If you’re wondering, and you probably are, this month’s header is from a color slide taken at the 1959 Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. My mom and I are big fans of the parade, and she actually got to march in it one year as a “balloonatic,” one of the handlers for the giant helium balloons. I still tear up a little every year when I watch the Rockettes perform for the grandstand.
The very last Horn & Hardart Automat closed in 1991, and I am so very sad that I never ate there.
I’m at Costco. There are two girls roaming the same aisles that I am. Sharing a cart, they are both wearing the same outfit: blond hair pulled back in messy ponytails, snug boot-cut jeans, black sneakers, and oversized red t-shirts printed with a tagline which indicates that they work at a local steakhouse. It’s Costco, and they seem a little perplexed as to how the whole place is laid out, so I assume they’re on a supply run for the restaurant.
(shopping happens)
I wind up directly behind them at the checkout line. In my cart? Cheese, multi-grain bread, organic apples, Pirate’s Booty, and real-sugar Coke. In their cart? Oversized cinnamon buns, Froot Loops, Cocoa Krispies, chocolate chip cookie dough, Chex Mix, pickles, frozen burritos, and a roasted chicken. Obviously, they’re roommates. Also obviously, they are just learning how to shop for themselves, and they are having a ball with it.
I raise my cereal bowl in a toast to these two young women. May we all occasionally remember to treat ourselves to some crap.
Filed under food, friends, nostalgia, shopping, trans-fatty acids
My dad drove up to Colorado with two of his British car enthusiast friends to attend the 25th annual Colorado Conclave. I skipped Saturday’s rallye to get a few things done around the house, but joined them for Sunday’s show. It was overcast, but that seemed appropriate.
Click on the MG for more photos.
You’re certain to be the center of attraction… when you step out in an Olds.
For owning an Olds sets you apart as someone special. And naturally so.
Wow, look at that fabulous 1957 Oldsmobile Golden Rocket 88 Holiday Coupé! Cars don’t come in that size any more. Or that color, which is too bad. A Prius or a Smart might only be the size of this car’s hood, but they’d still look awesome in this shade of mint sherbet green. Enjoy the sculptured lines of this car. The tasteful use of chrome. The beautiful floor-to-ceiling, wall-size windows of that Barbie Dream House. And look how happy the party-goers are!
Wait a minute.
What the hell are these people doing? Ms. Britches and I tried to piece it all together. The pretty blonde gal in the lilac dress? She just hit her knee, hard, against that giant, steel car door. But she’s so drunk as to think it’s funny (until that bruise shows up tomorrow). The two men in sportcoats are checking the time, desperate to get their wives home before they drink even more, because these women have to be in good enough shape to make a fresh, delicious pot of coffee in the morning, as well as eggs and bacon and toast. It just won’t do, to have the girls moaning and groaning with hangovers. And how about that amputee hunchback lurching toward the car? She’s… Um she’s… Well, we couldn’t decide what the hell she’s doing.
What do you think?
Everywhere there’s lots of piggies
Living piggy lives
— George Harrison
Mmmmmmeat. I love meat. Beef, pork, chicken, turkey, fish, shellfish, ostrich, elk, rattlesnake, buffalo… all have crossed my plate. My favorite meal at Redfish used to be the carpaccio appetizer followed by the elk medallion entrée. (They also made a fabulous nut-crusted grouper. None are on the menu any longer.)
Separate thought: I’ve always been an ecologically-minded gal, so I knew that I would score pretty well on one of those online “What’s your eco-footprint?” tests. I recycle, I drive a car that gets good gas mileage, I turn off lights (CFL!) when I’m not in the room, I keep my programmable thermostat set to moderate temperatures, I buy wind power from my local utility, I turn down my hot water heater when I go on vacation.
But I eat meat.
Not just some meat, a lot of meat. Practically every meal. And my eco-footprint? It was through the roof. It takes an awful lot of feed to raise cattle, and it takes an awful lot of land to grow that feed, and it takes an awful lot of petroleum to plant and tend and harvest that feed.
And then there’s this: I have family in Kansas. To visit them, I drive through miles and miles (and miles) of farmland. Crops. Pastures. And feedlots. I usually make the trek for Christmas, when the December chill keeps the feedlot “aroma” at bay. But I drove out once in the summertime for my great-grandmother’s 90-somethingth birthday, and holy mother of God, there is nothing that shorts out synapses like the stench of 80,000 head of cattle on a feedlot in August. My eyes were watering. All the muscles in my face were trying to escape through my ears. My brain began to fight, and wouldn’t let my lungs inhale until suffocating was the only other option. It was disgusting.
Still, I ate meat. Lots and lots of meat.
It wasn’t until I read The Omnivore’s Dilemma that I began to really, truly consider the life of the animal. I knew that American cattle are fed a diet that is very heavy on corn, but I didn’t know that they can’t actually digest it. And so, in order to feed corn to cattle, we also have to pump them full of drugs so that the corn doesn’t kill them. Now, this does not sound efficient to me, but I’m not a rancher. It sure as hell doesn’t sound sustainable. It does sound… stupid. Really, really, stupid. I read about Polyface Farms, where pastures and crops are rotated in order to keep the earth healthy, just like I learned in elementary school. Poultry and livestock roam freely in their pastures, living the lives that chickens and cows naturally live. And everything works hand in hand, like a little machine o’ nature, to keep things going. I admitted to myself (and unenthusiastically to my frienemy, Jack) that hunting, when practiced with care, provides meat from an animal that has most lived that animal’s natural life.
It was all too much to disregard. If ignorance is bliss, education is vegetarian.
I decided to go “flexitarian.” I would eat meat, but only meat that was “humanely” raised. And, while there are plenty of restaurants and markets in Denver that agree with my beliefs, I live in the suburbs. It’s easier to claim vegetarian than to make a fuss or explain this long-winded story to whomever I’m with. So, that’s exactly what I do. Life is easier that way. The rules are clearer, and my dining decisions are cut-and-dried. (Ironic, that.)
Separate thought: One of the few remaining Albertson’s supermarkets isn’t far from The Company Formerly Known As My Employer, and I ran in today to check for Spade-L seasoning (no) and to pick up lunch. While looking through the deli case for an egg salad sandwich, I saw that they had 1-lb. rolls of TAYLOR HAM. TAYLOR FRIGGIN’ HAM. John Taylor Pork Roll. Remember the boxes of Taylor ham that my cousin bought for me back in May? The boxes that I flew home with from New Jersey? Because I can’t get Taylor ham out here? They’re still sitting in my freezer. I haven’t had the nerve to actually thaw and cook them. Because then I would have no Taylor ham! But here is a whole roll of Taylor ham, packed tightly into its fetching, red-and-white canvas sleeve.
Yeah, I had four slices of Taylor ham for dinner tonight. It was crispy on the edges, but tender and salty and juicy with fat. (Oh jeez, the fat. If only it were negated by the nitrates.) It was delectable. Delicious. Succulent. Oh, it was so very, very good. I am sorry, little piggies, for the perverted lives you probably led before heading to the slaughterhouse. I hope there is some karmic consolation that the pork roll you wound up in is so very, very tasty.
shoes and pie 