While the optimist struggled to defend herself, I scrambled to think of an answer to what had obviously becomea trick question. How often are you asked what you love in this world? More important, how often are you askedand then publicly ridiculed for your answer? I recalled my mother, ushed with wine, pounding the table lateone night, saying, "Love? I love a good steak cooked rare. I love my cat, and I love . . ." My sisters and I leanedforward, waiting to hear our names. "Tums," our mother said. "I love Tums.