tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-53940790012794938642024-03-05T09:24:41.454-05:00FogiedomRichmond Talbothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09323599809212459383noreply@blogger.comBlogger183125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5394079001279493864.post-77419193189603884732016-12-15T09:22:00.001-05:002016-12-15T09:22:56.394-05:00Christmas for the Fogies<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s about time I got out the Christmas DVDs. I identify with Clark Griswold in “National
Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation.” Like him,
I always wanted to do Christmas up big. At one point we had all the relatives to
dinner. We cooked a turkey according to a
complex Italian recipe and bought a ham through the mail from Virginia. We had to soak the ham to reduce the salt, and
then we simmered it in a pot we borrowed from a restaurant. When the restaurant closed, we acquired the pot,
and it’s still in the cellar. When the ham
had been soaked and simmered, we glazed it with brown sugar and baked it in the
oven. The ham kept for a long time. We’d
turn the bone into pea soup about the time the crocuses started to bloom. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now we spend Christmas visiting the grandchildren. It’s great to be around them, but things have
changed. As it so often happens after
the onset of fogiedom, much has dropped away.
I’ve learned a thing or two over the years. With the prediction of a cold snap, I went
out to the garage and took the tree out of its bucket of water so it won’t be
frozen in, when I want to set it up. I’ve
enlisted outside help getting it into the stand. Annette and I could manage to
get it to stand straight, but probably not without cross words. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ll still watch “Christmas Vacation,” and laugh at the
funny parts, but it’s mostly to relive the past. I’ll
decorate the tree to songs that were old when I bought the CDs years ago. You know, Gene Autry doing “Rudolph the Red-Nosed
Reindeer” and Bing Crosby crooning“White Christmas.” We just received a Stilton
cheese from England and soon we’ll have some friends over, light a fire in the
fireplace and pour the port. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was out in the
woods yesterday gathering greens to decorate the mantelpiece and
windowsills. I bought poinsettias. When the house is decorated, we’ll have
guests in to see it, but now the lights and greens are mostly for us. Like everything else, the display is simpler
now, but we haven’t let Christmas slip out of our lives. My motto is one word – persevere.<o:p></o:p></div>
Richmond Talbothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09323599809212459383noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5394079001279493864.post-318059302032888992016-05-18T12:57:00.000-04:002016-05-18T13:01:42.605-04:00Neptune Oyster<div class="MsoNormal">
My father-in-law, Arthur Sirrico lived as a boy in Boston’s
North End. Some men visited his
apartment and demanded money to get an associate out of prison. His mother gave it to them. When the child asked why, she said she had
to. Later the family moved to Plymouth
where Arthur could work outdoors. He
managed the gardens on the Hornblower estate, and later became Park Superintendent
for the town. He owned a garden center
on South Street near the playground that bears his name. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I visited the North End as a young adult, I remember groups
of men in tailored top coats and pearl gray fedoras who we liked to think were
Mafia. If they were, they had their own lawyers and didn’t have to extort bail
money from the locals. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I taught history in high school I had a class on World
War II. My students were all boys, and
if a girl signed up for the course she felt uncomfortable and transferred out. I used to collect first person accounts of
the war. I would bookmark lurid
passages, and once a week I would read them to the class. I called this gory
story time. One student said, “Oh Mr.
Talbot, that’s gross! Tell us some more.”
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Gory story time was so popular; I tried it in a U. S.
History class. It didn’t go over well,
and one girl in particular complained it made her sick, so I abandoned the practice. I took the kids on a field trip to the North
End. They found the neighborhood more
interesting than the Paul Revere’s House and the Old North Church. I happened to be walking next to the girl who
had complained about my stories, and I noticed a pig’s head on a plate in the
window of a butcher shop. I didn’t mean to tease her; I just thought it was
interesting and I said, “look.” She
turned her head and fainted. I caught
her under the arms before she hit the pavement.
The North End was a foreign place.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I hadn’t been back for years, but a short while ago Annette
and I made the trip. Gone are the
butcher shops with skinned rabbits hanging in the windows with their paws left furred
so shoppers could be sure they weren’t cats.
Gone are the lambs hanging on hooks, and I saw no pigs’ heads. The buildings looked different. Bricks had been power washed, and buildings reinforced
and renovated. I heard no Italian
spoken and the school children were a mix of ethnicities. Some of the stores that used to cater to the
tastes of the Italian population are gone, and those that remain have a gourmet
shop quality. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We had coffee in a cafe and there were two men at a nearby
table who looked as though they might have been Italian. They were contractors, but not the kind who
were going to whack cousin Sal who is skimming off the top and has no respect; they
were going over building specks and talking about subs and portions of the job
which would cost hundreds of thousands. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There are more restaurants than there used to be, and we
headed for Neptune Oyster at 63 Salem Street.
There was such a long line waiting for the restaurant to open for lunch we
worried that we wouldn’t get seats, and, indeed, we were the last to be
admitted to the small space. I missed
the European feel of the old North End, but we gain and we lose as time goes
by. When I tasted an appetizer of
yellowfin “coyne” crostini, I didn’t pine for veal cutlets accompanied by pasta
and red sauce. The raw tuna was heaped on a toasted slice of fresh Iggy’s bread that
had been spread with avocado. The chunks
glowed like jewels and were the best raw fish I ever ate anywhere. Another best was a tentacle of Spanish octopus
with a Marcona almond Romanesco sauce, and Basque pepper. I’ve eaten octopus on
Mykonos bathed in sunshine with a view of the Aegean Sea, but this was
better. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Fried clams are everywhere, but those at Neptune Oyster were
freshly opened and expertly fried, making them a rare experience. We asked the
waiter about the tartar sauce, and he said it was made with mayonnaise. Perhaps so, but the Neptune Oyster version was
lighter and full of flavor. It was light
years away from the clam stand version you get in the little paper cup, and if
the restaurant comes out with a cookbook I’ll buy it for that one recipe.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The Neptune Johnnycake was sweetened with honey butter and
topped with a pile of smoked trout topped with caviar. You got sweet corn meal smoky fish and salty
sturgeon roe. It was lovely. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Back in the times I’ve been reminiscing about you couldn’t
have found food like this in the North End or anywhere in the whole city. A short distance away from the Restaurant the
trees on the Rose Kennedy Greenway were coming into leaf. It is certainly an improvement over the dirty
gloom that lay under the old Central Artery.
I’m not a fan of the tunnel that’s under your feet, but as I said, time
changes and you gain and you lose.<o:p></o:p></div>
Richmond Talbothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09323599809212459383noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5394079001279493864.post-20693564747806364892016-04-05T13:47:00.000-04:002016-04-09T07:40:15.723-04:00When There Were Letters<div class="MsoNormal">
One thing I promised myself I wouldn’t do in this blog is
rant, so I won’t. However, I think we
fogies may be happy in our hearts that there are things we were born early
enough not to have missed. I read today
that the student mailboxes will be closed forever at my Alma Mata, Bates
College. It seems that due to email ,
Facebook , and texting, letters are a thing of the past. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I was at Bates, there were three students to a
box. Mine was assigned to Rushforth,
Swarthchild , and Talbot. David Rushforth
and I ended up in Plymouth. Actually Caroline Tabor preceded me alphabetically
in the class of ’62, but Bates was very straight laced, and I guess they
thought coed sharing of mailboxes was indecent.
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When the mail was in, a crowd gathered around the mail boxes
with people dialing the three digit combinations and the sound of the little
doors being slammed in frustration if they didn’t get any. Letters were for the most part hand
written. There was no spell check. Our teachers told us if we didn’t know how to
spell a word we should look it up.
Dictionaries didn’t give your their best guess of what you were trying
to write, so you did the best you could. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There was something about a letter that has been lost. There was the paper, the handwriting, the ink
(or pencil), and even the spelling. The
effort it took to write a letter was part of the pleasure you got from
receiving it. Some one cared enough to
write it, seal it, put a stamp on it, and mail it. You touched what they touched. You could picture the person at his or her
desk or kitchen table writing to you. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It may be that the slowness of the job let us think more
carefully about what we said, although I won’t swear to it. When I was a teenager, my mother advised me,
“Never say anything foolish to a girl, and if you do, don’t put it in writing. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Letters could be kept and often were. I love to read John Adams’ letters to Abigail
and her letters to him. I enjoyed Harry
Truman’s letters to Bess. People reveal
themselves in letters. One of the great
losses to my family history was the time the letters of William Talbot, who was
a sea captain and a Mississippi River pilot, were put out into the garage where
the dampness turned the old paper to powder. The one that escaped described New
Orleans during reconstruction. Captain
William was sympathetic with the suffering of the people, but he said,
“Bostonians, with their love of liberty, would never stand for it.” I quoted that to a modern day New Orleans
steamboat captain, and he was not amused<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There were the letters of Michelangelo and the love letters
of Abelard and Eloise, but the best book of letters I ever read was by E. B.
White. I think if he wrote a shopping
list, I’d want to read it. He was a prolific correspondent. Usually when I’m reading a long book, I’m
happy to come to the end, but I was sorry to close that one. One of these days I may start again. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
I don’t know what future historians will do. Will people someday read <i>The Emails of Hillary Clinton</i>? Perhaps it will be <i>The tweets of Kim Kardashian. </i>I’m glad to have lived in the age of
letter writing. It’s nice to get an
email, but it was better to get a letter.<o:p></o:p></div>
Richmond Talbothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09323599809212459383noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5394079001279493864.post-47769881763440994532016-02-23T09:26:00.000-05:002016-02-23T09:26:00.868-05:00The Engine<br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I think I
can. I think I can. I think I can.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I think I
can. I think I can.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
think<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
…<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
can.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
What am I,
nuts?<o:p></o:p></div>
Richmond Talbothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09323599809212459383noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5394079001279493864.post-29825190495031501532016-02-03T10:10:00.000-05:002016-02-03T10:15:18.446-05:00A Healthy Diet<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Pythagoras, the ancient Greek geometer who is known for a
theorem you learned in high school, prohibited his followers from eating
beans. It seems the proofs one needed to
explain the sides of a triangle required a lot more thought than pronouncements
about diet. It’s still true. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The list of things I’ve been told never to
eat includes all fat, anything that contains cholesterol such as eggs and meat,
wheat flour because it has gluten, and any vegetable that has been sprayed, chemically
fertilized, or genetically altered. Salt and sugar are bad for me, as is diet
soda. As a matter of fact all artificial
ingredients are considered potentially toxic.
Tomatoes were once thought to be
poisonous, but that was before my time. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Some foods were thought to have an almost magical benefit to
my health. In my early childhood it was
milk – “nature’s most nearly perfect food." We’re not talking skim milk either; rich whole milk was the best. “You never outgrow your need for milk,” I
learned when I watched “Walt Disney’s Wonderful World of Color.” Later in my life it was thought milk should
be avoided, but now it’s back so long as it’s not from cows that have been
treated with bovine growth hormones. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yogurt became the ultimate health food. Red meat was also good for you, especially if
you were a man who did physical labor or played football. I remember eating gummy oatmeal in the
college cafeteria on the morning of game day, and seeing the football team show
up to be fortified by a hearty steak breakfast.
We lesser mortals got to enjoy the smell. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then the superfood became brown rice. It was part of a macrobiotic diet in which
you balanced the yin and yang of your food. It was claimed this prevented all manner of
ills. Cancer, it was written, was
unknown among followers of the regimen.
Remember oat bran? You could buy
it in a jar and sprinkle it on anything you ate. Dunkin Donuts would sell you a softball-size
oat bran muffin. Now the headliner is
kale – preferably organic kale. Drink a kale smoothie, and you can leap tall
buildings in a single bound. Alcohol,
which was once abhorred by folks who considered their bodies to be temples, is
now good for you in moderation. <o:p></o:p></div>
Like Pythagoras, the people who give you diet advice get it
off the top of their heads. Sure there
are scientific studies, but most of them have small populations or are
otherwise flawed. I believe in eating a
wide variety of foods and not too much of any one thing. Do this, come from
sturdy ancestors, and be aware of highway speed limits, and you’ll probably be
fine. There are, however, certain forest
mushrooms it’s better to avoid. <br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
Richmond Talbothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09323599809212459383noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5394079001279493864.post-31864226745170609732015-12-10T12:03:00.001-05:002015-12-10T12:06:59.601-05:00Bondir<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></b></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG30hZdbtgUjgg-tZRAo2tzOVAEWpPrYXTsDIDYSYqZlCXjr-5g-PZthdVZKVbefi5sVsfsM_BFaWidJ0FVq2j673q6uA8JDyn41lvNQi1lobuFU7jdtuSQn6V-RYjMAEAi1aEka2kXqo/s1600/Bday_02.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG30hZdbtgUjgg-tZRAo2tzOVAEWpPrYXTsDIDYSYqZlCXjr-5g-PZthdVZKVbefi5sVsfsM_BFaWidJ0FVq2j673q6uA8JDyn41lvNQi1lobuFU7jdtuSQn6V-RYjMAEAi1aEka2kXqo/s320/Bday_02.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></b></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
There is something to be said for a restaurant where you
order your favorite dish every time you go, and it always tastes the same. It’s as comforting as the pillow upon which
you lay your head, but Bondir isn’t that sort of place. Oh it’s comfortable enough,
and the staff is welcoming, and there are no snooty waiters peering down their
noses to see which fork you choose. We
entered the premises at 279A Broadway
in Cambridge on a chilly evening and were offered a seat by a warming
fire. We sipped Spanish cava and enjoyed
the homelike atmosphere. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But as soon as they
brought the bread basket, what we thought of as reality began to twist and bend. There was “sea bread” in which black squid
ink ranged across the slice like the negative of a photo of the Milky Way. The bread also contained shrimp and seaweed. I think the shrimp may have been dried and
ground to a powder. The bread had the heartiness of wheat and a briny flavor that
reminds you of the scent of the ocean when you walk in the froth of waves in
the cool of a summer sunrise. I ate it
in fascination tinged with disbelief.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ve often read
about foods like this. Restaurant
critics in the nineteenth and the first part of the twentieth century knew
exactly how a dish was to be prepared, and a chef who didn’t send it out in in
the classic fashion suffered the eloquence of their disdain. Now critics, not wishing to seem like the
concert-goers who rioted during the first performance of Stravinsky’s “Rite of
Spring,” are content to list ingredients with an adjective thrown in here and
there. I, on the other hand, know that you, dear reader, want me to tell you whether
or not you’d like it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My answer is that
depends on your ability to shed preconceptions and be open to new
experiences. When a chef leaves the
safety of the orthodox there is a danger of his creating an abomination, and
the only safeguard from this is his talent. Brendan Joy, the head chef of
Bondir is a man in whose hands the diner is safe. Once you realize that you will have entered
an alternate reality, you relax and enjoy the ride. There are delightful
surprises. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You don’t have to
ponder the menu; they bring it to you, and that’s what you’re going to
get. Of course you have a little wiggle
room. One of our party was a vegetarian, and she
requested a substitute for the Beef Rib, with a confit of radicchio, bordelaise,
and pickled kumquats. She got fluke
instead, and they left the crisp curls of Parma ham off her portion of winter
squash tortellini with black walnut. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The staff believes wholeheartedly
in the excellence of what they offer. We
were brought a large bowl containing celery root and shreds of black trumpet
mushrooms sitting in a warm broth made from those ingredients. When Erin, our server, saw me lift the bowl
to my lips and drink the exquisite liquid, she beamed. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Chef Joy sent out a
little extra consisting of a wild rice chip with Umami<b> </b>powder and black cherry
puree. You will recognize the consistency
of the chip if you eat Cheez Doodles.
There are many crisp snack chips in Asian cuisine that are similar to
it, but despite the wild rice base, it was still a chip. The powder ramped up the savory flavor, and
the sweet fruit astonished the palate. Joy
is not without audacity.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The prix fixe menu
is $68 per person for five courses. They
are small, but if you don’t make a face and push some of them aside, they make
a satisfying meal. For $35 more, i opted for an extra of risotto with black
truffle. I was excited at the prospect. The risotto was the best I ever had, but I reached
for the flavor of the truffle and didn’t find it. Annette, who sampled it, thought it was fine,
but a truffle should knock your socks off, and this one didn’t. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That was my only
complaint. With the bottle of the cava
and three other glasses of wine plus my risotto, the bill was a budget-buster,
but considering the excellence of the ingredients and the amount of skilled
labor that went into their preparation, the dinner was a bargain. I advise you
to skip bacon and egg breakfasts at your favorite café, forgo hamburger lunches,
and even a steak dinner kicked off with a martini. Save your money, push all your chips onto the
table, and take a chance. I’m betting
you won’t be disappointed, but if you’re the timid soul, stick with IHOP. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We finished with
what the menu lists as a Red Ida Fritelle.
I’ll call it apple fritters with white chocolate, caramel sauce, and a
topping of brown bread ice cream. It was
perfect and sent us out into the December night a happy group.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Richmond Talbothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09323599809212459383noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5394079001279493864.post-14270786028629221302015-09-22T11:21:00.000-04:002015-09-22T15:14:29.814-04:00Autumn<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Green leaves
that were pristine in spring</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Are torn to
tatters <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
But the late
September day,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Nearly resembling,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
The welcome
warmth of May,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Seems all
that matters,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Though should
I stoop to pluck<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
An autumn
aster<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I’d wish I
had the luck<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
To rise a
little faster,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
And roses
that were once like girls<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
New and
tightly furled<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Now
resemble, truth to tell,<o:p></o:p></div>
Old women
with their face lifts gone to hell.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<o:p></o:p></div>
Richmond Talbothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09323599809212459383noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5394079001279493864.post-62050313330100321642015-08-12T11:14:00.002-04:002015-08-12T11:17:15.509-04:00Old Age<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
The glue<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
That holds
my <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Soul to body
fails.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
It dries and
cracks <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
To strew</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
My pillow
nightly. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I’m doing
all I can,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
But nails and tacks<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Are painful,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
And duct
tape<o:p></o:p></div>
Is
unsightly.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<o:p></o:p></div>
Richmond Talbothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09323599809212459383noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5394079001279493864.post-50247251221172880752015-05-25T17:08:00.000-04:002015-05-25T17:08:37.534-04:00Fogy Fashion News<br /><div class="MsoNormal">
I had occasion recently to attend a function where the
attendees were required to dress up.
This was no problem for me. I have
two suits, one for winter and one for summer, and I plucked from my closet the
summer one. I wore my best white shirt
and a nifty pink bow tie with flowers on it.
Annette had bought a simple dress of an attractive color and a pretty
sweater to go over it. I thought we
looked nice. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I arrived at the shindig, I was as flabbergasted, as
fogies often are, at how things had changed while I wasn’t looking. I noticed the featured element of today’s
style seems to be skin. Total nudity
will never be fashionable until someone discovers a way to make money out of
it, but revealing garments are the rage. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I suspect today’s
dress shoppers are influenced by “Dancing with the Stars,” and the red carpet
at the Academy Awards. The trouble is
the attendees at these televised events have bodies they labor upon daily with
diet and exercise. If these methods
fail, there are procedures collectively known as ”work.” Limbs, necks, tummies, and breasts are
shapely, firm, and upholstered with flawless skin. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This is not the case with some of the women present at the
do to which I was in attendance. They
seemed to have chosen garments that the reminded them of professional beauties without considering what the revealing elements were liable to reveal. Skirts that
my out-of-date vocabulary might term micro-mini fluttered provocatively above
legs that had long been absent from the treadmill. One damsel seemed to have been recently
jumped upon by a large dog as there were red scratch marks up and down her
thighs. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Many of the gowns seemed to have been acquired at
considerable expense, but they were cheap compared to those worn by the
celebrities their purchasers wished to emulate. There was no designer to match
dress style to body type. No seamstress made
alterations so the fabric lay in attractive folds over the flesh it was meant
to conceal. One woman bulged alarmingly inside a diaphanous dress that must
have been extremely difficult to zip up. It was cut low, revealing almost all
of her enormous breasts, the right one
of which was decorated with a rose tattoo, which may have been provocative
twenty years ago. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">When I got home, I regarded myself naked in the
bathroom mirror. I was glad my trousers had been held up by suspenders instead
of a belt which would have pinched them in at the waist. I was glad my shirt was not of the tapered
European sort. My jacket covered my torso pretty well, but had been worn
unbuttoned lest it strain at the midriff.
Despite my relative satisfaction, I was possessed by a resolve that lasted
long enough for me to make do with black coffee and toast for breakfast</span>Richmond Talbothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09323599809212459383noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5394079001279493864.post-46721956922735807782015-05-03T19:26:00.000-04:002015-05-03T19:30:11.238-04:00Oral Hygiene<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Having achieved fogiedom, I've lived a good many of my years
without the benefit of an oral hygienist, but times, as they seem to keep
doing, have changed. After a session of
scraping and digging below the gums, the woman informed me from behind her surgical
mask that I had bad oral hygiene. I was
about to tell her she had no business calling me a dirty old man, when I
reflected that my teeth, like the rest of me, aren't what they used to be. I asked what I must do. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Do you have a timer on your tooth brush?” she
inquired. I didn't even know there were
such things, but I pretended I hadn't sprung for the option. She told me I should brush my teeth for at
least two minutes; I should floss for a minute and then rinse with mouthwash
for one minute. My rebellion was quelled, and I gave it a
try, but not without doing the math.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I now brush for two minutes. I don’t need a timer on my toothbrush, any
more than I need a telephone that can find the nearest pizzeria, but I have a
watch. I floss for another minute and rinse
for a minute. I figure I spend another
minute getting things out of the cabinet and putting them back. Annette likes it if I clean the sink. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So I spend five minutes twice a day. That makes seventy minutes a week. Now with fifty-two weeks a year that makes 3640
minutes a year or 61 hours. Allowing for
eight hours of sleep, I dedicate the waking moments of 3.81 days per year cleaning
my teeth. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
All right, I've exaggerated a little bit. I multitask and
put away the toothbrush, floss and Listerine bottle while I’m sloshing the
mouthwash around , and on some mornings
I make the excuse that I haven’t gotten anything between my teeth since I
flossed the previous night, so I skip that chore. So let’s forget the 81% of the fourth day and
round it off to three days. It’s still a
lot of the time I've got left before what Saul Bellow called “the inevitable tragedy
of the fifth act.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m reasonably healthy so If I give myself an optimistic ten
more years, that’s thirty days. Do I
really want to spend a month at the bathroom sink? So far I've knuckled under,
but I’m thinking it over. I didn't rebel
much in my youth. In the fifties I had a
brown leather jacket, not a black one, but it isn't too late to misspend my old
age.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
Richmond Talbothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09323599809212459383noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5394079001279493864.post-40240328552923586212015-02-04T08:25:00.000-05:002015-02-04T08:34:35.933-05:00Walking at the supermarket.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
It was too cold for the salt to melt the ice on the roads so even in slow
motion I slewed on the curves and slid a little at the stop signs, but the day
of the storm I didn’t get out at all. In
this season the pathway for my walk is the supermarket. I estimate seven times around to be a
mile. This is not the transcendental
saunter into Nature idealized by Thoreau, but neither is it a gym. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
The supermarket is better in a number of ways, the first being you get to
use it for free. The smells aren’t as
sublime as the autumn woods or the summer beach, but the deli department, the
fish counter, and the bakery are better than the stink of a jock on an adjacent
treadmill. As for comradery, I’m greeted
by a friendly deli man, the checkout ladies, and the fellow who stocks the
shelves. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
I’m not as easily lost in thought as I early on a summer morning am at
the beach. In the supermarket I have to watch for carts emerging from aisles, oblivious
shoppers pondering labels, and slowpokes of various ages, but it’s safer than
crossing the street. Visually, there’s
nothing like sunlight filtering through forest leaves or the flight of a tern
with a sand eel in its beak, but supermarket colors are bright and varied, and
the displays change from week to week. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
I like being among foodstuffs, even those I don’t buy. I pass the cans of Chef Boyardee ravioli and
remember childhood suppers on winter evenings after sledding. I don’t want to go back to Table Talk Pies
either, but somehow I’m glad they’re still there. I check prices as I go by, and if I see solid
pack white tuna at 10 for $10, I stock up. I do my shopping when my walk is
done, rounding the store one final time. Being almost a daily shopper, I don’t
usually have more than I can take to the express checkout, but over the winter
I pay for the use of the heat and light and the wear of my shoes on the
supermarket floor. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
My walk isn’t as soul-healing as one of Thoreau’s but it gives me a
change of scene, raises my heartrate for the prescribed amount of time, and fills
the pantry too. I don’t get nailed at a
crosswalk by a skidding car or slip and break an aging hip. We fogies deal with
winter as best we can.<o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
Richmond Talbothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09323599809212459383noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5394079001279493864.post-88404119940979000612014-11-21T10:19:00.000-05:002014-11-21T10:19:01.258-05:00Grill 58<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBfCQhH1-qdgZlUA5hwsYGsd2OWM3AucEqlLwwALQjmkyxsoqQuhmi0_QYrQNWX5-SGYzbI4M291TZHkrUClvtu50XudCBzKiq-BYOii4AdOyfT86sCEbbExVq8L2TlvX1Br-NQIe4gFg/s1600/grill.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBfCQhH1-qdgZlUA5hwsYGsd2OWM3AucEqlLwwALQjmkyxsoqQuhmi0_QYrQNWX5-SGYzbI4M291TZHkrUClvtu50XudCBzKiq-BYOii4AdOyfT86sCEbbExVq8L2TlvX1Br-NQIe4gFg/s1600/grill.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Grill 58 at
284 Monponsett Street in Halifax is a restaurant I’d never have found if it weren't for word
of mouth. It’s set in a strip mall of
the sort you’d pass without a sideways glance if you weren't in the know. I had recommendations from Frank who works at
the garage where I get my car fixed, and from Annette’s aunt Valerie, who knits
sweaters for our grandchildren. The praise was so effusive Annette and I
ventured into the countryside to see what the excitement was about. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Where some
cafes have jukeboxes, Grill 58 provides a tableside television into which you’re
invited to feed coins. I was disposed to make snide comments about the poor
man’s dinner and a movie, forgetting that in the privacy of my home I've been
known to sup before the flickering screen.
I suppose the invention is useful
for families in which the children haven’t learned restaurant manners and need
an electronic drug to prevent them from running amok betwixt the tables. There were no children when I was there. and
none of the TVs was on. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
You are also
invited to play Lotto, but all electronic amenities faded from mind when the
waiter served my fried scallops, which turned out to be absolutely the most
outstanding delicacy I've ever eaten from a plastic basket. They were, incredibly
fresh, tender, sweet, and perfectly fried.
Annette got the same scallops breaded, buttered, and served broiled with
mashed potatoes. As we ate, we began planning what we’d get on our next
visit. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
My scallops came
with fried onion rings. This side dish
can be wretched when mishandled, but these rings were well-nigh perfect. There were also french fries, which I was
going to rate as ordinary, but on a second taste I noticed they had a nice
potato flavor and were lightly fried so they weren't greasy. Neither were they crisped with the sweet
coating that has become just about ubiquitous.
My daughter tells me it’s scientifically developed so the combination of
fat, sugar, and salt will deaden the messages sent to your brain which tell it
you’re full. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
On the
second visit, Annette and I split an order of cheeseburger sliders. I warn you these are so juicy they squirt
when you bite into them. You get a
choice of cheeses. We chose cheddar, and got the real thing, not processed
American cheese. They came with
tomatoes, lettuce, and more of those great onion rings. The buns were much better than the standard
hamburger rolls and they were grill toasted to a crisp buttery finish. We ordered the burgers medium rare, and mine
was slightly pink inside. I give Grill
58 high marks for this. Often when a wait
person asks you how you want a burger cooked, it comes to you brown and dry, no
matter what you say. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Grill 58’s
fish chowder had a silky mouth-feel that was rich with cream, not pasty with thickener. The fish was fresh and perfectly done. There were bits of quahog in the chowder. (Be
warned if you’re allergic to shellfish.)
I think they took their clam chowder and put in generous pieces of
delicate cod. I give it top marks for
restaurant chowder. I was beginning to see a pattern in which everything you
order gets a little tweak that makes it better than expected. With the fish it’s perfect freshness.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
We weren’t
really hungry when it was time for dessert, but we split an order of
gingerbread. The generous portion was
the extra in this order. It was moist,
slightly chewy, dark with molasses, and spicy with ginger and clove. The whipped cream was our first
disappointment. It was the aerosol kind that melts into a thin white liquid on
the plate. I wish they’d whip their
own. The gingerbread also came with a
small scoop of ice cream<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Once again
we left contemplating another visit. On that occasion my fried clams were
fresh-tasting and not at all greasy. The
lunch basket didn't have a mountain of them, but the quantity was all a person
my age ought to cram into his antiquated digestive system, and it was a good
deal for $9.95. The clams came with the
same onion rings and fries. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixxnTjpKbV8FX0jEZLQdnyGQEIbpprfiud1fk_YhIJpdOihgXogfIZ2t-v4sWfK4HJvVsf21jS4w3D2j3clymqQdiwp5hAYyrlPM4zrNL3zuByUZeg40-Gdij0CPvAsGRbAJROkIg1QXg/s1600/Grill_clams.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixxnTjpKbV8FX0jEZLQdnyGQEIbpprfiud1fk_YhIJpdOihgXogfIZ2t-v4sWfK4HJvVsf21jS4w3D2j3clymqQdiwp5hAYyrlPM4zrNL3zuByUZeg40-Gdij0CPvAsGRbAJROkIg1QXg/s1600/Grill_clams.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Annette’s
chicken supreme was tender and juicy.
Everything I've sampled at Grill 58 has been carefully cooked. I remembered how many tough slabs of boneless
chicken breast I've eaten forlorn cafes. Annette complained that the supreme
sauce lacked the flecks of tarragon she enjoys when she orders the dish at the
Mile Post in Duxbury, but it was a lovely gravy that tasted of chicken. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Annette
remarked that, at lunchtime, the grill is filled with old folks. It’s not that we didn't fit in with the crowd,
but we were reminded of our status as we looked around. Fogies go out for lunch. They tend to have early bedtimes and some of
them don’t like to drive home in the dark. They like good food at reasonable
prices and pass the word when they find it.
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I haven’t
dined at Grill 58 in the evening, which means there are things on the regular
menu I haven’t tried. I hear the pizza
is good, and I expect the steaks are is as delectable as the sliders. I haven’t tested the bar. Of the things I ate, the fried scallops were
the most outstanding, but I’m ready to recommend that you begin your own exploration.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
Richmond Talbothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09323599809212459383noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5394079001279493864.post-84238168903404244002014-11-05T09:50:00.001-05:002014-11-21T10:34:08.626-05:00November Song<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Was there ever
a bard who failed to remember</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
The song of
the soaring lark<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
And penned
an ode to November<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
With its
growing cold and dark? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
And as the
year began to fizzle<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Who scorned the
buds of May<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
To sing of the
gloomy drizzle <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
And praise
the shortening day?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
But I who
romped ‘neath April’s sky<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Trudge out
when the warmth’s unseasonable,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
To walk the
world ere the year must die,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
And stoutly
resolve to be reasonable.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I look for
beauty in somber hues<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
And scuff
the fallen leaves.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I take my
song from a stalwart muse<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
And shun the
one who grieves.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<br />
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<br /></div>
Richmond Talbothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09323599809212459383noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5394079001279493864.post-37848524976147624462014-09-09T08:38:00.001-04:002014-09-09T08:38:33.811-04:00Kindle<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
Out of the gray mist of my fogyish mind emerges something I once read.
These things influence you and cumulatively make you the person you become, but
when they pop into consciousness, only the point – the part that made the
difference in your development – remains.
It was about some explorers – anthropologists maybe –taking up residence
in a primitive culture. I can remember neither the name of the visitors nor
that of the people they studied.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The natives had become used to
marvels. These foreigners bounced about
in Jeeps and even landed in small planes.
It all became as humdrum to the villagers as it is to us today. Then the wizards installed a pipe to bring
water from a distant spring into the middle of the village, and the locals gaped
in awe. Carrying water had been hard and
necessary work, and <i>presto,</i> water was
made to appear right where it was needed.
<o:p></o:p></div>
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The mysterious strangers had at last accomplished a miracle that meant something. Up to that time it was as though they’d been
sawing ladies in half and putting them back together again – amusing, but not
exactly important. Now that the
backbreaking labor of hauling water had been made to vanish through the magic
of plumbing, there was new respect for the visitors.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Naturally I got this information from a printed page. The reason that I thought of it was I have
acquired a Kindle. I was going to tell
you I’m the proud owner of a Kindle, but clichés don’t always say what you want
them to. I’m not proud. I've been resisting Kindle ownership on
ethical grounds. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I’m a lover of used books. I sell
them every summer at the Plymouth Antiquarian Fair. I love the fact that books have lives that
extend from owner to owner and I’m proud to be part of the system of passing
them on. This year we didn’t get as many
donations as we have in the past. There
are many possible reasons, but it was suggested that people are buying their
books on Kindle and don’t have to clear their shelves. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I have a nightmare fantasy of some Orwellian dictatorship in which the
Ministry of Truth gains control of the providers of e-books. There can’t be that many of them. There doesn’t need to be an orgy of book
burning like there was in Nazi Germany.
Some night a signal reaches out and books are altered or disappear. I saw my new Kindle quietly turn itself on
and upgrade. It was eerie. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Where are the original copies of the Gospels? The answer is they no longer exist. For centuries when the old editions were
gnawed by rats or riddled with worms, monks laboriously copied them by hand and
protected them in libraries. Our oldest
versions are in Greek, which was not the language of Jesus and his friends. The
work of translation went on and on.
Parchment and paper carried the Word.
Now it is possible to fear that form of the preservation of literature
is about to end. Our heritage may dwell
in the cloud.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I have to admit my Kindle is a nifty little thing. It’s portable and can hold a lot of
books. I used to have a recurring dream
that I was walking through my house and discovered a door I hadn’t noticed
before. I opened it and found myself in
a library crammed with books. Now I can hold such a library on my Kindle,
and if they are old books and out of copyright, I can download them for free. My
Kindle is like the trickle of water in the primitive village, and I’m impressed
in spite of myself. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The Kindle has a clear screen with crisp print that’s easy to read. If my eyes begin to fail I can increase the
size of the type. The device has a nice
feel to it. It’s solid but not too heavy,
and the back has a satiny finish that’s pleasant to touch. It almost makes up for the tactile feeling of
real books that I’ve learned to love. I
don’t want to fall in love with my Kindle, but I may.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Fogies are the natural enemies of the newfangled. It is for us to
treasure the old ways and preserve them if we can. It is also for us to move into smaller
quarters and let our possessions, including our books pass into the care of
others. I see myself in a room in a
nursing home rereading <i>Moby Dick</i> on
my Kindle. Then I will fade into the
Great Elsewhere and leave the world to the young. Maybe it will be all right. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Richmond Talbothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09323599809212459383noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5394079001279493864.post-44274832759674522812014-05-31T20:48:00.003-04:002014-05-31T20:48:57.277-04:00Port Bistro<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnbC9Sj3-pnWhufIKJar-TeJ77bQ3YO7l3rDUyXb1CnGk_4EEcbtWJbv-OyiLHdnIHY_07G0afNbLM1P60fkisWJ5GU_hIuNNjRzBK1Ismluou7d4vNZ-Bn_E8wT0ZsiYOmQLCe7OBzNA/s1600/portbsign.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnbC9Sj3-pnWhufIKJar-TeJ77bQ3YO7l3rDUyXb1CnGk_4EEcbtWJbv-OyiLHdnIHY_07G0afNbLM1P60fkisWJ5GU_hIuNNjRzBK1Ismluou7d4vNZ-Bn_E8wT0ZsiYOmQLCe7OBzNA/s1600/portbsign.JPG" height="213" width="320" /></a></div>
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I was excited about the opening of Port Bistro when I
learned it is the sister restaurant to Sintra in Braintree. The hospitality and
the food were worth the trip, but now I have only to drive to Kingston where
Jenkins has taken over the space that housed La Paloma at 14 Main Street near
KFC and the Purple Building. <a href="http://www.portbistrokingston.com/">http://www.portbistrokingston.com/</a><o:p></o:p></div>
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I was first impressed by the wine list, and when I remarked
upon it, I was introduced to Melani St. Pierre, who put in great deal of work
selecting wines for the restaurant and is proud of the result. Her title is Wine Director; she says <span lang="EN">sommelier is a
masculine term. No matter your wine expertise or lack of same, your experience
at Port Bistro will be enhanced if you place wine selection in her hands. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN">Served with a square of polenta, the </span>long island duckling was tender, juicy, and unctuous without being
greasy. The spiced orange glaze was a little sweet for my taste, but not so
much as to spoil the total experience. To go with it, Ms St. Pierre recommended
Bedell Merlot from North Fork, Long Island, NY. That‘s certainly a <i>terroir</i> I’m not familiar with, and the
wine reached heights to which I didn’t think the variety capable. I decided
then and there this Wine Director has a great deal to teach. <span lang="EN">I see the bar at
Port Bistro is convivial with winebibbers, and I suspect that the place is
becoming a destination for those who appreciate wine.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN"><br /></span></div>
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When visiting Port
Bistro on a weeknight, I often choose a half portion of pasta. I like the baked rigatoni served with<b> </b>chorizo
sauce, roasted peppers, melted fresh mozzarella and topped with crisp basil-scented
crumbs. It’s a treat for $11, and I spend the savings on wine. On a recent
visit I selected a half order of braised beef short rib cannelloni. The meat
was removed from the bone and served with a béchamel sauce enhanced with
porcini mushrooms, tomato confit, and a demi-glace with truffles. With it I
enjoyed a<span lang="EN"> 2012 Castello Di Nieve pino nero. This is a Spanish pinot noir and an
outstanding example of the variety, which can sometimes be a little thin. It was graced with velvety tannin that
elegantly balanced the sprightliness of the grape. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Annette had baked
haddock, which was perfectly fresh and moist from vigilant cooking. “This is
good fish,” she exclaimed, “This is as good as I would make!” (Having learned the art from her mother, Annette
is famous in our family for her baked haddock.) <b><o:p></o:p></b></div>
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On that evening she and
I split a salad of arugula elegantly dressed with lemon and extra-virgin olive
oil and garnished with shavings of parmesan cheese. The greens were fresh with the characteristic
hint of bitterness. I get so many bad
salads in restaurants, it was a delight to have one so thoughtfully conceived
and carefully made. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis-f4JB2JIOru5HvrDPhDhEhRDDFogzzp3P1G-D41AToJwRI_usrrp28Xl8buroGl1EObyVt5m70VQySvKIEutkehho09PGWIOIBwpd4Mo4ZC70bqAhBtijuKOKguU9f_aO1CzjCB-298/s1600/PortB_cremebrulee.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis-f4JB2JIOru5HvrDPhDhEhRDDFogzzp3P1G-D41AToJwRI_usrrp28Xl8buroGl1EObyVt5m70VQySvKIEutkehho09PGWIOIBwpd4Mo4ZC70bqAhBtijuKOKguU9f_aO1CzjCB-298/s1600/PortB_cremebrulee.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a></div>
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We finished up with crème
brulee, and I had a piece of chocolate cake with a rich molten center and a
scoop of coffee ice cream. It was more
food then we require on a Wednesday night, and next time we hope to manage a
little restraint. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Port Bistro is a
rising star upon the area’s restaurant scene. I look forward to further
exploration of the menu, and just contemplating the wine list makes my future seem
bright. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Richmond Talbothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09323599809212459383noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5394079001279493864.post-16127668710805635372014-05-18T16:36:00.003-04:002014-05-18T16:38:40.865-04:00Casablanca<br />
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Much blood
has been spilt,</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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but I have
the letters of transit.<o:p></o:p></div>
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They are in
perfect order<o:p></o:p></div>
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and actually
quite beautiful – <o:p></o:p></div>
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fine paper,
crisp print, legible handwriting.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Neither high
officials nor brutish border guards<o:p></o:p></div>
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dare
question them.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Possessed of
incredible privilege,<o:p></o:p></div>
I trudge the
desert alone.<br />
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<o:p></o:p></div>
Richmond Talbothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09323599809212459383noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5394079001279493864.post-5728289060934118482014-05-11T11:17:00.000-04:002014-05-11T11:17:30.715-04:00Soylent<div class="MsoNormal">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCoDgp6vuhCsjwCTF8lhZ11CjsWSf1HqhrPrpo5k1k20FGJwixrHgdW8lzM0a73Zs4VVhCyNGDEanq41kAt0xMcIYGLNU_SST-feyiSj2fq78JdY039Mcdi6YE57suE76EXqRlrJDMf3Q/s1600/End+of+Food.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCoDgp6vuhCsjwCTF8lhZ11CjsWSf1HqhrPrpo5k1k20FGJwixrHgdW8lzM0a73Zs4VVhCyNGDEanq41kAt0xMcIYGLNU_SST-feyiSj2fq78JdY039Mcdi6YE57suE76EXqRlrJDMf3Q/s1600/End+of+Food.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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I just got the latest <i>New
Yorker </i>and read “The End of Food” by Lizzie Widdicombe. <a href="http://www.newyorker.com/reporting/2014/05/12/140512fa_fact_widdicombe?currentPage=all">http://www.newyorker.com/reporting/2014/05/12/140512fa_fact_widdicombe?currentPage=all</a>
It tells of the invention by a Californian named Rob Rhinehart of Soylent,
which is a food substitute. Like most of his friends, Rhinehart had been living
on<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-size: 13pt; line-height: 115%;">
</span>McDonald’s dollar meals and five-dollar pizzas from Little
Caesars. He and his friends thought eating food was expensive and an
interruption of their work. <o:p></o:p></div>
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He is quoted as saying, “You need amino acids and lipids,
not milk itself. You need carbohydrates, not bread. He said fruits and
vegetables provide essential vitamins and minerals, but they’re mostly water. He
decided that nutrients – the things you need from food – could be reduced to a
powder which could be dissolved in water and drunk. For him the problem was solved. He claims that for the past year and a half
he’s been living almost exclusively on Soylent. Widdicombe reports that he
looks healthy. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Soylent is nerd food and has gained a following among
computer engineers and other bright young workers. Rhinehart claims that his discovery will
eliminate the need for agriculture, which he says is an inefficient use of
resources. Of course some agricultural
products are used in the production of Soylent, but Rhinehart dreams of a time
when farming will be made obsolete by Soylent-producing algae that would turn
out the product using only sunlight and water. <o:p></o:p></div>
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This is the opposite of the Whole Foods philosophy. Instead of removing chemicals from food, you
remove the food and ingest chemicals. If you protest that you can’t live
without rocky road ice cream you can have it.
Rhinehart calls this recreational eating, which he condones and
occasionally indulges in. <o:p></o:p></div>
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As a person who has found good food one of the blessings of
life, I’m somewhat appalled, and yet I’m not outraged at the idea. I lunched
today on a ham salad roll from a supermarket deli. The roll was sweet and cottony, and the main
flavor of the ham was salt which remains on my palate as I type. I was able to
get it down with the copious lubrication of cheap mayonnaise – sugar, salt, and
fat. I’m embarrassed at this confession, but I was tired from my morning chores
and didn't feel like rustling up a better meal.
Rhinehart in his dollar meal days was a fellow sufferer. Considering the number of Americans who
subsist mainly on fast food, he may have invented a godsend. <o:p></o:p></div>
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But I continue to seek out new foodstuffs, and am trying to
tempt the Foodie Pilgrim into undertaking with me an excursion to Boston to
explore the bizarre foods of Chinatown. I was there a short while ago and
sampled a dish of tripe and tofu at the Great Taste Bakery & Restaurant. </div>
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<a href="http://www.bostongreattastebakery.com/">http://www.bostongreattastebakery.com/</a>
These are two foods I've long striven to
learn to like. I had been making
progress with tofu, but tripe had defeated my attempts to achieve appreciation
– until then. Perhaps my self-congratulation at my new ability skewed my
judgment as to how good it actually was, but it sure wasn't bad. If I've mastered tripe, can the conquest of
duck feet be far behind?</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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Richmond Talbothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09323599809212459383noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5394079001279493864.post-30665609155162407362014-05-03T10:28:00.000-04:002014-05-03T10:28:30.072-04:00A History of Chowder <div class="MsoNormal">
Robert Cox is a robust man who looks more like a lumberjack
than a scholar, but his wit, assortment of degrees, and ornamented prose belie
first impressions. His recent lecture at
Pilgrim Hall was full of information and humor, and its topic was chowder. Having heard it, I bought <i>The History of Chowder; Four Centuries of a
New England Meal</i>, which he co-authored with Jacob Walker. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Both my grandmothers made chowder. They used salt pork, milk, potatoes, fish or
clams, and served it with crackers. They
seasoned it with pepper and sometimes floated a pat of butter on top. My mother made it the same way, and I’d come
in wet and cold from sledding and tuck into a steaming bowl that spoke to me of
family and home. Like all New Englanders, I thought this chowder had been
passed down from time immemorial, and I couldn't imagine eating it any other
way. <o:p></o:p></div>
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As I grew to manhood, I learned the world is not as innocent
as my mother’s kitchen. In Rhode Island they leave out the milk, and in New
York they add tomatoes! But these were traveler’s tales from beyond the
outskirts of civilization. Now my eyes are opened. <i>The History of Chowder</i> is packed with information that takes the
reader on a fascinating journey through the past. The authors write: “This most comfortable of
comfort foods carries a subtle aftertaste of international conflict, of
conquest and enslavement, of the blood and tears that made Europe imperial and
shaped the modern world.” <o:p></o:p></div>
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Now I find Rhode Island chowder is the oldest version made
today. It was born aboard fishing boats
and was built from ingredients at hand. The
ocean teemed with fish. Salt pork kept
well in barrels and was a staple of seafaring life. So were crackers in the form of hard
tack. Onions would survive on board if
kept in a dry place. You cooked them in
pork fat, added a layer of fish and a layer of ship’s biscuit and kept alternating
the ingredients in the pot. Fresh water
was scarce on shipboard so they only used a little, and they had no milk. In
the days when chowder came to be, potatoes were not popular in New England.<o:p></o:p></div>
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This hearty pottage was cooked by men for men, but chowder
came ashore, and women civilized it.
When I make stock from fish bones and freeze it so a cod filet from the
fish market will make quick and flavorful chowder, I’m tinkering with a dish
that has been tinkered with from the time Europeans reached these waters and
these shores. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I often read about food, but this book taught me things I
didn’t know about local history. It
seems pigs were agents of colonialism and had almost as much to do with the
displacement of the native people as the diseases harbored by the
newcomers. Pigs are easily transported
and pretty nearly raise themselves. They
can be released into the wild and live off the land. The Pilgrims fenced their
fields, but the Indians didn't so the invading swine devastated native crops. Pigs
also rooted in the clam flats that were mainstays of Indian sustenance. The white man salted pork and packed it away,
and it became a basic ingredient of chowder. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I enjoyed the appendix of chowder recipes that starts with one
for diet chowder from the seventies that made my blood run cold. It’s made with
skim milk, onion flakes, parsley flakes, and either butter flavoring or a
teaspoon of oleo. How far we've descended from the time when hearty chowders
were built and devoured on the ever-moving sea. I liked the reproductions of
recipe cards, but I have to say most of the images in the book are badly
reproduced and a lot of them are just plain lame. Never mind, <i>A History of Chowder</i> is a short, but fascinating
treatise on local history centered around one of our most iconic regional
dishes. After you read it, you’ll never
look on a bowl of chowder the same way again.
<i><o:p></o:p></i></div>
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Richmond Talbothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09323599809212459383noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5394079001279493864.post-29324688180084590152014-04-12T09:19:00.000-04:002014-04-12T09:19:06.644-04:00Maxims<div class="MsoNormal">
“Do what you love; the money will follow.” There have always been starving artists. “Whatever
doesn't kill you makes you strong.” Unless it weakens you – ask any fogy about
old age. “Crime doesn't pay.” Some
people never feel guilty and never get caught.
But there’s one maxim no logician has ever been able to
refute. “It is what it is.”<o:p></o:p></div>
Richmond Talbothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09323599809212459383noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5394079001279493864.post-30369796010835940822014-03-28T15:19:00.001-04:002014-03-28T15:21:42.218-04:00Veal Chops<div class="MsoNormal">
Since I’m a frugal Yankee, my gym is Shaw’s
Supermarket. I’ve gotten to know the
staff so I have the same camaraderie I’d get in a gym I had to pay for. I go early when the aisles are free of
shoppers, and I walk briskly seven times around, which I estimate to be a
mile. It’s just as good as a treadmill. When
I’ve finished the seventh lap, I get a cart and go around again. <o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
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Being there early, I find bargains. There’s a spot at the end of the meat counter
where they put the stuff that didn’t sell, and the other day I found two veal
chops that had been discounted deeply. They started at $7.00 each, but this isn’t
Whole Foods, and they languished. They were marked down to $5.00 – still no
takers. Now they had manager’s special
stickers deducting $3:00 from the lowest marked price so the $7.00 chops were
$2.00 each. How could I resist?<o:p></o:p></div>
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We pan-broiled the chops in a cast iron skillet, the kind my
grandmother called a spider. Then
Annette made a sauce using pan drippings deglazed with wine and Cognac. She
thickened it with heavy cream. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4GBq7oJeDI_FnCobtmPEJs4sf-UQO9f4RNbL3GQ43vWkykT3Sy0Lco3OcsLckTpA6GNr6rsGyXVQkc8jfmy7EnK-NUkRThkUpGq4_jzV6mxw5KUJitNepj7t8BJWGibn112I4Kt9PmQ8/s1600/veal_sauce_01.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4GBq7oJeDI_FnCobtmPEJs4sf-UQO9f4RNbL3GQ43vWkykT3Sy0Lco3OcsLckTpA6GNr6rsGyXVQkc8jfmy7EnK-NUkRThkUpGq4_jzV6mxw5KUJitNepj7t8BJWGibn112I4Kt9PmQ8/s1600/veal_sauce_01.jpg" height="212" width="320" /></a></div>
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We had the
chops for lunch accompanied by asparagus and a lovely Rosé D’Anjou. When I thought
how much this luncheon would cost in a fine restaurant, I felt smug.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
Richmond Talbothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09323599809212459383noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5394079001279493864.post-82519280581336365812014-03-23T13:42:00.000-04:002014-03-23T13:47:05.543-04:00Mexican Madras<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Happy Day! Annette
saw something on TV that told her tequila is good for you. Personally, I never pay attention to the
nutritional and other health segments of the morning news, but ‘tis an ill
wind….</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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I am ordinarily the family bartender, but I was off this
morning purchasing bagels and the Sunday <i>New
York Times.</i> When I returned Annette had gotten out the cocktail shaker and
mixed up Mexican Madrases. Here’s a recipe.
I don't know if it’s the one she used or if she followed the one she found,
but it looks like a good start.<o:p></o:p></div>
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3 ounces cranberry juice<o:p></o:p></div>
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½ ounce orange juice<o:p></o:p></div>
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1 ounce gold tequila<o:p></o:p></div>
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1 dash lime juice<o:p></o:p></div>
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Shake with ice, strain, and serve with a half orange
slice. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I’m not sure how much health benefit you get from one tiny
ounce of tequila, but the recipe may be modified according to your conscience,
your body’s need for nutritious agave, and your taste. The mere presence of breakfast cocktails
improved our mood on this cold and cloudy March day. We clinked glasses, munched our bagels, and
went off to our newspaper in good spirits.
<o:p></o:p></div>
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Richmond Talbothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09323599809212459383noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5394079001279493864.post-20101848588998624612014-03-22T09:35:00.002-04:002014-03-22T09:35:26.314-04:00Reuben, She’s Been Thinking.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnccdXW7dRzVsZixQYUHrCAL1dtehTz35ijuzRZnUosWATNe1Mt-sZBHZjocwqki3PEm0brQK3pDeqo9H-LHZEXZfFHS6cGi_kdsZEcSzGa3R3c2U8FXmtytZ0yYbvmmFxYZa0yYR8BRE/s1600/reuben.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnccdXW7dRzVsZixQYUHrCAL1dtehTz35ijuzRZnUosWATNe1Mt-sZBHZjocwqki3PEm0brQK3pDeqo9H-LHZEXZfFHS6cGi_kdsZEcSzGa3R3c2U8FXmtytZ0yYbvmmFxYZa0yYR8BRE/s1600/reuben.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a></div>
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When you’re two years old, a long winter has taken up a
sizable percentage of your time on the planet; and my two-year-old grandson was
ecstatic about the coming of spring. On
the phone to Annette, he exclaimed, “Nannie, the grass is here! Indeed it is, and it was time for us to break
out of hibernation and go to Mattapoisett for sauerkraut. </div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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I’d asked The Foodie Pilgrim if he was going to be near the
famous Morse’s Sauerkraut, but the grass has not yet emerged in Waldoboro,
Maine, and the Pilgrim had no immediate plans to venture that far up Route 1.
Still his knowledge of the food resources of New England is encyclopedic, and
he told me I could score creditable sauerkraut at How on Earth in
Mattapoisett. <o:p></o:p></div>
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It was a pleasant trip. The snow had melted except in sheltered
places and grimy piles in parking lots.
Many of the ponds had open areas where water sparkled for the first time
in months. A sharp wind was blowing in
from Buzzard’s Bay when we pulled into the How on Earth parking area. Hurrying inside, we found a good selection of
fine New England foodstuffs, and from the refrigerator case we picked up a jar
of Real Pickles Organic Sauerkraut. <o:p></o:p></div>
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It’s naturally fermented by a small, worker-owned
cooperative using cabbage from family farms in Massachusetts and Vermont. As we
made our way home through the thawing countryside, we had our start toward the
Reuben sandwiches we hungered for. <o:p></o:p></div>
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St. Patrick’s Day had been duly celebrated, and as is our
custom, we corned our own beef. It’s not
difficult to do. You need a large
zippered plastic bag, salt and spices, a couple of culinary bricks to weigh
down a chunk of brisket in your refrigerator, and the persistence to turn the
meat daily and massage it with the rub. Julia
Child has a good recipe in <i>The Way to
Cook. </i><o:p></o:p></div>
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I stopped into The Hearth Bakery in Plymouth for a loaf of pumpernickel
bread, and then rounded up ingredients for homemade Russian dressing. I was out of the house just before the meal
was to occur, and when I returned I found Annette had riffed on the Reubens. <o:p></o:p></div>
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We should have a kitchen data recorder that saves the details,
not of disasters, but of creative inspirations that visit her when she opens
the refrigerator door. It’s sad that recipes of these strokes of genius are
lost to humanity, but although I won’t get exactly the same experience ever
again, I’m comforted in the knowledge that she can keep coming up with surprises
that are just as good. <o:p></o:p></div>
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She rejected the
Cains pickle relish I’d picked up that day as being too sweet. We’ll save the
jar for hot dogs this summer. For the
dressing she chopped some of my martini olives, some parsley, and onions. Still avoiding sweetness, she rejected Heinz and
chose an exotic brand of hot and spicy ketchup she found in the door of the
fridge. She mixed these into a
mayonnaise base, adding added a shake or two of Worcestershire sauce, and a
squirt of horseradish cream from the plastic container. Having avoided the
sugar, she didn’t need the lemon juice Martha Stewart called for in the recipe
I’d downloaded that afternoon. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The leftover corned beef was a little dry from its time in
the fridge so she sliced it as thinly as she could, sprinkled it with water
from the tips of her fingers, wrapped it in aluminum foil, and steamed it in
the oven. It melted in our mouths. Reuben
sandwiches are made with Swiss cheese, and she used some Raclette, which is the
famous melting cheese of Switzerland, although ours was made in France. She
added the sauerkraut, buttered the bread, spread dressing on each slice, and
grilled the sandwiches. <o:p></o:p></div>
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They were slightly unorthodox but absolutely heavenly. I may not have the exact recipe, but the
memory will linger for a long time.<o:p></o:p></div>
Richmond Talbothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09323599809212459383noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5394079001279493864.post-29290436855942016272014-02-01T17:04:00.002-05:002014-02-01T17:06:58.445-05:00Rock Shrimp<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOmInNgUVPZSxM1mzoMWCeX610t1zF-5tf9Kepta7Vpj9bQY1jrWqvJV2UmZQWHg_oQfpXIdihOVjkzgExeqNMZUcNmQqxtmEeMEy0WO_QOZijiw7qCKjxk6jOjjrquRW_320Tfi9uyJo/s1600/shrimp.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOmInNgUVPZSxM1mzoMWCeX610t1zF-5tf9Kepta7Vpj9bQY1jrWqvJV2UmZQWHg_oQfpXIdihOVjkzgExeqNMZUcNmQqxtmEeMEy0WO_QOZijiw7qCKjxk6jOjjrquRW_320Tfi9uyJo/s1600/shrimp.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a></div>
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It’s a great thing at my age to discover a new seafood, and
I just devoured my first mess of Rock Shrimp.
These little critters have been off the Florida Coast for a long time,
but no one fished for them for a very good reason. They aren’t named rock shrimp because of
their habitat; it’s because their shells are rock hard, and until recently
there was no practical way to get to the good stuff. Now with the invention of high speed
splitting machines, these well armored crustaceans have hit the market, and I’m
sending up a cheer. I had my first taste of them at Dixie Crossroads in
Titusville, Florida. <a href="http://dixiecrossroads.com/">http://dixiecrossroads.com/</a>
If you’re on your way to Cape Canaveral,
it’s a good place to stop. You may just
spend your afternoon eating shrimp and forget all about outer space. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
You can order rock shrimp by the pound. If you make a
mistake and under-order, your friendly waitress will bring you more. She starts
you off with corn fritters, which are addictive, but filling, so go easy. The shrimp are sweet. Some compare the flavor to lobster, but I
think it’s unique, and these were absolutely the best shrimp I ever
tasted. They came broiled and
accompanied by lemon and melted butter. Annette liked them with butter, but I
thought they were perfect with just a side of cheese grits. For a beverage I chose Fat Tire Ale, a local
brew. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Should you have any room when the shrimp are gone, Dixie
Crossroads serves an excellent key lime pie.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Richmond Talbothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09323599809212459383noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5394079001279493864.post-91782458548398644392014-01-17T07:44:00.000-05:002014-01-17T07:52:10.397-05:00St. Michael’s Bread
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4KW-yqTE0mOoI4yPsdZJNFebMhCyqYnU9jrgW5U74AzKY3aMO8WqXGF0c7Oenw8YxFbvX1TQkdbU_kMbOlnl3vJDgGD0N1B7mnpPTxJ7TJR1kpF6-2FiJjlZwjeL3vbFR8rQ0jvKEkjc/s1600/ckbook.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4KW-yqTE0mOoI4yPsdZJNFebMhCyqYnU9jrgW5U74AzKY3aMO8WqXGF0c7Oenw8YxFbvX1TQkdbU_kMbOlnl3vJDgGD0N1B7mnpPTxJ7TJR1kpF6-2FiJjlZwjeL3vbFR8rQ0jvKEkjc/s1600/ckbook.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The only hard thing about baking bread is remembering how
easy it is. Today I made St. Michael’s bread from the book <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Recipes from the Portuguese of Provincetown.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i>By the way, I see this book is available
for small money from Amazon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span></span><span style="mso-no-proof: yes;"><!--[endif]--></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">This is my go-to bread recipe, but it has been modified over
the years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It calls for dissolving a
yeast cake in warm water in which you also dissolve two tablespoons of
vegetable shortening.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I always used
Crisco. You wanted the water to be warm enough to dissolve the Crisco, but if
you got it too hot, you would kill the yeast.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It was always a cliff-hanger to see if the dough would rise.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I’ve made some notes in my old cookbook.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I now use instant yeast, which I buy it King
Arthur Flour. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><a href="http://www.kingarthurflour.com/shop/items/saf-red-instant-yeast-16-oz">http://www.kingarthurflour.com/shop/items/saf-red-instant-yeast-16-oz</a><o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It comes in quite a large package, but it keeps in the
freezer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My notes say a scant tablespoon
equals a package of yeast, which long ago substituted for the yeast cake.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You just put it in with the dry ingredients.
There’s no need to proof it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Instead of
Crisco I now use the same amount of olive oil.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>This makes yellower bread with a delicious taste that’s slightly
different from the original.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think
it’s better.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe the Portuguese of
Provincetown used vegetable shorting, but their ancestors in Portugal used
olive oil.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">For the kneading, I use the dough hook on my Kitchen Aid
mixer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I like to knead bread, but the
dough used to start out sticky, and I hated getting the residue off the
table.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It would clog a brush and ruin a
sponge.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Paper towels turned to shreds no
matter what brand I used, and I ended up alternating between scraping it and
washing the surface. Now, when the dough hook has done its work, I flour the
table and knead the dough by hand for a minute or two until it forms a smooth
ball.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I actually like kneading bread,
but this will do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Because it’s past the
sticky phase when I put it down, all I need to do is brush away the leftover
flour.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHVlO8evDEhorZihi2pMvUvNbz_4Rb4vWjlJFtNaDhyphenhyphenS5-QiDd3vKAh_l33J9r3Z6NXJ3v6kwXXEt1LeV6FlblkHXOsz7SV6q0_7on0nlXPkdva1uyDGCJaVdx4n7qeQrlK0wtb3xUZ4g/s1600/dough.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHVlO8evDEhorZihi2pMvUvNbz_4Rb4vWjlJFtNaDhyphenhyphenS5-QiDd3vKAh_l33J9r3Z6NXJ3v6kwXXEt1LeV6FlblkHXOsz7SV6q0_7on0nlXPkdva1uyDGCJaVdx4n7qeQrlK0wtb3xUZ4g/s1600/dough.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="mso-no-proof: yes;"><!--[endif]--></span><o:p></o:p><br /></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">From experience I have learned that the recipe’s direction to
bake it for 50 minutes at 350° is too long. Today I checked it at 35 minutes. I
liked the color and the hollow sound when I thumped the bottom of the loaf.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then I checked it with an instant-read
thermometer just to make sure, and it came out to 180°, which is what I
wanted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAreKU9Nk9f4q9lbi12c1y2ieWyeRe582hM1Dwy-1dsLOi8llE5sLV-WCGDz3ybxz0iyvOTDacZyVvQMNtxOIhMtZN1hPMPQvuDtceurrbGqXxhn7fc7RdbHmG6EUPU5kH9sJP8gTz8CY/s1600/bread_02.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAreKU9Nk9f4q9lbi12c1y2ieWyeRe582hM1Dwy-1dsLOi8llE5sLV-WCGDz3ybxz0iyvOTDacZyVvQMNtxOIhMtZN1hPMPQvuDtceurrbGqXxhn7fc7RdbHmG6EUPU5kH9sJP8gTz8CY/s1600/bread_02.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Now there are only two downsides to baking bread.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s not a lot of work, but you need to be
home when it finishes each of its two risings and when it bakes. Music on the
stereo and a good book fill the wait. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A
more serious problem is you’re likely to eat more bread than you should before
it even cools. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-no-proof: yes;"><!--[if gte vml 1]><v:shape
id="Picture_x0020_4" o:spid="_x0000_i1025" type="#_x0000_t75" style='width:6in;
height:4in;visibility:visible;mso-wrap-style:square'>
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o:title=""/>
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<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
Richmond Talbothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09323599809212459383noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5394079001279493864.post-83987907478258169472014-01-02T14:35:00.004-05:002014-01-02T14:37:08.279-05:00O Christmas Tree
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><o:p></o:p></span> </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">O Tannenbaum, o Tannenbaum,<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Wie
treu sind deine Blätter!<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Thou blessed
our house with woodsy scent<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">While we
grew slowly fatter.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">As carols
graced our living room <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Thy lights
adorned our Christmas Eve,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But now that
needles strew the rug<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It's time
thou got the heave. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Sweet
nostalgia dewed our eyes <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">As trinkets
old thy boughs bedecked. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Now only in
the vacuum bag<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Thy odor we
detect. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">All over are
the galas grand,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Both casual
and formal.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We move the
furniture in place<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And things
go back to normal.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We rest and
read our Christmas books<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Surrounded
now by quiet.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We sit at
table solemnly <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Observing
careful diet.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">While once
again in nature thou mayst feel the breezes blow <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">With fellows
up and down the street, bedecked by flakes of snow. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">O Christmas
Trees O Christmas Trees<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">How lovely
are thy branches, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Now sprawled
before colonials, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Victorians,
and ranches.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
Richmond Talbothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09323599809212459383noreply@blogger.com0