14 thoughts on ““Love At First Bite”

  1. is…’scuse: was. Now, similar treatment for peach cobbler, the peaches reposing frozen since summer but I un-wait: ‘sides, the cinnamon still freshly grated. Notmeg? but-of-course: I’s a spice-hog.

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  2. Some time ago I lost contact with my Mace-pusher: actually, I used it so sparingly I believe the poor people went into piracy instead. At the prices it was hard to differentiate. On trick I swiped for apple, blueberry and peach (in pastry) is to grate fresh cinnamon, nutmeg or other delight onto the bottom shell before filling. Never determined if the ruse worked as I over-sold the device and repeated same – with granulated sugar…or sometimes that crystalline kind which resists melting – on top as well. Never have too little spice – or dessert. I like mine first o’course: asteroids fall anytime and it’s best to be prepared.

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  3. Ahhh, another optimist! A pessimist is one who sees doom and complains. An optimist is one who knows doom is coming and prepares. I license, freely, this remark to fellow preparedness persons. Remember, it ain’t a cleaned plate ’til you’ve licked spoon, fork and, yes, a finger-lick for the plate. Then, on to The Primi!

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  4. Remembered the second-half pomegranite last night to spread seeds over the big salad – vice the bacon-lettuce-tomato sandwiches (how can you have just one) which I will make today…just so’s I can harvest the bacon grease for frying potatoes tonight donchaknow. Declined on adding a hard-cooked egg, cheddar, chicken breast slices…but did break down and tossed in the second-to-last plum tomato…saving that other – plus a mid-size beefsteak ripe-for-East Tennessee for the BLTs. Couldn’t give short shrift to the last game – as it turned out – of our pro baseball’s world Series (lower case World since we don’t invite Japan, Taiwan, Korea, Venezuela, Mexico, et al. to join the fun…though many of their citizens – and Canada among a fair grouping of others play Major League Baseball – munching a thick-breaded and well slathered (in but Butter of course: keep your mayonnaise!) toasted tuscan boule bread with iceberg and red leaf lettuces. Beer and popcorn – again popcorn is God’s excuse as a way to deliver butter to the body – suffice. So, to make things w(holy). well, ecumenical at least, I added a mid-game salad stop. Spearing and shoveling acceptable practices with well-lubricated and salted fingers. The game before this deciding fifth-of-a-possible seven went 7+ hours and 18 vice the usual minimum/maximum 9 innings. Now, I ask you, from an Island where one of its pasttimes – at least South of Hadrian’s Obstruction – may last days, is that Cricket?

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    • I’ve read about days-long “tests” between visiting Brits and Indians and Pakistani sides. Is there that much gin in the world to induce 1.) players to continue; and, 2.) me either to watch or care? Now, Rugby (we sometimes sloshingly so name Ygbur) is on another plane. Once while playing in Far North Florida, Jacksonville to be precise, which is sometimes located inside the Arctic Circle, with a inch of snow covering the night’s earlier sleet-n-near-freezing rain, discussing in-pack as it were with my opposing hooker why we had to play the full 90 minutes and if we just kept the ball in-scrum as it were we could hold out for something saner, say 30-minute halves. Fortunately Pack includes brains, even counting Locks and Wings Forward…and thus we all were Beerside after the half hour total…no halftime, just played until the referee’s watch buzzed at 30.

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      • I know: sounds like a game for barristers and other wearers of bad wigs. But it do keep them off the better bar stools and away from the dive-ier but delicious spots. Alas and alack, our last native Men’s Only national icon bar, McSorley’s in lower Manhattan in an area famous for its dives and drunks, The East(?) Village long since has admitted the fairer sex both as servers and as customers. By now they probably have cleaned off the cobwebs in the upper, middle and lower corners and around the now unused and purely decorative old wooden barrel taps which hold up the walls. Institutions like that should be venerated. In our fair land, because some perversion called Seven-A-Side rugby has left open the barn doors we have sports commentators in both print and electronic media of all types, including the internet, referring to loose rucks and mauls as “scrums,” and now it has leached into the common speech of everyday political types. I must protest: ever since George Washington picked up that round ball being footed about Mount Vernon’s angled-to-The Appalachians pitch, we have lost our marbles (which bewilderingly enough continue to kowtow to Newton and his Statues of Grave-ly ill ties. Poor W.W. Ellis, to have his memory so sullied.


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