monte cristo

You have not truly lived until you have had your sandwich battered, deep fried, dusted with powdered sugar and dipped in jelly. Mmmmm..

Delicious, said Max.

A few quick notes on things that are great: "Renoir vs. Lichtenstein" ad on the side of a bus; people who dance on the sidewalk while waiting for the signal to change; free lawn furniture; "Prefuse 73 Reads the Books."

-rrr

black-eyed peas

Hoo boy, I just witnessed the most blatant ass-glance ever. Some skeezy middle-aged guy in a black T-shirt was strutting ahead of me down the street, and upon passing this admittedly cute hipster chick he pulled a complete about-face, stared for a couple of seconds, then gave me a scrunched-up look as if to say "Meh, I've seen better." Awesome.

What else..

Oh: I'm in love with Taj Mahal, but that's old news; I'm getting seriously antsy with springtime outdoor-activity fever; and I learned that a meal of legumes and rice leaves one just a tad unfulfilled. Methinks I'd make a bad vegetarian and a worse South American.

-rrr

$8 indian buffet

Two things I love today:

1) A squat, balding man carrying an armload of flowers from Pike Place Market, and smiling (I imagine) at the notion of what unexpected happiness they will bring.

2) The antithesis of the bystander effect, e.g. at least seven people rushing to the aid of a Real Change salesman who tripped over a curb. Turns out he was fine.

I guess delicious Indian food turns me into a sap. Oh well. I leave you with this (NPR-inspired) quote from birthday boy Bernard Malamud:

The purpose of the writer is to keep civilization from destroying itself.

Bedroom authors of the world unite, eh?

-rrr

spinach, squash, potato

Risking life and limb in bold pursuit of knowledge, and ignoring our suddenly summery weather on my way back to the office (kids: don't read in the crosswalk), I happened upon this line relating to the East India Company's 19th century exploits:

...that always disasterous combination of broad powers and low pay....

Though specifically in refernce to the notoriuosly corrupt officials working the Customs Line (a 2,500-mile meandering tangle of prickly pear and acacia, designed to inhibit trade between provinces), the phrase resonates with my inherent dislike of all low-level authority figures. Rent-a-cops, bouncers, daycare providers, you name it. Give anyone sufficient control over others, add minimum wage, subtract personal liability, and you're either left with (at best) an apathetic bureaucrat, or (at worst) a sadistic power-tripper. [End rant]

In less historical news, today's curried yellow squash was a particular treat. I wish I had a vegetable garden.

-rrr

pepperoni pizza

There's a growing part of my psyche that longs to be a regular. Not so much one of the bejacketed happy hour alkadelics strewn among Seattle's more comfortable bar stools, but someone who walks into the neighborhood diner on Saturday morning and doesn't bother to order because his Spanish omelette and potato pancakes (a winning combination if I do say so myself) are already on their way. I want the waitstaff to know my name and ask me lovingly eye-rolled questions about my perpetually unfinished novel. I want my own table in the corner.

By the same token, I'd be happy stepping into a new restaurant every day, ordering at random from an unfamiliar menu, and charting my progress on a battered U.S. map that I taped to the ceiling of my camper van.

One more contradictory life goal tossed on the heap.

Oh, right, lunch: Today marked my weekly Meal With Mother, which--since we meet about 95% of the time at Rockbottom, a brewpub roughly equidistant from each of us--is about as close to dining regularity as I come. The hostess who knows us best, and who calls me "sweetie" despite being all of five years my elder, is just about the perkiest thing you'd ever hope to see. In a good way.

-rrr

1/2 & 1/2 veggie curry

Friday is pick-a-vegetable-dish day down at ye olde Café Zum Zum, so I munched on some saag aloo and split-garbanzo curry, with garlic naan and Mr. Pibb, of course. There was a greatly entertaining Punjabi reworking of "Drop It Like It's Hot" playing for what seemed like most of the half-hour I was eating, and I couldn't help but notice that the overplucked eyebrows of the cashier (one third of the tri-generational staff) were raised a bit higher than usual as she smiled and reminded me to have a nice weekend. It appears that even in the bowels of downtown's fast food service industry there exists a deep-felt gratitude for sunny Friday afternoons--especially ones on which I get paid by my employer and the IRS.

Oh, hey, thrilling development in the world of salt: During the span of 1912-1916, while working as a fur trader in Labrador, Clarence Birdseye was inspired by his frozen-as-fuck climate to develop a technique for quick-freezing fish, thereby forever relegating salted and pickled products to a subsistence as novelty ethnic foods. Damn you, Clarence!

-rrr