Saturday, September 10, 2016
A Slave to my Blog, not to FB - Poem: Breakfast
Today it's sposed to go up to 96. I had to run after the mailman cuz I slept late.... 9:45. Was up writing and submitting.
I have a lifetime supply. Better than using Scotch tape.
What if WHYY wanted to hunt me down. Could they do it? I used a Tom Murt notepad to wrap the money in and signed it "Ruth."
So they could find me. Hmmm, the making of a short story? Doubtful.
Every summer we'd pile into the
Country Squire station wagon and
drive to a marvelous place. Dad
would get Lois, his secretary to
type up the Itinerary.
Never were breakfasts better than
when we were on the road. We'd slide
into the cold slippery seats of the
booth and order.
Dad would always get the name of the
waitress, something I do myself, right
Jenn of the Hatboro Dish?
Though Jewish, we ordered crunchy bacon
with our French Toast with plenty of
butter swimming on top, over which we
poured Log Cabin maple syrup.
I'd always read in the car, wearing my
hideous cats-eye glasses until I was old
enough to get the miracle of contact lenses.
Now I am sipping pumpkin spice decaf, a
gift from Iris, and holding a fork aloft,
cutting a huge piece of French Toast that
like the rest of this story, doesn't
I took liberties - Northern Liberties - on the recipe.
2 scallions, white and green parts minced.
2 tablespoons freshly squeezed lemon juice.
2 tablespoons Dijon mustard.
3 tablespoons mayonnaise.
1 tablespoon extra-virgin olive oil.
1 garlic clove, grated.
1 cup buttermilk.
Kosher salt and black pepper to taste.
And now, w/o further ado, I'm gonna procrastinate before doing some important writing.
Should I watch new episodes from The Blacklist OR anudder episode of Hetty
Wainthropp, Private Investigator?
Your responses are being tallied up now.