Gather 'round whipper snappers and let me tell you where I was when the great Queue of 0'10 hit. I had just finished a day of walking uphill backwards to lug buckets for my monthly bath when out of the sky came a shooting star. It fell next to my shoe-less feet, with a light ten times brighter than the hot coals that I read my single piece of parchment paper by at night. It was the queue, and I'll never forget that moment. I moved my hand-made hat out of my way because I didn't believe my eyes. It was at that point that I learned to appreciate my spoonfull of potato soup, except it was a rock that looked like a potato, mixed with bath water.