Times Three

Margy and I drove out to the country for our pal Ads's party, where the penne and sausage and peppers were in no short supply.

There was lots of good food, including corn and cucumber salad and ingenious little pretzel chips that I couldn't stop eating, even after the key lime pie.

Now, it should be noted that Ads has triplets, age almost-three. It should also be noted that Ads and his wife have basically fallen into a whole triplet community, where everything is times three, and that four triplet families were represented at the party. (Actually, five families were represented, but one couple was savvy enough to ditch the trips and come alone.)

Basically, Ads's penned-in back yard was like a triplet ghetto -- the place was lousy with kids who look alike, not to mention parents who exist in a permanent state of befuddlement. Had all the offspring been smart enough, they could have staged a revolution... and won.

But everyone, nontriplets included, had fun. The kids jumped on a trampoline, the parents drank beer and listened to disco. As night fell, a pickup band struck up in the garage. Ah, the country.