made ready my small feast. My two Brit colleagues watched aghast as I generously smeared Skippy all over my pineapple cake cheerfully whistling I all the while.

"Well, they're just British," I thought. "They just don't know a good thing when it is smack-dab in front of them. I mean, look at how badly they have corrupted Baseball...who would name a sport after an insect?"

Finally, the moment had arrived. All was prepared. The feast was about to begin...Unable to stand the anticipation any longer I took a bite....

...and immediately spit out day old omelet covered in peanut butter. "That isn't pineapple cake!" I cried.

Bob smiled at me prettily and managed to keep her face straight just long enough to say, in her very proper British, "No, Patrick. What you have just put peanut butter all over is quiche." Then she collapsed to the floor in fits of laughter; tears rolling down her cheeks while our cats stared at her as if she had gone mad.

Aftermath:

I was horribly scarred by this event, but have yet to prove to the VA that I suffer from 'Post-Traumatic Quiche and Women Named Bob Syndrome'. The letters continue, however.

The cats seemed to like the quiche and quickly became addicted to peanut butter. Soon, members of my section were making regular runs to Croatia for peanut butter, just to keep the damn things happy.

Bob teased me unmercifully for the rest of her time there; often leaving day old omelet presents in my 'infobox' with cheerful yellow sticky pad notes attached to them. She also kidnapped my jar of peanut butter and left me ransom notes.

I never paid it; 'don't give in to terrorism' is a motto that has served my country well. I did put her on my 'favored nation' list, however.

The Kitchen Trolls never learned about this incident, which is good; they probably would have offered me some carrots to go with it.