Mother Nature is sneaky and she cheats. Consider the misleading world of the mushroom. Add a little Shitake and you have yourself a gourmet omelet. Sprinkle some tasty-looking Death Cap into your breakfast quiche and you're up Shitake creek without a paddle. And don't get me started on pufferfish. Fugu is probably an acronym for "foolish you, go underworld."

Except for the lightning quick reactions of all four of my family members acting in concert (including a sacrificial body block from Brownie), the paper on my gift would have been vaporized. As they struggled, six arms, six legs, and one snout clutching me in a certified police department choke-hold, my father explained that this was a Christmas "DAY" gift and not a Christmas "EVE" gift. Ha, ha. He had no idea who he was dealing with. I poked him in the eye.

Using any sort of traditional measuring stick, it is perfectly reasonable to assume I started out as a savage or at least an amateur heathen. Truthfully, no one could be blamed for judging such a book by its cover. As a five-year-old, I scrupulously avoided baths, carried garden-quality dirt behind my ears, and spent inordinate amounts of time hiding among bushes and shrubbery. To say my normal state of being was rustic would be a vulgar redundancy.