Saturday, August 24, 2013

Jockey; Belly dancer; American cheese; The Sleepy Man Banjo Boys; Cucumber sandwich spread; Myrtle


There was a great read in last Sunday's New York Times
Sports section, a part of my weekly delivery here at the
Odd Fellows I usually do not pour over for I am not a
sport fan.  But in looking through the sheaf, I could not miss 
the front full page of the usually ignored sports section.

The picture was of a jockey on his race horse at Golden
Gate Fields racetrack.  Where but in the Times might
an eager reader find that sort of lengthy devotion to good
journalism?  A full page given to a picture of an aged and
successful  jockey, speaking, hollering ? into the back-turned ears
of his charging mount.  This was a time that I would
dig into the Sports section and see what it was all about.

Nowhere but the Times.  They devoted 6 (six) full pages
to this story, with pictures.  


Belly dancer

KD shows her white v-shaped patch
while performing an exotic routine.


American Cheese

At department parties, I eat cheeses
my parents never heard of—gooey
pale cheeses speaking garbled tongues.
I have acquired a taste, yes, and that's
okay, I tell myself. I grew up in a house
shaded by the factory's clank and clamor.
A house built like a square of sixty-four
American Singles, the ones my mother made lunches
With—for the hungry man who disappeared
into that factory, and five hungry kids.
American Singles. Yellow mustard. Day-old
Wonder Bread. Not even Swiss, with its mysterious
holes. We were sparrows and starlings
still learning how the blue jay stole our eggs,
our nest eggs. Sixty-four Singles wrapped in wax—
dig your nails in to separate them.

When I come home, I crave—more than any home
cooking—those thin slices in the fridge. I fold
one in half, drop it in my mouth. My mother
can't understand. Doesn't remember me
being a cheese eater, plain like that.

"American Cheese" by Jim Daniels, from In Line for the Exterminator. © Wayne State University Press, 2007

See Spamwich, below

The Sleepy Man Banjo Boys
sent here by Bob Sellars



Cucumber sandwiches
ala Ruth Hale

Take some good sized cucumbers
peel with one of these:

(or a plain tool, optional)

After peeling, slice cukes in half
and then into quarters;
 cut seeds easily in that form, and discard;

Place in blender (food processor)
the cucumbers, sectioned;
blend to a mash;
put pulp into a cheesecloth 
and squeeze most of the water out;
return cucumber mash to blender;
add about half a medium onion (to taste);
- a few green onions are much better -

add two dollops of mayo (to taste);
sand and pepper (to taste);

re-blend to a nice sandwich spread consistency.

Ideally, use thin white bread with the crusts cut off
to be tea-time proper;
If I don't have that, I use Rosen's rye bread.
Crusts always OK here

We find using green onions and experimenting
with the amount of them is vital to the end result.
(See brother Steve on this.  Also, he says, be sure to get
all the seeds out.  He gets gas, otherwise...)

This is a food that our mother made for us each summer.

Another lunch dish she was in the habit of providing
us boys was Spam sandwiches. 

I had some of those recently.  I think they hark back
to WW II days when Spam was big as an inexpensive meat.
But for an unhealthy but good tasting sandwich,
try one or two of these:

Ingredients:  Spam, onions, tomatoes (Amela-pay's [Pam's] best), Kraft American single-slices


Ruth Hale
- late -
as a great-grandmother
still lookin' good.


Today's Almanac


How funny your name would be
if you could follow it back to where
the first person thought of saying it,
naming himself that, or maybe
some other persons thought of it
and named that person. It would
be like following a river to its source,
which would be impossible. Rivers have no source.
They just automatically appear at a place
where they get wider, and soon a real
river comes along, with fish and debris,
regal as you please, and someone
has already given it a name: St. Benno
(saints are popular for this purpose) or, or
some other name, the name of his
long-lost girlfriend, who comes
at long last to impersonate that river,
on a stage, her voice clanking
like its bed, her clothing of sand
and pasted paper, a piece of real technology,
while all along she is thinking, I can
do what I want to do. But I want to stay here.

"Myrtle" by John Ashbery, from Notes from the Air. © Ecco, 2007

 Myrtle Dix with her boys
husband Ray (search him in the SRN),
Roderick Leland (search him in the SRN)
Leslie (search him in the SRN)
Maynard (search him in the SRN)
and Meredith (search him in the SRN)


The Mighty Fox
(wants to stay here; ibid)