A blizzard can mean only one thing: I’m not going to bake a damn pie because I can’t get to the store.
Also: I’m going to take the bus to the bank tomorrow. Those are the things a blizzard means.
You need to get an inhaler or something. That sounds like asthma, or a severe smokers cough.
Well, see a doctor, anyway? Oh I DON’T? I sleep next to you! I should know what a death rattle sounds like.
Okay, you know what? I’m trying to blog right now. I’m not going to ARGUE WITH YOU. Because. You’re IMAGINARY!!!
I’m sorry. I know that’s not playing fair. I’m sorry. Yes. I know it’s not fair to create you as a narrative device for my blog and then resent you. Okay. You’re right. CAN WE MOVE ON?
Beware, intrepid New Yorkers. Beware the bus. It’s a great mode of transport and everything. It works well, and it tends to run on schedule, as far as my experience has shown me. But at least be aware. You’re entering the territory of the Old Bus Lady. You might notice that I’m getting a confused look. It not because I’m covertly photographing them. Old Bus Ladies love to be photographed. And anyway, they didn’t notice. What they DID notice is that i sat in the first six seats. They DID NOT like that. There’s a sign! It says, please give this seat up to Old Bus Ladies! Boy. There was a big to-do about me sitting there. I should mention that we were the only people on the bus. Old Bus Lady! You’re so silly!
But I respect your territory and pretend I’m Polish.
But finding ripe, cheap blueberries that taste good in the dead of winter can run a close second. It really creeps me out. But what could i do? It was more than a pint for less than 5 bucks. Had to take the mutant hot-house blueberries.
I didn’t have the ingredients to make a pie, so I whipped up some blueberry quickbread for myself and a friend who came to visit.
This was after enduring the outrage and scorn of the ancient Italian Old Bus Ladies. One of them made deep eye contact and whispered ‘Thinner!!!!” Right as I left the bus. Haven’t felt exactly myself since, but I’ve dropped 10 lbs in two days…
People are calling it the SNOWPOCALYPSE and SNOWMAGEDDON and SNOWLOCAUST.
People are being dramatic. People LOVE to be dramatic. Look at the media. They can take a phrase like ‘health care reform’ and change it around to read ‘death squads.’ Ta da!
That’s called ‘pushing paper’ in the journalism biz. You take the most dramatic, most terrifying angle on something and then act like your hare brained half-theory is FACT.
Look at this! Amid all the warnings about white flour and fat and an ever expanding, girthy America – SOMEONE is making duck fat and heavy cream gravy to go atop buttermilk biscuits.
Why would he ever serve that to a guest? No one can know for sure, but here’s a theory: He wants to clog the arteries of his young guest because he’s jealous of him – his beauty, his youth, his energy and light-hearted verve.
What a bitter aging fairy – making a sludge filled breakfast of biscuits and gravy!
See. I just sensationalized it! That’s called ‘being a good journalist.’ But don’t blame the journalists. They’re just putting food on the table. Blame yourself. You’re the one reading it.
It only looks like it’s on the floor.
So,The next morning I made these puppies. Look at them. They were quick and easy and full of butter and buttermilk.
I learned a lot on my trip to the bank and the fruit market. I learned that Old Bus Ladies are not to be trifled with. They’ve lived longer than you, they know more about the world. Some of it good, some bad. They can put a gypsy curse on you.
They’ve worked hard to raise their children and slowly poison their husbands with butter and sour cream and whole milk and flour and heavy cream and lard and duck fat and other mysterious poisons like anti-freeze.
And sometimes, fags – sometimes you gotta respect that. Sometimes you have to move to the back of the bus, like Rosa wouldn’t, even if there’s nobody else on the bus.
At least, until you’re an Old Bus Lady yourself.
Enjoy the Blueberry Quick Bread and Biscuits and Duckfat Buttermilk gravy, jerks!!