Words to the Housewives

I'm addicted to almost every show in the Real Housewives franchise. 

The shows used to be voyeuristic and banal. Somewhere along the way (I blame you, New Jersey!) each of these shows became about conflict. Crazy conflict.

I need to get the following observations off of my chest.

Atlanta
NeNe: you gotta take responsibility for your actions and deliver a meaningful apology or your friends won't like you. Not that you care.

Kenya: don't manipulate the situation or nobody will listen to you or respect you.
Not that you care.

New York
Carole: I don't like Aviva's behavior, but I lost respect for you when you persisted in calling her names in your blog.

Beverly Hills
I don't know which of you to believe. That's not o.k.

and Vanderpump Rules
Your reunion was one of the most boring moments in Bravo franchises. You guys are so shallow.


And so am I for watching you.

Not that you care.

Acacia Flower Fritters

The hive mind has spoken, telling me that my tree out front, profuse with yummy-smelling blossoms, is a black locust.

Even better than that, someone mentioned that you can make fritters out of the blossoms. As this tree only has a 10-day blooming period, I went looking for a restaurant that serves them as a seasonal delicacy. No such luck at the moment but I found this beautiful and inspiring blog post about making fritters yourself.

Hmmmm....

Praise

It was bound to happen. Sometimes I put a treasured possession  in the bathroom that is bathroom-related and a visitor misunderstands. Like when I used one of mrguy's matches from his prized Don The Beachcomber matchbook. He was not happy.

Today's victim was my bar of Praise soap, given to me by my doctor. It was clearly on display in the guest bath, but on the other hand the soap in the soap dish was down to a sliver. 

The mammoo, passing through town on her way to Easter, unwrapped the Praise and used it as...soap. Imagine! ;)

I could allow the bar to dry, find the wrapper and rewrap it? That is what the archivist in me might want to do. But I think I'm just going to go ahead and use it.

We move ahead.

Good Smells

This tree is now blooming in the front yard. Picked up a blossom on the way in and discovered that it smells like gardenias.

Mimosa tree, perhaps?

Tomato Saturday

Saturday was the great tomato sale. All heirloom organics. Three clams apiece.

After eating fresh tomato puree every morning on my toast in Madrid, I'm mildly obsessed with tomatoes. This is the year. When I got the notice about the sale I got very excited.

Here is the setting for the sale. I'm standing behind a mound full of free compost, and the tables in the distance contain no fewer than 60 varieties of tomatoes.

We availed ourselves of yonder black gold.

It turns out that some tomato seeds from our old garden hitched a ride in the pots that we used to move some of our favorite plants to the new place. Now we have four volunteer tomato plants! Those are now bunking up with our lovingly tended three dollar master gardener tomatoes.

The beefsteaks are going downstairs to the garden, but the cherries and our mystery tomatoes are now on the upper deck. We'll see what happens.

Santa's Helper

Took Friday off in order to bring leis to some friends who were getting married. 

Someone guarded them for a minute, but he's not to be trusted.

Mrguy and I brought our floral tribute to the city and then visited with the grand mammoo's best friend of 74 years. Can you IMAGINE knowing someone for that many years? So lovely. I always refer to her by her initials or by the name 'Santa's Helper". I remember exactly where I was when she called to talk to my mom and I asked "One minute please. May I ask who is speaking?" 

Slight diversion, here. That sounds completely pretentious, and maybe it is *actually* pretentious, but that is what I was taught to say on the phone to adults who called the house. 

For some reason, our friend replied that she was Santa's Helper, and asked me what I wanted for Christmas. This is now permanently her name, and if I call asking for Santa's Helper, she knows exactly who it is. The same way that when her daughter calls my mom and asks for Mrs. Sam, it could be only one person.

She gave us a Diet Coke in her apartment overlooking the city and we chatted for an hour before heading over the bridge to beat traffic. This was the high point of my week.

I hope to take more days off and drop in on the older people I love.

It's important.

Let's Call Him Dana

Behold this yummy breakfast. I ate it at a place I'll call Dana's with Mr and Mrs Gentry who were visiting back in January.

Dana's is a beloved institution in these parts -- a 6-seat diner with extra seating at card tables out on the street. It sits by the light rail tracks. Long on charm, the walls are decorated by lists of specials on colorful laminated cards.

Dana himself is a grumpy, adorable little old man. One of the cooks may be his grandson. On this occasion the food took forever but the coffee was plentiful and look at this breakfast! Gorgeous.

I wasn't with mrguy on this jaunt, and I really wanted him to have the experience, so we tried to go twice and there was a long line. That's how we ended up at the crepe place down the street, which I like very much now except there are usually lots of kids there.

K. Yesterday was the day. Dana's was open, and we scored two seats at "l" section of the counter. We were in!! So we sat there and nobody made eye contact. Not so much as a hello. No water, no coffee. I think the menu was already there, so we made a selection. Then we waited.

Meanwhile Dana was grumbling at the woman behind the counter, and she was grumbling back at him. She was unkempt, and from our vantage point I could see how filthy this place was. Usually I can make myself unsee those things, but not in this case. As the lady argued with Dana under her breath, she kept shifting her cleaning rag between the counter and the pocket of her apron, where she also kept her money. She tucked a bottle of orange juice underneath her armpit and took it outside to serve from. The other cook had a wad of paper towels stuffed underneath his apron tie in order to keep the sweat from rolling off his neck and onto the grill.

I felt trapped, but couldn't tell what mrguy thought. Maybe he was seeing some local charm in this and wanted to stick it out? He did not. We left, and as we walked out the door Dana made some crack about us.

Then I asked mrguy if we could eat at Subway. I wanted something completely predictable. Besides, I wanted to get there before they ran out of that yoga mat bread!