No food safety dramas for us in Brisbane (unlike those at the cider mill in Kansas, more about that later), but thanks to our Alaskan hockey-playing friend Andy and his family for their annual party.

I decided to go as a hybrid of the two things hockey players hate most — a goaltender and a linesmen (now that I have my stripes) — while Andy opted for the more traditional Jason-approach.

The girls went traditional goth — Amy was a bloody baker while Sorenne had some spider thing going on — and, proving some of my genes did get transmitted down the family line, grandson Emerson went as a robot with a pail oh his head.