The dinner our tiny village held to honour Clara, our Olympic athlete, began at 5 p.m. last night.

I hadn't eaten much for lunch because the meal we'd be eating was lasagna which is normally pretty rich and filling.

The speeches were mercifully short and funny. Clara's reply thanking everyone for the gifts (which included this painting of the road that goes past both our homes) was just perfect. I could feel the first faint pangs of hunger tugging at my tummy as she sat down.

Mmmmmmmm. Lasagna. Mmmmmmmm.

I sipped my beer. I made small talk to the woman on my right about her chickens, her horse, impending visits from her grandchildren and how all the rain we were having was drowning our gardens. There was much commiserating about the sorry state of tomatoes.

I glanced at my watch. 6 p.m. No sign of lasagna. Hunger mounting.

Almost everyone who lives in this village turned out, which means our teensy little hotel had about 50 souls in the dining room. Most nights you're lucky to see six people in this room.

Uh oh. It crossed my mind that maybe this crowd was more than the kitchen could handle.

I glanced at my watch. 6:20. Clara had brought her medal from Salt Lake City for everyone to see and it came to our table. There was much medal fondling but all too soon I had to give up that diversion. Hunger pangs were no longer tugging at my tummy, they were now kicking it so hard I seriously considered auditioning the pangs for the Canadian soccer team.

To take my mind off the agony, I made small talk with my nephew, sitting to my left. We bemoaned the fact that neither of us is working out as much as we should. We talked about upcoming projects. I ordered another beer. Two beers for me on a completely empty stomach are too much.

I glanced at my watch. 6:40. No sign of lasagna.

I began eyeing my other table mates, wondering if any of them would notice if I casually began to gnaw on one of their limbs. I decided they might.

7:00 p.m. That second beer was working its magic. I was on the point of convincing myself that my table mates might not mind the gnawing, that they might actually enjoy the diversion from their own hunger, when the lasagna appeared.

Talk about your nick of time, eh. Five innocent people came way, way too close to being hors d'oeuvres.

Know what? I'm thinking there might be some truth to that old clich� "you are what you eat". I've decided that next time I go to one of these things, I'm NOT going to eat shark the night before.

That's a promise.

--Marn