I rescued numerous Buttermilk Ranch dressings from the bargain bin assuming it was being phased out and panicked because when I make potato salad with it both Sam and his mother gush about how delicious it is. A few days later I saw the salad dressing shelves restocked with the same products in smaller more slender bottles. Somebody’s lost weight! The price is not reduced of course. Well, salad bastards, I have plenty of Buttermilk Ranch in the old big-boned size that don’t expire until July, so there. At least the new bottles have no superfluous slices of yellow cheese on them.
Sam has been out on the balcony taking car pictures off and on all afternoon. It’s a busy street. Sometimes he sees the same cars going one direction and returning from the other. If he sees a good car, usually a sports car with the top down, and it’s stopping at the light further up the street, he rushes inside and out the front door to get a photo. He forgets to zip up his fly on weekends (“it’s my freedom”) so I have to yell at him to try not to sexually harass and frighten the neighbors. What they must think. I’m out there on the balcony doing freak photo shoots with beer cans and salad dressing and other items that don’t belong outside and Sam’s spying on unsuspecting drivers who might be picking their nose or scratching their balls. He sometimes starts chuckling when he looks at his surveillance work: they have no idea!
A new Asahi Super Dry. I like the shiny can glowing in the last rays of the early March sunset more than the beer inside; I won’t be worshiping this golden idol. The president (or whatever is his title) of the fancy private elementary school on the hill resigned last week. Everybody knew he had organized crime connections. I guess he wasn’t careful enough concealing his unsavory financial affairs. Too much worshiping golden idols.
Sashimi was marked down and I got carried away and bought most of the ocean. The last package was a mystery. I assumed it was some sort of shellfish. The hazards of being illiterate. I tasted it before Sam got home (disgusting: tough, chewy, horribly salty). He told me what it was later. WHALE! I ate whale. I should confess to Greenpeace, beg forgiveness. It was an innocent sin. I’m sure angry depressed whales chase me to ocean hell and back in my dreams tonight. Heck, all the sea creatures I’ve consumed tonight should feel free to haunt me along with the animals I’ve eaten recently. I assume vegetables and fruit are too lazy to care. They depend on simply dropping their stuff where they are or animals eating them and pooing out their seeds to propagate their species, so… The whale will be pooped out tomorrow and returned to the sea where giant inedible squid plot the monopolization of the planet with their jellyfish friends while everything else becomes extinct. Bon appetite.
A mannequin bust in back of a store in my neighborhood. The store doesn’t use mannequins and probably never has. It doesn’t sell clothes or wigs or anything. How did she get there? How long has she been there? What’s going to happen to her?
She needs something large to grasp in order to turn on the horribly blinding florescent lights in the kitchen because of arthritis issues, understandable, but I have a feeling this hideous clown moves around in the middle of the night and probably whispers and chuckles to itself. In fact, the MIL left the light on when she went to bed and it was still on when I went to take a bath but was turned off, suspiciously, when I got out. The florescent light controlling clown hates me, like everybody else. The MIL is unraveling her old sweaters and saving the yarn. For what? There is no what. The sweaters are cheap acrylic. She does not knit. She makes little boxes out of newspaper flyers. Boxes with no purpose, empty boxes. She went to the funeral of her elder brother’s senile wife on Sunday. The combined ages of participants was well over a thousand years. The clown hangs and chuckles and we are all empty and unraveling and thousands of years old.
A slush obstacle course. Tonight’s weather report predicted that “clouds will prevail” and rain or snow is expected tomorrow: “the weather will deteriorate.” A matter of opinion! Clouds prevailing and rain or snow is not deteriorating, heat and sun is. Respect the hibernation season, man.
Strong winds rattled doors and windows all night. Well-fitted fenestration is too much to ask for in Japan. Hard to sleep, but beautiful moon.
Sam received a whole box of Belgian chocolate bars from the Nissan dealer when he bought a car last week. I don’t usually care for it but that might just be American chocolate because this stuff had me mooing with pleasure. “How did the Belgians learn to make such good chocolate?” Sam asked. I don’t know. Last weekend we took Sam’s mother to the mall and the pharmacy where she spent a long time explaining all her aches and pains to the druggist was across from the acre of Valentine’s chocolates all conveniently gift-wrapped to go. It made me depressed to see all the girls and women milling around like good consumer cattle, but later I saw an article that said it’s the trend to give chocolates to their friends and family and not to boys (boys are yucky!). Okay then. Please proceed.
Hamburg in brown sauce is apparently a Valentine’s dish according to the supermarket.
Bill Bryson, Notes From a Big Country:
“I remember the first time I tasted European chocolate. It was in the central railway station in Antwerp, on 21 March 1972, my second day in Europe as a young backpacker. While waiting for a train I bought a bar of Belgian chocolate from a station kiosk, tore off a bite and, after a moment of startled delight, began to emit a series of involuntary rapturous noises of an intensity sufficient to draw stares from 20 yards away. You know how a baby eats a bowl of pudding — with noise and gusto and an alarming amount of gurgly drool? Well, that was me. I couldn’t help myself. I didn’t know that chocolate could be this good. I didn’t know that anything could be this good.
“American chocolate bars, as you are probably aware, are mysteriously bland affairs. … The popular explanation is that these products have been constantly reformulated — perhaps I should say deformulated — over the years to hold down costs and to broaden their appeal to people with less intensive palates. It is certainly true that an awful lot of American foodstuffs — white bread, most domestic cheeses, nearly all convenience foods, the bulk of beers, a good deal of the coffee — are nothing like as robust and flavourful and varied as their counterparts almost anywhere in Europe, Britain included. It’s an odd thing in a country that loves to eat, but there you are.”