Free Lunch

Economist Milton Friedman said, “There’s no such thing as a free lunch,” In fact he wrote a book of essays on public policy with that title.  But in this he was wrong. 

“Tomorrow, our ship comes in,” said Annette, meaning our Social Security check would be deposited.  But this was today.  Luckily we weren’t down and out.  Among our assets was a coupon for a free submarine sandwich from Cumberland Farms.  We checked the date and found ourselves smack dab in the window of opportunity.  We got in the car. 

The Cumberland Farms had a drive-through, and from the menu board we chose a Philly cheese steak sub.  “Do you want anything else with that?” the crackly voice asked.  We didn’t. 

On the way home Annette peeked into the wrappings.  It didn’t appear to be the delicacy you carry away from the fabled luncheonettes of Philadelphia, but Annette decided we could fix it up just fine.

At home I sliced half an onion, while she dug in the refrigerator and came up with some rather beat-up mushrooms.  “I think if you cut the side off this one, it will be OK,” she said.  I got instructions for each mushroom and sliced the good parts.  I sautéed them in olive oil and then put in the onions, which I cooked over low heat until golden brown. 

Annette laid the sandwich open on a baking sheet and lit the oven.  I have read that the renowned Pat’s and Gino’s in South Philly uses Cheez Wiz, but we didn’t have any of that.  There were, however, some shreds of Sargento cheddar left in a package.  She sprinkled them on the sandwich and warmed it in the oven until the bread became toasted and the cheese melted.  Then we topped it with the onions and mushrooms and sliced it in half. 

There was Diet Coke left in the bottom of a two-liter bottle.  It was a little weak on fizz, but drinkable.  We chuckled as we did the dishes.  Milton Friedman had his economics, and we have ours.

Certitude

The lilac the snowplow uprooted

Was covered with buds.

The days lengthen. The light changes.

The orbit is stable.

The earth still swings.

So far astronomy can be counted upon.

Change

Ten Good Things About Getting Old

1. Grandchildren.  Tops the list. They’re delighted when you arrive and sad when you leave.  How often did you get that in life?  You’re glad to see them when they come, and when they go home the quiet is exquisite. 
2. No alarm clock.  You can sleep late and get up slowly.  Work is satisfying, but retirement is weekends 24/7. 
3. When you do something dumb you have an excuse.
4. Affection. It doesn’t take Viagra to cuddle.
5. Reminiscing. You have a huge database to mine. 
6. Flirting. You can smile at, compliment, and chat up a member of the opposite sex, and they won't think you’re on the make…presuming you’re not. 
7. Living cheaply.  See that noisy crowd in the bar -- they’re spending twelve bucks a drink, and in the morning they’ll feel worse than you do. 
8. Feeling superior.  It’s best not to use sentences that start, “In my day…,” but you can think them.
9. Reading.  You can do it all day if you want to.
10. OK, there aren’t really ten good things about getting old, but nine isn’t bad.   

South Coast Local Diner Mattapoisett

The Monkey

It’s funny how memories of events emerge as images apart from the surroundings in which they were first experienced.  On this sunny winter afternoon I remembered an organ grinder and his monkey, but not where I met them. 

The man was swarthy and foreign with little English.  The organ was antique even in those faraway times.  It was not an organ at all but a sort of ancient music box the man played by turning a crank, hence grinding it.  He apparently lived on pennies. 

I was given one to give to the monkey.  If the man was foreign, this creature was alien – more so than any cat or dog.  He was dressed in a faded red jacket and hat that must have been handed down through generations of monkeys as the organ was through generations of grinders, and the clothing that mimicked that of a person emphasized his otherness.

His tiny black hand touched mine as he took the coin.  It was dry, inhuman, almost reptilian.  The feeling startled me, and I remember the realization that he was not like me.  He put the penny in his pocket and tipped his little monkey cap quickly, snatching it off and replacing it almost in one movement.  I knew he was supposed to be saying, “thank you,” but he wasn’t.  There was no politeness – no gratitude.

He had bright brown eyes that regarded me intently.  Grownups said he was cute, but he wasn’t cute.  His head was about the size of a peach and was covered with gray brown fur.  I was aware of his teeth.  He wasn’t sure what I would do, and the feeling was mutual. The music was supposed to be gay, but it possessed no feeling at all.

The world is an unexplored planet to a child.  So much is new and strange, he feels that anything can happen.  It’s as though a spaceship has deposited him here, except there is no spaceship and no way home.

Being All Thumbs

I’ve been reading Through the Children’s Gate by Adam Gopnik. In one of his essays he tells how he had been texting his son “LOL,” which he thought meant lots of love, when in fact it means laughing out loud.  Gopnik has not yet achieved fogidom, but being a parent, he’s on his way. 

He comments that, had instant messaging come first and the telephone after, technology writers would be extolling the wonder of being able to hear your loved one breathing and the ease of calling compared to typing on a small keyboard with your thumbs.  Of course there would be some who would lament the decline in keyboard skills and declare they would never telephone. 

I have to admit I don’t appreciate texting, but the kids seem to love it.  Perhaps it’s ideal for teenagers because they can be in contact without actually saying much.  I don’t mind email.  One of the best things about it is the fact that you have a record of what you said and can call it up if need be. 

Getting an email from a friend is a pleasant experience, although it hasn’t the same feeling as opening a letter.  With change we gain and we lose, and it’s important, especially for fogies, to keep an eye on the plus side.  Grumpiness is an evil to be striven against. 

Still I regard texting as a fad.  It’s too cryptic.  Look at Gopnik’s misunderstanding of LOL.  Brevity can be good, but unless you’re a poet, it can’t achieve depth.  I don’t think high-schoolers are sending haikus as they walk to their next class.  A haiku is long on thought. It may be read over and over with profit.  Every word counts.  Brief though it may be, a haiku is slow communication. 

Something will replace texting. If I knew what it was and had the tech skills to make it happen, I could become a very rich fogy indeed. Failing that, I can be glad of the era I lived in.  I’m comforted that I know my multiplication tables.  Fogies from a generation before mine were happy they knew the five Latin declensions.  They may not have needed them, but the knowledge helped make those people who they were.  Today’s children are learning something that will give them satisfaction when they grow old, and I have absolutely no inkling what it will be.   

 

Alma Nove

Address:  22 Shipyared Drive Hingham, MA 02043

Phone: 781-749-3353

Hours: Lunch Monday - Friday 11:30 a.m. to 3:00 p.m.  Saturday and Sunday 11:00 a.m to 3:00 p.m Dinner Monday - Friday 5:00 p.m. to 10:00 p.m. Saturday and Sunday 5:00 p.m. to 10:00 p.m.

Website:  http://www.almanovehingham.com

Credit Cards:  American Express, Discover, MasterCard, Visa

Accessible to the handicapped

My beloved belt of thirty-five years is, alas, kaput, and I wanted to get a replacement just as good.  (I figure after another thirty-five years all I’ll need will be a safety pin to hold my garment closed in the back.)  Therefore the destination of the day was Renaissance Leather in Hingham. 

There in a barn behind a house, Patrick O’Callaghan cuts up entire cowhides and makes all sorts of items.  $32 for a custom made belt seemed reasonable compared to the prices of readymade belts I’d rejected in my search, so I placed an order. A little measuring and the choice of a buckle and I was ready to go. 

It was nearly lunch time, and we weren’t far from Alma Nove, so a decision was made.   It’s a restaurant that has received a lot of press because of its ownership by Chef Paul Wahlberg and his brothers, Mark and Donnie Wahlberg who are apparently some sort of celebrities. Mark, recognizable from his picture on the website was seated at the bar doing something on an iPad.

The many-windowed dining room is decorated in decorated in brown and cream to emphasize the views of Hingham Harbor.  Lighted globes hanging from the ceiling comprise a chandelier. Two big screen TVs over the bar are tuned to the Food Network.  If Paula Dean and Rachel Ray make you hungry, relief is readily at hand.  I don’t go to a restaurant to watch TV, but I found it a pleasant change from the ubiquitous sports.  

Annette started off with suppli, ($11) which are rice balls filled with prosciutto and melted crucolo, which is an artisanal cheese produced in small quantities from unpasteurized cows milk in northern Italy.  They were deep fried so the cheese was gooey and were served in an arrabbiata sauce made from garlic, red chilies and tomatoes cooked in olive oil.  ($11)  It was an astounding combination of flavors and textures, which delighted Annette, and taught us both that our education in food will never be complete.

We both drank a delightfully spicy Masi Brolo Valpolicella ($10) which complimented both her suppli and my mussels, which were served with Portuguese chorizo, tomatoes, white cannellini beans and lots of garlic. 

“Red wine with fish…well that should have told me something,” said James Bond to the villain in “From Russia with Love.”  Bond was contemptuous of a violation of the 1963 rule of wine parings that only white wine went with fish.  That was before the grilled salmon with Pinot Noir had become a classic combo, but I still glance around for Sean Connery look-alikes when I drink red wine with fish in a restaurant.  Nevertheless, the spicy sausage, sliced garlic and sweet tomatoes went beautifully with the lovely wine. 

For a main dish I chose wood grilled chicken on spaghettini with chopped pistachio nuts and mizuna pesto.  ($14)

“What is mizuna?” I asked the waitress.  She seemed flummoxed. 

“Leaves,” she said, “Green leaves.”

“I’ll look it up,” I reassured her.

Isn’t Google wonderful!  This information is brought to you by the modern miracle of copy and paste. Mizuna is 水菜, a Japanese vegetable. It is also called Xiu Cai, Kyona, Japanese Mustard, Potherb Mustard, Japanese Greens, California Peppergrass, and Spider Mustard.  The US Department of Agriculture lists 16 verities. As the lady said,  it’s leaves. 

I was delighted that the chicken was not the familiar chunks of breast, but small juicy bits of dark meat flavored with the kiss of the flame.  These, along with the nuts and the unusual herb, provided the second learning experience of the day. 

Having filled up on suppli, Annette had Caesar salad for her main dish. ($7) This is a challenge that most restaurants fail but Alma Nove did well. It was topped with expensive white anchovies, which are good, but I’m a traditionalist where Caesar salad is concerned and like the familiar brown ones. 

For dessert, we split a serving of banana cream pie. ($6.50) Not served in a traditional slice, it was presented in a tall ramekin. The elements, in order of our discovery of them as we dug down, were caramel sauce, whipped cream, custard, bananas and a cookie-like crust.  This serving method preserved the freshness of the ingredients.  The bananas in banana cream pie can be brown and soft by the time they get to our plate, but these seemed newly cut. 

Being a fogy, I’m apt to go to lunch at Lindsey’s in Wareham for their turkey croquets or dine at Ernie’s in Plymouth for their Tuesday night two-for-one pizza special.  Eating the food of a talented chef who can surprise me with ingenious combinations of new ingredients was a great delight.  Alma Nove has class. 

Eating In

On Valentine’s Day Annette and I spent the evening with lobsters bought already cooked from Wood’s Fish Market, Champagne in Waterford flutes, Cape Cod potato chips, and éclairs from French Memories.  We watched “Masterpiece Theater,” which I recorded Sunday night and saved for the occasion. 

It was a fine fogy celebration -- no parking the car, being seated at a restaurant, waiting for service, waiting for the check, driving home.  We’d laid out more money than we would for an ordinary Monday night supper, but there was no need for a 20% tip. When our comfy little dinner was over, there was a quick wash-up and we were done. 

The eating of some tasty food and the viewing of British period TV drama were quite enough.  It was a little bit special and a little bit simple -- balance is everything.  Two days later I found roses were actually on sale.  I bought a dozen.

February

Tuesday is the day they give an extra discount to senior citizens at Savers.  I was heading for the door when a fellow fogy emerged and groaned as the icy wind buffeted him.  It has been that way all day.  The harbor was full of white caps, and out beyond the beach the waves were rushing shoreward with spray blowing back from them.  They reminded me of a picture I had in a children’s book in which the waves were white horses, their manes blowing in the wind. 

An aluminum gutter that needs to be tended to was vibrating when I got home.  I could imagine the oil bill rising like the meter on a New York taxi.  Annette made cocoa in the middle of the afternoon. 

I’ve been philosophical this winter.  I’ve cleaned off the car when it was covered with snow or frost. I’ve done as much shoveling as is good for me.  I’ve lugged buckets of salted sand and sprinkled ice melt.  I’ve kept dry firewood in the cellar-way.  I’ve read good books.  When the ads with the palm trees interrupted the morning news, I muted the sound and looked away from the screen. 

But now that February is half over I’m counting down.  This is a bad idea I know.  All this attention makes the month become stubborn like the water in a watched pot.  It turns twenty-eight days into the longest month.  One by one they dawn, and mentally I check them off.  As I sip my morning coffee I stare at the calendar on the kitchen door.  I can do this.  I’ve done it for a lot of years, and I can do it again. 

And what do I get when all the days have been endured?  March.

Extravagance

Cheapness has its pleasures, not the least of which is a feeling of virtue.  Read the chapter “Economy” from Thoreau’s Walden.  All those existentialists could be insufferable at times. I was influenced by old Henry at a tender age, and living modestly is one of my favorite ways to show off. 

At the tired vegetable cart in Shaw’s I met one of the prominent ladies of the town who expressed embarrassment to be caught buying softening grapefruit.  I have a different attitude.  I come from a line of old Yankees who were proud of living below their means.  “A fool and his money are soon parted,” they liked to say.        

I’m embarrassed by luxury, but that doesn’t mean I don’t occasionally indulge.  If you’re stingier than you need to be, you can afford to splurge.  For her birthday in early December, I bought Annette a case of Veuve Clicquot Champagne.  I shopped for the best price I admit, but it wasn’t cheap.  It was a present for her, but we’ll drink it together and when I walk past the yellow box in my cellar, I smile. 

I understand that the house wine at Buckingham Palace is Château Lafite Rothschild. I had a bottle of that once in my life – not the whole bottle; I shared it with Annette and two other people.  It exploded my conception of what wine can be.  I’ll probably never experience it again.  A check of the internet reveals that 750ml of the 1982 vintage may be had from Wally’s Wine and Sprits for $3,999.99.  I got my bottle a long time ago for a good deal less.  It had been cellared for some years, but not twenty-nine.  When it came to pleasure, it beat scoring a package of dirt-caked carrots for 85¢.

The thing about Royalty is they can’t splurge.  If they want to wash down a cheese sandwich, they have the footman open a bottle of Lafite.  They’ll remember it about as well as you do your last Coke.  Even if they drink the 1870 vintage, available from MorrellWine.com for $15,000.00 a bottle, they won’t check it off their bucket list.

But I can splurge.  On Valentine’s Day Annette and I plan to get a couple of lobsters and chill a bottle of French Champagne.  We might top it off with something sweet, but we haven’t yet decided what that will be.  

Being Cheap

“How much did you pay for those eggs?” my father asked as I unloaded the groceries from the supermarket. 

I could see what was coming. “I don’t remember,” I lied.

Not one to be so easily defeated, he fished in the bag and dug out the cash register tape. “You paid too much,” he said. 

He bought his eggs at Quintal's, where he got them for less.  I thought he was foolish to drive to North Plymouth to save on eggs, but now that I’m retired saving money is about the only way I can influence my purchasing power.  As befits a fogy, I’ve become cheap.

When I enter the supermarket I go directly to the produce that’s reduced for quick sale.  Usually I can find fruits and vegetables that will be perfectly good if used right away.  Then I go to the place where they sell the ends of cold cuts.  Ragged turkey makes just as good a sandwich, and with the skillful use of a sharp knife I can turn an ungainly chunk of ham into usable slices. 

I pick up three different brands of hot dog in a single package.  Then I head for the day-old bread. 

On Thursday when the fliers from the supermarkets arrive, I study them.  I’m getting so I remember prices.  $1.25 for a two liter bottle of Coke is no bargain.  88¢ is a good buy.  I’m shocked at price differences.  $3.49 for Planter’s cocktail peanuts is outrageous; I know where I can get the same size can for $2.50.  Never before have I carried such facts in my head.

Sometimes I mess up.  The other day I got some raspberries on the reduced produce trolley.  I peered through the plastic container, and they looked alright, but I didn’t use them fast enough, and they had to be thrown away.  Deduct their cost from my savings on everything else. 

Do I make out by belonging to BJ’s?  They get their profit up front.  It will take a lot of purchases to save an amount equal to the membership fee. I go down to Market Basket in New Bedford and get some things cheaper than I can here in town, but there’s the cost of the gas.  It becomes something of a game. 

When I win I get to feel shrewd.  My father was one up by getting his eggs cheaper than I did.  Some friends were telling me about a smart phone app that lets you read the bar code on an item you see in a store.  The ap. tells you where you can get the lowest price on the item. It consults the GPS feature and tells you how far you have to go to get that price. It’s meant for things like cameras and blenders.  I don’t know if it works on Green Giant baby peas.

I’ve read that you save quite a bit with careful shopping, and I hope it’s true.  I hope it’s not just bragging rights and the illusion that I’m in control. 

Nachos for Lunch

I was baking beans, which were giving the kitchen a lovely old New England smell.  “What have we got for lunch?” I asked, Annette. 

“We have some corn chips, but they’re pretty old,” she said.

“They’ll be fine if we heat them in the oven,” I replied.

Annette topped the chips with some leftover Sargento shredded cheddar cheese and slipped them into the oven beside the beans.

I like fresh tomato for salsa, but we had none, so I opened a can of Hunts diced tomatoes.  I found what had once been a fresh bunch of cilantro.  The leaves were black and slimy, so I discarded them.  I washed and chopped the stems, which were still crunchy and flavorful, and mixed them with the tomatoes.

In the fridge I found a few cumin seeds that I’d toasted and ground with a mortar and pestle. They gave off a wonderful smell when I opened the small container.  I diced an onion and Annette got some chopped green pepper from the freezer.  She sautéed the pepper and onion lightly, and after giving them a moment to cool, I added them to the tomato mixture.  Annette gave the salsa a drizzle of olive oil and sprinkled in salt. 

I tasted.  “It needs hot pepper,” I said.

There was a jalapeño in the veggie drawer, but it was too moldy to use.  I could see the drawer needed cleaning out.  I gave a dead half lemon a decent burial, and Annette separated some carrots from their wilted tops.  “Do we have any pickled jalapeños?” I asked.  

We didn’t, so I sprinkled Tabasco into the salsa. Annette found a can of low-fat Trader Joe’s refried beans, warmed them and put them on the nachos.  I poured on salsa.  To make the occasion special I opened a bottle of locally brewed Mayflower IPA. 

The refried beans weren’t very good, and we made a mental note to keep Old El Paso original style on hand.  We might have rescued the low-fat beans with some heart-healthy olive oil, but we peevishly threw away what we didn’t use. 

Canned diced tomatoes are a great product, especially in the winter.  Fresh cilantro is a good thing to keep on hand.  I have several kinds of hot sauce, but Tabasco is kind I never want to be without.  Pickled jalapeños are handy. I must replenish my supply.  

All in all it was an excellent lunch.  What I’ve given you isn’t a recipe; it’s an example of how it’s possible to make something out of almost nothing. 

Newfangled Gadgetry

The February page on my New Yorker cartoon calendar shows an old rotary dial telephone telling a cell phone, “When I was your age, we didn’t play video games or take pictures or locate things – we just did one thing, and we took our sweet time doing it.”

I have one of those little phones, but I don’t play games on it. Crossword puzzles on paper are enough for me.  I don’t take pictures with it either.  You have to remember how to find the camera function, how to take the picture, and then how to download the photo to your computer. It seems more trouble than it’s worth. 

As far as I know, my phone doesn’t locate things. 

I hear young people talking about their smart phones.  Someone showed me an ap that would teach me how to do exercises with dumbbells. Another person brought up a list of restaurants near where we were.  Unfortunately it was Saturday night, and none of them had an available table. 

I find my cell phone a handy thing.  I feel safer on the road knowing I can call for help if I’m stranded.  I can call my wife from the grocery store and ask her if we need cream cheese, which is on sale.  I don’t text. 

I can see reasons to own a GPS.  Presumably it will be standard equipment by the time I have to buy a car.  I won’t need to fill the glove compartment with maps, but I’m not sure I’ll like having it tell me where to turn. 

My computer printer talks to me.  “Please load paper in the autosheet feeder,” it says.  It sounds like it’s trying hard to be patient, but it sighs slightly because I’ve let the paper run out – yet again. I feel very foolish sassing an appliance, and I imagine myself saying to a GPS, “I couldn’t make the turn; there was a &*%#@ eighteen-wheeler in the way!” 

Fogies come to the point where they resist change.  In my early childhood you picked up the phone, and an operator said, “Number please.”  When dial telephones came in the instructions told you to place your finger in the hole over first digit. Rotate the dial clockwise to the stop. Remove your finger and allow the dial to return freely to its original position. Repeat for the second digit, and so on.”  This sounded way too difficult for my grandmother, and when she wanted to make a call, she got me to dial it for her.  I earned a dime for my trouble. 

I’m old enough to remember when people said, “If God intended man to fly, He’d have given him wings.”  You don’t hear that very much any more.  There are still people who won’t fly in airplanes, but they don’t claim it’s an unnatural act. 

The world changes, and I may come to a point where I refuse to go along.  I’ll try not to feel superior about it.  In the meantime I probability ought to get out the cell phone and practice taking pictures.  It’s good for us fogies to exercise our brains.

Fogy Fantasy

I stalk into the kitchen and fix the whippersnapper cook with a fierce gaze.  “What is this?” I demand, holding a leaf of baby spinach between my thumb and forefinger.

The unfortunate youth knows he’s in trouble from the look on my face and from the fact that I’ve left the dining room and entered his domain carrying my crispy crab sandwich.  At least he knows the answer to the question.  “Spinach,” he says.

"Seven tiny, limp, raw, undressed spinach leaves do nothing for a sandwich,” I reply.  My voice is ominous, but I do not roar.  I have a ways to go in this conversation, and like a Shakespearean actor launching into “King Lear,” I’m holding a great deal in reserve. 

“The bread,” I go on, “is too heavy for these puny crab cakes.  They are lost.”   I edge up the volume slightly, “And where is the aioli?” 

He points to a tiny dab of substance that resembles the product of a two-year-old’s runny nose, though greatly inferior in quantity. 

“Did you administer it with an eyedropper?” I inquire.  (Sarcasm is perfectly permissible in fogy fantasy.) 

The cook remembers what his father told him about the advisability of a solid background in computer science.  He stammers unintelligibly.

I go on, “Aioli is a sauce. There has to be enough to give a hearty flavor.  It is essentially a fat. It should also provide necessary richness.” 

As I turn on my heel, the would-be cook takes off his apron and flings it on the kitchen floor.  My fury is at crescendo as I reenter the dining room and stride toward the door to the street. 

A group of people are celebrating their recent arrival at legal drinking age, by lunching at the bar.  They glance nervously in my direction.  My face is a sky of black cloud, my voice thunder.  “Vodka and apple juice do not constitute a martini anywhere in the known universe,” I observe. 

They tremble.

Groundhog Day

The groundhog is known in some parts as a whistle pig because of his high-pitched squeak, his porcine eyes, and his predilection for gluttony. He distains the vast greenery of nature in favor of delicacies intended for the table. Unlike his cousin the bunny rabbit, who nibbles here and there, the groundhog will chomp down an entire row of garden peas leaving nothing but bare stems for the person who planted them. His gourmandizing is so extreme I've seen him hauling his bulbous behind over a three-foot garden fence. 

The groundhog is in fact a common woodchuck and for reasons that escape me is celebrated in verse.  He cannot, could not, and has absolutely no reason to ever chuck wood, and I for one see no point in speculating how much he would if he could. 

Anyone who has tried to keep him out of the cucumber patch will tell you he’s clever in his larceny, but the groundhog is otherwise a dull fellow and a lousy predictor of the coming of spring.  In fact I declare him unworthy of his own day in the calendar and pronounce him a fraud. 

On the other hand I heard on the news this morning that Punxsutawney Phil failed to see his shadow and declares that warmth is on its way.  As I look outside my window at the snowy gloom, I’m tempted to believe him. 

Phillip, you’re a wise and prescient rodent – a great seer -- a prince of the marmot clan.  Possibly your residence, Gobbler’s Knob is not, after all, named for your treatment of lettuce.  Damned good forecast! The crocus is stirring under the snow. Thanks for letting me know.   

Steak Dinner

Today was to have been the day we visited the new American Wing of the Museum of Fine Arts, but it’s snowing.  These days when plans are apt to be interrupted, we take comfort in smaller events.  We bought a rib eye steak for $15.  It’s a budget buster, and yesterday I fired up my Webber Smoky Joe grill. 

On long summer evenings I grill in daylight or at least twilight, but last night the charcoal blazed brightly in the darkness outside the kitchen.  With my coat on, I hovered on the warm side of the storm door and popped out to turn the steak and test for doneness before I took it off. 

Annette and I shared the steak at the kitchen table along with mushroom crostini, Brussels sprouts, and a salad of Napa cabbage and cilantro.  We drank Beaujolais Nouveau.  Afterward we watched an episode of “Masterpiece Theater” I had recorded. We finished the wine with some Fourme D’Amert, a French blue cheese I got at French Memories in Duxbury – another splurge. It was not what young folks would think of as wild living, but it made  a pleasant evening for a couple of fogies in January.

The third luxury is a vase of cut tulips the color of rosy peaches. I counted out the money for them at a garden center.  They’re not mere decorations; they are a promise of spring.  We know, of course, it will be long cold weeks before tulips nod in the gardens of town, but these flowers are a strong symbol.  We don’t notice them casually; we gaze at them, averting our eyes from the reality of the falling snow. 

Of course we can’t live this way all the time, and to make up for the expenditures we are defrosting on the kitchen counter a boneless pork chop purchased in a forgotten supermarket sale.  Annette plans to serve mashed potatoes and gravy made with the leftover mushrooms, and we’ll watch an episode of “The Rockford Files.” I recorded it from RTV – the Retro Television Network. Look for it on channel WMFP in Boston.   It’s definitely fogy television; should we choose, I can watch Buck Rogers, and Annette can enjoy her favorite western hero the Cisco Kid.  These delights will hold us until we can marvel at the new American Wing.