Please No

Food Themed iPhone Cases
Need I elaborate? People, get a grip!

Trophy Smophy!

From JAF/MSMINY (Main Sandwich Man In New York)
Best Sandwiches in the USA

I doubt the list is accurate, but it’s interesting that your hometown is listed as the home to the best sandwich in the USA.

The Bayou Bakery Muffaletta

You know when you call someone on their cell and they have not recorded a message? (Of course they don’t pick up. How last century, Mr. Bell.) The phone says, “You have reached <insert stiff enunciation of the person you have called name’s> here.” Did you know you don’t have to say your name? Of course you know that, or you would if you thought about it. But who thinks about this stuff? Oh, for heaven’s sakes, let’s just get on with it, right? Right. Buuurreeep! Wrong. You have missed an opportunity – an opportunity, people! – to make the world a better place. One teensy step, people.

Let me paint the picture. My friend Janie teaches voice. Presumably her students think about their, ahem, voice when recording. Recording anything apparently. She called her favorite student. Don’t tell anyone she has a favorite. We ALL like everyone equally, do we not? Riiiight. No answer. He’s busy, man, everyone likes him. And why wouldn’t they? His cell phone picks up and says, “You have reached the best person in the world!”

He says he’s the best and I take his word for it. We all get a trophy if we take one. Put yourself atop a trophy doing whatever you do best. Whatever YOU say you do best.  I believe you.

Jean Shin sees you. At your best. Look closely, people.

The Stuff/Staff of Life

Just add water.

Supposably. I don’t believe it. Not one shred of it. What became of the pig, the dirt, the water, the time, the life-taking, the blood, the cutting, the HAM?

Just add bread.

Reading Hemingway

by James Cummins

Reading Hemingway makes me so hungry,

for jambon, cheeses, and a dry white wine.

Cold, of course, very cold. And very dry.

Reading Hemingway makes some folks angry:

the hip drinking, the bitter pantomime.

But reading Hemingway makes me hungry

for the good life, the sun, the fish, the sky:

blue air, white water, dinner on the line . . .

Had it down cold, he did. And dry. Real dry.

But Papa had it all, the brio, the Brie:

clear-eyed, tight-lipped, advancing on a stein . . .

Reading Hemingway makes me so hungry,

I’d knock down Monsieur Stevens, too, if I

drank too much retsina before we dined.

(Too old, that man, and way too cold. And dry

enough to rub one’s famished nerves awry,

kept talking past the kitchen’s closing time!)

Reading Hemingway makes me so hungry . . .

And cold, of course. So cold. And very dry.

“Reading Hemingway” by James Cummins, from Portrait in a Spoon. © University of South Carolina Press, 1997.

Brag Mama Brag

My sister Mara, the brilliant historian, knows where to go and what to do and who to see and what to eat in DC. And I don’t mean the usual thing. She has no interest in the usual thing.

Mara is at work on an Anacostia Heritage Trail, for Cultural Tourism DC (www.culturaltourismdc.org). The trail will tell the neighborhood’s stories, including the pre-Civil War Uniontown, St. Elizabeths Hospital, the post-Civil War Freedmen’s village, Frederick Douglass, Barry Farm Dwellings (built during World War II), and much more, on 19 illustrated signs. In July Mara and colleague Jane Freundel Levey were in the neighborhood siting the signs when they stopped for lunch at Mama’s Kitchen.

When she found  Mama’s Kitchen at the corner of Maple View Place and Martin Luther King Jr. Avenue, SE, in Anacostia, she was looking for a little lunch.  The usual thing looked likely. She found treasure instead. PAYDIRT!

A few weeks later we met at Mama’s Kitchen for lunch. One of the owners, Musa Ulusan, sat down with us. Fatma Nayir, Mama, and Musa’s partner, was behind the counter shaping the wonderfully chewy handmade bread that carries all the sandwiches and pizzas.

Originally from mountainous eastern Turkey, Musa‘s ethnic background is Kurdish and Jewish, although he says that it’s food that runs in his blood.

While Mara and I tried not to wolf down the terrific garlic-spinach sandwiches Musa amused us with his life story. From the sounds of things, the man has nine lives.

I admit to being distracted – we did go there for lunch, after all, and I was starving, but I did catch a fair bit of the action. Musa and Fatma (who were then married) once owned an extensive string of restaurants in New Orleans until they were wiped out by Katrina. They relocated to the DC area and built up a new string of restaurants, only to be wiped out again by the bad economy.

With a tiny nest egg of $13,000, they sublet the spot on Maple View Place and set to cooking. Giving it to you straight – the food is fabulous.

Musa and Fatma have their eyes on a larger spot and perhaps another dynasty. Stay tuned. I wouldn’t put it past them. Perhaps they could get some ovens roaring a bit closer to me.

~30~

I have tried to create a quick, useful symbol meaning “no reply needed” to aid in unclogging email inboxes. NRN didn’t stick, although I stand behind my intention.

– 30 – ,  a tiny little symbol sandwich, is apparently an accepted shorthand meaning “end”. In other words, should I sign off using ~30~ I am indicating that you need not reply. (I took a stab at this with NNR, as well as NRN.) Simple, yes? My feelings will not be hurt, I will not be left wondering, nor will I be concerned that everything is ok.

The quirky blog Saila was my source for enlightenment on matters of cordial email release. Saila explores some theories of the origin of the – 30 – sign off here.

Why end with 30?

I believe the real question is
Why not?

A New Way to Eat

Mike Rhode of ComicsDC , who pitched this over the transom, is so good to me, not that I am singled out or anything. He’s just like that.

Toast Poast Number Automatic for the People

It turns on the current.

And raises itself silently.

No popping. No banging.

Amazing automatic performance.

Moist or dry, thick slices or thin.

Need I go on? I think not.

Im off.

Bacon Is the New Bacon


My understanding is that bacon traveled the silk route by skateboard, the Euphrates miles in a dug out canoe, the length of the Nile via mule-drawn barge and was carried in the wallet of Methusula for a thousand years.

We may think we are “beyond meat” (bleh) and fake chicken might be “flying out the doors“, but bacon is with us till all smokehouses are doused by chill waters of hell.

Hotfoot It!

 

The Best Wurst

Texans come by bratwurst honestly, as much as Midwesterners may believe this wurst to be theirs alone in the US.

There was, for many years, in Richmond, Virginia,TexasWisconsin Border Cafe, now closed I am sad to report. Austin, Texas and Madison, Wisconsin share an aesthetic and emotional border, methinks, cafe or no cafe. If you are gonna hotfoot it between the two, you best do it in your kitchen or your imagination. The mileage is impressive.

Recently I had the privilege of speaking with Jon Notarthomas, proprietor deluxe of The Best Wurst in Austin, Texas. A charming follow-up email warmed my wurst-lovin’ heart,  signed by Jon thusly, till then, me’new friend. 

Jon’s words are as follows.

Best Wurst is the oldest food vendor in Austin and definitely the forerunner of the Food Cart Craze that has taken off here. I like to say we are the most efficient kitchen in Austin working from a 4 x 5 foot cart that kicks out over 80,000 sandwiches a year. I believe we’ll be hitting the magic  “one million served” mark this year!

I know Chicago Food Critic Heather Shouse recently featured Best Wurst in her book Food Trucks.

She did. Good book. Stash it in your glovebox, take off your kid gloves and get yourself to eating.

My heart is warm for the Texas form, so near is it, and so simultaneously remote from, Wisconsin. The two are bound by a heritage accessorized by a string of sausages.

The Border Cafe was conveniently located between The Great Peanut Tour and home. If you drove as the crow flies you hit the cafe at half past lunch. Those were the days.

I’m Home!

Our house is a very, very, very fine house
With squirrels in the yard


Life’s pretty much always been kinda hard
Some things are easy cause of you-know-who

I can do anything if it is for him. The one who reminds me what the season is – back-to-school.  Fall, in other … word. Cute food is not in our vocabulary anymore. Were I to mention it, I would be shut down in a middle school minute.

Still, the yellow buses are obstructing traffic with their one-armed warning and I’m almost teary-eyed from the reminders of circular seasons come and gone and coming round again.

Home is where the bruised and burnished heart is. He may pack his own lunch, but – for a few more years – he carries the lunch box home again.