I was delighted by the relish tray story ["A Tradition to Relish" by Margi Shrum, Food & Flavor, Nov. 20]. When the PG asked readers to submit "What do you always have at Thanksgiving?" items, the first thing that came to my mind was the olive-and-pickles relish plate my family always had at Thanksgiving -- and almost never had any other time of year. I thought that writing about it would be so, well, "so what" -- that it would be of no interest to anyone else.

As it turns out, the olives-and-pickles must be the "salty little secret" of a lot of other local families! Is this just a Pittsburgh thing? And as in other families, my sister and I snitched olives before the plate made it to the table (I liked green, she liked black and yes, they went on the tips of her fingers first), and I think we had both sweet and dill pickles and tiny sticks of celery.

With the bounty we have now, the relish plate barely warrants more than a passing glance from most at the table but it just isn't Thanksgiving to me without it.

MARYANNE LOEBIG
Point Breeze

Wanted to let you know how much I enjoyed your article "A Tradition to Relish." I grew up in the Steel Valley area and there were not many opportunities to create a "formal" table; however, when the holidays arrived, dinner festivities always included a relish tray. I was the appointed creator of the relish trays, and until I read your article, I thought I was the only person who included cream cheese-stuffed celery sticks! I have continued the tradition and always include a relish tray on my holiday table. Thanks again for the memories!

MARGE PETRAUSKAS
Upper Saint Clair

I think it was highly inappropriate that you had a story about mice in your Sauce column [Nov. 13]. After all, this was the Food & Flavor section, correct? Not only were pictures added for illustration, but also the column described in exquisite detail the demise and disposal of said mouse, as if we were following a prized family recipe. Needless to say, it left a bad taste in my mouth.

SUSAN BOURDON
Ross

When my husband, Robert, caught a mouse in our kitchen, it let him pick it up. He took it outside, put it in the garden, came back in and watched it from the window. After a few seconds, he was astonished to see a hawk come down and grab the mouse. Oh well, he tried.

JO ANN FELLO
Penn Hills

I read with great amusement the column about the mouse. I, too, have a mouse story. My mother, deceased since 2003, was one of those rare gentle souls instinctively trusted by animals, domestic and wild alike. She hand-fed chipmunks on the back porch railing. She fed the Canada geese who habituated our pond each spring and summer. She fed birds and squirrels and bunnies alike.

Our suburban house had never, surprisingly enough, had mice -- until that year.

Of course, when we discovered evidence of the new resident there was dismay but Mom refused to let Dad trap it or poison it (there were no "humane" traps in those days). Still, she didn't want it getting into the pantry or the bread box. Ever practical in an improbable way, she concluded that the only way to control the mouse was to befriend it.

There appeared, next to the dog bowls used by our English setter, a plastic butter tub lid filled with rice, oatmeal, fresh vegetable scraps or whatever she decided a mouse would prefer. Gradually Mouse (we weren't sure of its gender, hence the unisex name) became tame.

Each day after I was off to school and Dad was off to work, Mom would take her morning coffee and breakfast. Mouse took to joining her. She would talk to it, and it would stand on its little haunches and twitch its whiskers as if in reply.

Harriet, the dog, seemed to accept the new addition and never bothered Mouse. Mouse eventually grew bolder with Mom's patient encouragement and would come nearer to her to share their morning chat.

Mom never quite managed to coax it into hand-feeding before it mysteriously disappeared. Family legend has it that it must have died of obesity -- killed with kindness perhaps?

And, thank goodness, it was celibate.

Italy had St. Francis of Assisi; Butler had my Mom, "St. Marion of Meridian."

LEANNE HEATON
Butler

I laughed and went "Oh no!" when I read the mouse tales. Having lived in many 100-year-old homes, we've had much of the same history.

What I remember most about this chilly holiday time of the year is the sentimental children's novel that we read to our four children. "Santa Mouse" was an adorable fellow who wore a flannel nightshirt with floppy slippers and hat with a ball on the end. His bed was an open sardine can with the coil at the top like a headboard. He lived around the Christmas tree and snacked on the goodies.

So if you see the little guy/gal, remember they are only here for a short while and might like some cheese and crackers on a plate and a very small glass of cocoa.

JUDITH AND ROGER BROZ
Monroeville