Tag Archives: starbucks

To Beet Or Not To Beet?

11 May

33643771-parsnip-on-the-boards-vegetable

It’s time to decide whether to join a community supported agriculture (CSA) for when black thumb takes root and flourishes in my little garden the way it has for, well, ever.  For all the years.  And while I assume that it’s tough being an oddsmaker in Las Vegas and Atlantic City, I can pretty much guarantee that here in my garden, it’s Black Thumb to win with Tomato Blight to place and Gardening Is Like Setting Dollar Bills On Fire to show.  (And they’re off!)

It’s not an easy decision given that I still have parsnips from last year’s CSA in the bottom of the vegetable drawer which, while a testimony to their freshness, are also an indictment of my family’s (and friend’s and relative’s as well as complete stranger’s) eagerness to work with the parsnip.  (Side note: this is also a testament to my mad refrigerator cleaning skills in that cleaning the refrigerator makes me angry.)

There’s a reason you don’t see bookstores with parsnip sections.  Bookstores are rare enough; but a bookstore with a parsnip section?  Never gonna happen.  The parsnip is the Jim Gaffigan of carrots (big and pale) and even though Mr. Gaffigan has written two books (including “Food A Love Story,” that practically wrote itself and includes such prize-winning sentences as: “[t]here’s never a strike at the Cheesecake Factory,” and “the Waffle House vibe feels more like that of a halfway house or a mobile home than an actual house,”) he remains an acquired taste.  Unless Starbucks introduces a Mochaparsnipaccino (“freshly-dug parsnips layered between Columbian roast coffee and FairTrade Peruvian coco.”  Venti, $7), the parsnip and the bookstore shall never intertwine.

Joining a CSA also means that every Tuesday from June to November the seat belt warning will continually chime because the passenger seat will be so weighted down with vegetables, other than parsnips, that the on-board computer will assume I have an unbuckled teenager sitting beside me.  It’s usually during potato and onion weeks when this happens although occasionally the chime stays on when I am merely transporting grapes (also known as cases of wine).

Of course picking up the cabbage and kale (so very much kale) from a “drop off” adds a certain mystique to otherwise boring (and often gassy) produce.  Also it’s fun to ask the intern if this is the good s*** that you talked to the “grower” about and, also, is it seedless?  (Because sometimes the jokes are just for me and I often dwell in Greenwich Village circa 1978 in my mind- when I’m not sleeping.)

Sleep rock thy brain.  (Hamlet, Act III, Sc. 2.)

Brian Wilson is my Co-Pilot

19 Sep

Ever since The Boy became old enough to sit in the passenger seat, he has controlled the music we listen to on our morning commute.  His taste is outstanding-from Wagner to The White Stripes-his choices are often awesome.

Except for his most recent selection.  Some things you should know:

a.  I am not a morning person.

b.  I have nothing against Brian Wilson.  In fact, I think that he and I have a lot in common: we both should (and I know I do) hate Mike Love.

c.  “SMiLE, ” the Brian Wilson CD that The Daily Telegraph claims is full of “groundbreaking complexity and sophistication” does not sound good at 7:30 in the morning.  I’m not sure that I would enjoy this groundbreaking complexity at any time (nor with a fox nor on some rocks) but I will say, without question, “SMiLE” is not meant for the early morning-rush to school-commute.  I am not meant for the early commute either, but somehow I manage it.  Martyrdom yes.  Mornings, no.

I’m sure that the record makes sense on a million levels: artistically, mathematically, scientifically and all those other genius things that go on inside Brian Wilson’s head but as wake up and focus music goes, it sucks.  There are oddball flats and diminished chords that hurt my eyes and make my back ache as I drive and attempt to teach road etiquette to The Boy: “don’t flip the bird at the cop; keep it below the window where he can’t see.  It feels just as rewarding and you avoid the hassle of getting pulled over.  Think before you flip, Boy,” and so on.  Ah, a mother’s wisdom.

What “SMiLE” does excel at, however, is inducing road rage.

d.  “Road Rage” first appeared in the OED in 1990.

I have discovered that if I drive with “SMiLE,” merely playing in the background, The Boy and I arrive at school as many as 7 minutes earlier than usual and by the time I get home, I am anxious to fix all that’s wrong with the world (or at least tell everyone on Facebook exactly what the world’s problems are).  Bonus: my teeth grind like a busted transmission and I have neither consumed extra calories nor spent money on a Starbucks Espresso Macchiato.

All the bonding time that we are spending; it’s like every drive is never-ending.  Not nice at all.

Maybe I’ll Become a Barrista

20 Oct

I rarely offer advice regarding employment.  I tend to stay in unpleasant employment situations long after the headiness of wielding power, bossing minions and firing incompetents has evaporated.  Oh wait, that’s Donald Trump, not me.  I eat pizza with my hands.

So here I am at the crossroads.  The advice-giving me is telling the hardworking-me that I need to quit my job like, yesterday, even in this economy.  (A quick aside: go ahead, ask me the words that I hope to never, ever, hear again for as long as I live?  “In this economy.”  Why?  Because there is always an economy and that economy will always favor the wealthy, trample the middle class and disregard the poor and that, my friend, will never change.  So enough with “in this economy.”  Besides, I need to quit “in this moment.”)  Wow, that quick aside should probably be a separate paragraph.

So, when you stop fantasizing about being involved in a minor automobile accident, like bumping a parked car, for example- no ambulance, no injury- just a little vehicular incident that takes some time to apologize and check over the damage which results in your having to miss this month’s meeting- when you no longer imagine this scenario, but rather, find yourself slowly driving along Main Street looking for a dented car that is precariously parked, it’s time to quit.

When you begin to wish that the stranger at the gas pump next to you would pass out so that you and only you must stay with that person until help arrives and end up missing next month’s meeting too, give notice.

When you pray that your child gets a slight fever, husband gets a flat tire, friend’s husband gets caught cheating; when you check the weather channel thinking “tornado.  C’mon, baby.  Mommy needs a little tornado.  Or “power outage.  Help me out, NYSEG.  Can I get a glitch?”  Not long enough to melt the Starbucks ice cream in the freezer, mind you, but enough so that the meeting is canceled.

When you find yourself contemplating the loss of full fat/high price frozen confections, just walk away Renee.

Whatever you do, don’t drive.

P.S.  Melted Starbucks ice cream is okay- it’s like an extra creamy cappuccino.  (That I can no longer afford because I quit my job.)

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