Wednesday, October 26, 2005

The fat lady weeps

A great teacher and poet died last week. Call him professor, call him poet laureate, call him husband and father, call him friend. I called David Citino my mentor and inspiration, and I'm immensely sad knowing that he's gone from this world.

True, his words live on, but that's little consolation for those who long to sit with him, watching those coke bottle glasses bent over a poem, pencil ticking off the extra words, stripping it down to simplicity. Or to hear him laugh, burst into song. All of us were very blessed.

Sunday, October 16, 2005

Where's the beef?

There is a raging debate going on in our little sage house this weekend: if a meatloaf is made with chicken and turkey (as opposed to beef, pork, or veal), can it still be called meatloaf? I say yes, especially since the recipe it started from calls it meatloaf, and it is an enormous loaf of ground meat, eggs, french bread crumbs, onions, garlic, pepper, cheese, and thyme.

One would hardly call it chirkey loaf.

Whatever the case, it's delicious. So were the roasted brussel sprouts and carrots. Maybe I'll go have some for brunch RIGHT NOW.

Friday, October 14, 2005

Passion, fruit, tea

I don't often babble about the behavior in New York grocery stores because it is generally so dismal that I just go home and grunt into my pillow. Now and then the cashier speaks at Waldbaums, and the cheery bees at Trader Joe's are always abuzz with joy, but the rest of them, bah. They hate us, and it shows. The nitwits who staff Fairway are the worst.

Lucky for me, there's now a stunning alternative: Whole Foods. Let's just say I am in love, with every smiling, helpful person, with every perfect piece of produce, the honeycrisps and sugar pumpkins, the leeks and carrots I could buy individually, with the enormous stash of tea, the aromas, the floors, the whole damn heavenly place.

Oh, damn the prices. I'm going back, again and again.

Tuesday, October 11, 2005

Mister Softee rides again

All summer long, I was tortured by the tinkling notes of the Mister Softee jingle. The truck would creep up and down the streets of my little neighborhood, and despite the $8 in my sweaty little hand, would never make it to my particular street.

But then it did. "Deedle-dee-dee, dee-dee-dee-dee, dee dee dee Mister Softee," and I went racing down the driveway, sandals askew, to wave down a hot and stinky truck. It was late August, hot and humid, and the sprinkles on my husband's sundae melted into my hands and shirt before I reached the pool. Still, it was wicked, joyful, and sweet.

Every few days, I ran to greet the truck, quickly switching from ice cream to milkshakes, which keep better, and are especially yummy if you ask the driver to mix in a real banana (as opposed to processed banana flavoring).

Eventually, though, I tired of spending $8/day on stuff that was only making my blood sugar go up. And so I put my hands over my ears, or busied myself chopping garlic when the truck sauntered by, even pausing at the end of my driveway several days. "Once a week," I vowed.

So it was double torture when Mister Softee decided to step it up. Not only did he come by between 3 and 4 each afternoon, he began doubling back at NIGHT! Not 7:30 or 8, but at 9:30, when all good children should be sound asleep in the their beds, and not wandering the streets in search of soft serve. And lately, he has been bumbling down the street, deedly-deeing away, after 10 o'clock.

Methinks Mister Softee needs Mister Sominex.