The Lunch Encounter

We planned ahead. Even on vacation I like to plan ahead. Nice to know that shrimp and Anson Mills grits are coming up on Friday, Sandy’s fish sandwiches on Sunday. I rest much easier in my beach chair knowing that dinner has been considered.

“Plan ahead”, Dean Kerr said, way back when, when we were in cooking school and, irony of ironies, out of cash for supper. There I stood with hand outstretched, in his office supplicating for a short term $10 loan. That nasty man sent me away empty pocketed, his tight bit of advice sour in my ears. Barbara and I ate saltines in our cinderblock dorm room, and have had Dean Kerr to quote for decades. Poor thing. You got to give to get, that’s how I see it.

This summer, on the Vineyard, older and wiser, we planned ahead.
Wednesday, Menemsha. Years past were angst ridden – car to pavement ratio much too high – and so we came prepared for combat parking, a stance in direct conflict to vacation mindbend. No lobster roll traffic jam this year. 2009, we maintained appropriate dumb oblivion – cruised in cool as cucumbers, parked without incident, strolled with ease to browse the menu.
There tis, top right. Lobsta rollllllll. The Galley serves ’em the archetypic northeastern way – lobster, only lobster, nothing but lobster, on a roll. Buttered roll. Toasted buttered roll for a bit of flourish.

Popcorn chicken? Sounds like something grown next door to the boneless chicken ranch.
Didnja hear me say they put the gal in galley?? A thousand dollar smile will make that tip cup bulge quicker-n you can can say “One small chocolate twist, please.” Very pretty porch with fresh fish aromatics and rope-creaking surround sound. We soaked up enough to hold us, then crossed the street to perch on the rocks in the late afternoon slanted sunlight.
Need I say more? Need I say anything? How can I say more when I have not said anything at all? How can I say anything at all when I am eating a lobster roll? And what a roll it was. A roll around the universe of seaside deliciousness. With a view. A 360 roll of beauteousness.

Frappes. One size only. Very, very large. Goes down fast and leaves a dent. A cold, deep, ice cream dent in your belly. Woo, a belly ache. You’d do it again, too. Anytime.
I could not turn them down on the frappe front. SS Frappe is right. Side Swiped my wallet and did some damage. Indulgent wreckage. We’ll be back.

From Sorry-Birds Ellen:

Oh so sorry birds. Yeah, no kidding. Did not know that cell phone towers were bad, like really bad, for birds until I was enlightened by Ellen. She held out a long time, and I spose there are more birds in flight as a result, but she finally hadda cave. Can’t blame her a bit. I’ve been a guilty party for years, ignorantly guilt-free.

Ellen’s cell phone makes bird calls and it is quite the head-scratching sight to see her “calling all chickadees” with an iPhone. Chickadee dee dee.

Hey there,
We were in Richmond last weekend and went to Coppola’s Deli in the Carytown neighborhood.
They had some mighty fine sandwiches and I took these pictures with you in mind (the olives were an extra addition by Chris).
We also had breakfast at Millie’s but I don’t have any photos to prove it 😉
I will be sure to get myself to Coppola’s next time I drive south – further south than IKEA.

Up in Philly this week, working at Hone Studio and enjoying the heck out of it. Traveling to and fro on the rails, four nights at the Penn’s View Hotel, cabbing it back and forth to the studio, dinners out…feelin’ la-la-lucky and a bit spoiled. Thank you, Debbie Wahl, from the bottom of my worn-to-a-nub-sometimes heart, for the fab hook up. Pecked to death by ducks, I am NOT, for a whole four days. Having quite the fancy time, truth be told.

Bacon-centric chat with one of the assistants this aft:

Him:   So I was dating this girl and she was a vegetarian. That’s okay. I don’t mind a vegetarian.
Me:      Uh huh.
Him:   And we had brunch one Sunday. I had bacon with, you know, my eggs. Side of bacon.
Me:    Mm hmm.
Him:   Then we spent all day together. Really nice day. Later, back at my place, we started making out.
Me:    Uh huh.
Him:  And she goes, “Did you brush your teeth cause you taste like, uh, you taste like bacon.” I said, “I have to ask you to leave.”

For the love of bacon, what a guy.

1 Create Sandwich.

Hmm. That makes me think. Just the one? 1 Create (bacon) Sandwich.

Well if I only get the one, then I better make it count.

By way of a casual, how-to-be-an-adult conversation with the boys, Barbara and I did some interrogation and some indoctrination. What do you need to know to live on your own, for example. How to do laundry (“The woman will do it, Mom”. I have failed.), earn money, be a good citizen, raise children. We reminded them, old crones that we are, that raising children is fantastically rewarding and fascinating, but you gotta give up stuff. Stuff like playing in a band, stuff like stopping for happy hour, stuff like eating what you want when you want.  “That’s what you call opportunity cost, Mom,” he said matter-of-factly, snapping up the last double chocolate doughnut. 

Opportunity costs. Must have that tattooed on my palm.
A noun – the cost of opportunity – and a command – it does, it costs, opportunity is valuable.

You gotta make a choice. Menus, all of ’em, lunch, life, love….you got to make a choice or you will starve. Okay, not starve, but you will deprive yourself.
Opportunity COSTS. And you know full well, I know I know…. you get what you pay for. Occasionally you get lucky, I admit it, I am one to ooze over a little unexpected good fortune, undeserved is especially luscious, but ultimately I would prefer to pay. And I want to get what I paid for. An opportunity. You know what they say – least my mother says this and she most definitely qualifies as “they” – luck is the intersection of opportunity and preparedness. Get ready! Opportunity is sneaking up on you…about to pounce. Keep your eyes peeled!

What is this?
This, my dear, is a rich sardine.

¡¡¡SARDINISTAS!!!

¡¡¡SARDINISTAS!!!

¡¡¡SARDINISTAS!!!

Myself, I love a sardine sandwich. Little lettuce, s+p, the p just ground with big hot pieces, sticky smoothch of sandwich glue – gooey homemade mayonnaise, firm bread thinly sliced, hair thin onion circles. Just like a Canned Sannedwich, sardines are right there in your pantry, keeping you safe and fed, come hell or highwater.

NPR Weekend Edition talks green eating with Mark Shelley of the Sardinistas. 
Mercurio says once people try sardines, they’re hooked. And right now is one of the few times you can get fresh sardines. The sardine season started at the beginning of July.

Myself, I would not be caught dead in an orange hunting cap. No sartorial infractions necessary for sardine season.

about the gyro? Slowly spinning in the windows of my late-night, pseudo-college days, the particle board of meat was and is mesmerizing.
The Gyro’s History Unfolds

We are all worms. But I do believe that I am a glow-worm. 
Winston Churchill

Cloud Sandvich by Gülkan Böke

Up at 5 AM and off I went. Ran like that legendary South American tribe. Aware of tense muscles, especially the toes, and of trying to flow with the land. A controlled fall, at ease, with total awareness of the surface under my feet. Red cardinals busy with their early morning courtship, little rabbits happily munching on morning dewed grass. Getting back was even more joyful. Surrounded by a flock of sparrows, some did fly right before me for a moment with my chest almost touching their tail feathers. For that brief period I was happy to be free of the past.

The following day, I got freakin’ sick. The most pathetic perversities in harmony with extreme pomposity of bohemian bs, faded in to one gigantic headache of why? Squinting through my burning eyesockets to my doodling of the cloud sandwich. Sour aroma surrounded me while rushing towards marshmallow whiteness. I always thought I would bounce but ended up falling through into the abyss of darkness…

What a pile of horse s..t! 😉

And the clouds, Mr. Böke? What about the clouds?

Not an Onion headline :
Iowa Woman Discovers New Cloud Type

Assess overhead. Note clouds. Consult your beloved Cloudspotter’s Guide by Gavin Pretor-Pinney, founder of The Cloud Appreciation Society . Lick your finger, point it up, and note the cooling airflow. Is it daft to follow the draft? Once you get your head in the up-ness of the clouds, there in the center of the fog, each drop of vapor is crystal clear. Of course, you can’t see out…

Mr. Pretor-Pinney appears to possess no shortage of exuberance, gayly hanging himself out there as a cloud enthusiast. You go, Mr. Pretor-Pinney! And take me with you.

The exuberant personality generates envy, resentment, irritation, admiration, and sometimes your basic tiger-by-the-tail exhaustion. That’s the view from here anyway. From now on you can refer to me as the weather girl, a meteorologist of the human personality. DUCK! Here comes a meteor nowwwww!!!!!

In his review of Exuberance by Kay Redfield Jamison, Colin McGinn writes,
She argues that exuberance is crucial to creativity and achievement, as well as being a nice thing in itself  but, In the end, the thesis of the book reduces to the unhelpful formula: Exuberance is a really good thing, except when it’s not.

Mr. McGinn, an admittedly reticent person, reticence being a trait not typically associated with exuberance, further presses his point, Ms. Jamison also treats exuberance as if it were a broad trait with no subspecies, a kind of free-floating up-ness. But surely exuberance is selective: You can be exuberant about one thing and not another. I would say that discriminating exuberance, not the all-over-the-place kind, is most conducive to creativity and success, for it enables the mind to focus on a specific subject or task.

What can I say, you got to get outta the way of these reckless exuberant types. Not sure I agree 100%, but the discriminating side of me can see Mr. McGinn’s point. Please put me in a new sub-classification, not a free-floating up-ness. More horizontal layering with a uniform base, than noticeable vertical with clearly defined edges. More flat and featureless than puffy and cottonlike. More stratus than cumulus, thanksverymuch. Hmm, on further thought, make me a good, old-fashioned raging mass of cumulonimbus storm clouds and toss in a tornado warning while yer at it.

We live by Bone around here.

Uncrinkle the package – brown bag, white bag, plastic bag – and shuffle past the first heel, like flicking LPs in a bin. Onward to the meat of the matter. Get to the other end and the first heel starts to look mighty tasty, particularly if it is the only bread in the house, bar putting on shoes and making a foray. Nahhh.

Lying awake thinking about the bread coming to an end before I have eaten my fill, heels and all.

Had a stern talk with myself tonight, or this morning – 3 am – depends how you squint at it (go to sleep already).

Lay down your arms (outside of the bedclothes, it’s warm in here)
And love me peacefully (choose a side and resolve yourself)
Lay down your arms (if it feels wrong, don’t do it)
And love me tenderly (to thine own self be true)

Use your arms to hold me tight (but not too tight)
Baby, I don’t want to fight no more (and it feels so good to sleep)

Such a battle with one’s brain sometimes. A chokehold on your consciousness. Unclench your jaw and sleep. Sleep. Sleep ALREADY!

And would it be a 50 pointer? Hmmm. That would be 8 letters if you played it on the board. Well, dang, guess you’d have to play it first, across the star, use every letter in your crib, and come out of the gate charging. It does have appetizing visual appeal. Resmash. It weren’t smashed enough primarily. Must. Smash. Again.

 Trust her on this. When it is time to eat, she knows her way around. Clockwise and counter.
Look for Barbara behind the counter of her super sandwich shop, Columbine, in Tribeca.
Bread
Dijon
Egg (smash)
Arugula
Add bacon.
Fold bread.
Resmash with bread.
Serve with a few Rt. 11 Dill Pickle Chips and a chilled Gus Dry Meyer Lemon. I can vouch first, second and third hand for both Route 11 and for Gus’ Grown Up Sodas.

When Route 11 Chips were first introduced by the Tabard Inn in the 80’s, I was there, working the line, and sitting on a milk crate on the slow evenings of August, shooting the breeze and sweating royally. The chips arrived with no fanfare, test batches in tall, red metal canisters, the perfect height for a perch. Ate my weight in chips that first week, whether I had to shimmy off the canister for each grab or not. Nice slick of oil ringing the bottom of the bucket.

Grown Up Sodas bubble beautifully in a grown up beverage…say, the Cola in a Cuba Libre. Collins glass, crackling ice, lavish lime squirt, gurgling shot of white rum, a splash-just-a-splash of cola. Sip sub-ice through a straw.

Sent from her iPhone. Imagine.