|If Wishes Were Horses I'd Be Knee-Deep in Dung
||[Jul. 6th, 2014|12:01 am]
Last night I forgot to open the living room windows before I fell asleep, so I didn't get to take advantage of the coolest night in a week to chill the house. Instead I woke up in a warm, stuffy room shortly after dawn and had only an hour or so to have them open before I had to close them against the day's growing heat. I also forgot to wash the dishes, turn off the computer, or clean the cat's litter box. My brain was braised.|
Tomorrow is to be much hotter, and it's going to top 100 degrees for three days running. Worse yet, Sunday and Monday nights will stay in the 70s, so it's going to be quite hellish around here. I'll have the choice of roasting or going broke running the air conditioner. It's times like this that I most miss living closer to the ocean.
Grocery shopping tomorrow, and I'm certainly not looking forward to going out into that furnace. On the other hand, the stores do provide air conditioning at a lower temperature than I can afford at home, so the greatest misery will be coming and going. Maybe I'll shop very slowly. I usually try to get through the stores as quickly as possible, but tomorrow would be a good time to make an exception.
Ah, for an afternoon at the beach.
Sorry you forgot to open the windows. I've had that happen, and it does make the whole day inside warmer. Ugh, 100 degrees is the worst. Hope you shop very slowly indeed. Up here, all the Safeways have Starbucks where you can sit forever. Maybe a cup of iced coffee could give you license to park it and enjoy the coolth?
We have a rustic Safeway. Not only is there no Starbucks, there is no on-site food service area at all. You can get a deli sandwich and drink to take away, but there's no place to eat it there. The deli counter itself is rather primitive. They haven't stocked mortadella in years, if not decades, and what's a deli without mortadella?
Mortadella's a funny thing. While I was in Bologna, I went into a shop and bought a big, round slice of it, the kind with square chunks of pork fat. I was curious, because I don't like Oscar Meyer-type "baloney." (This may be because, when I was a kid, thrifty moms would sometimes make baloney salad as a substitute for ham salad. My mom's ham salad was out of this world, but once I ate a neighbor's baloney salad and got pretty darn sick, likely from an overload of fat!) Turned out I didn't like mortadella either, sad to say. What I do like is finocchiona salami, with fennel seeds. Ever had it? There's a market about 15 minutes north here that sells it. Once in a while I buy about 6 paper-thin slices.
Correction: Oscar Mayer. Guess I haven't heard that dippy theme song in way too long. :D
I used to eat baloney sandwiches all the time when I was a kid, but I doubt that I could stand them now. I'm sure I'd still enjoy mortadella, if I could find it. Happily, fat does not (as a rule) make me sick. In fact I've been known to eat pats of butter while I'm waiting for toast to pop up. I haven't done that more recently than yesterday, though, and probably won't do it again until later today.
The odds of finding finocchiona in Butte County are vanishingly small. But the Internet tells me the stuff is made from pork shoulder and cheek. Cheek might be hard to come by, but I can easily get pork shoulder. In fact Spam is made from it. I doubt that tossing some fennel seeds onto a slice of Spam would give me the full effect, though.
Right now the icon I chose for this comment has me craving a pastrami sandwich, but I can't get decent pastrami anywhere around here either.
Parody of the Oscar Mayer jingle we used to sing in intermediate school:
I'm glad I'm not an Oscar Mayer wiener
That's a thing I do not want to be
'Cause if I were an Oscar Mayer wiener
Everyone who ate would vomit me
There were also obscene versions, but I can't recall the exact lyrics of any of them. But being about wieners and having been made up by 12-year-old boys they were, of course, mostly fellatio-related.
Haha! Boys! We girls sang about bones for telephones and winding sheets. Well, this is Girl Scout campfire stuff, something entirely else. *g*
12-year-old boys are compelled to impugn one another's masculinity through competitive filth-spouting, among other things. It was great fun while it lasted, BFFs scarring one another for life.