Beat Road Rage With Beech-Nut
Category: Food
From Morning Call To Last Call
Feast your eyes on these natty Texas Longhorns, travelling to Louisiana for a football game in the fall of 1947. I love their fedoras and cowboy hats, the curve of the cars, that one wide pointed black collar, and the teacup with saucer. Do you use saucers? I have some palm tree ones that go with my palm tree teacups, but we only use them separately now. It’s a perfect size for some buttered toast. I imagine these blokes had a nice cup of café au lait and beignets, the signature items of the Morning Call.
The sign says it’s the “most famous coffee drinking place,” but I have never heard of it before. “Coffeehouse” would have taken up less real estate on the sign, but I imagine that word didn’t exist yet.
Morning Call opened in 1870, eight years after the more powerful and still thriving Cafe du Monde, who crushed them in a bidding war last year, which led to their final closing. Having never been to either, I can’t say as I understand the allure of deep fried dough sprinkled with confectioners sugar. Why not just have a donut? Donuts come in all sorts of flavors, and they’re less messy. Then again, in Texas, we consume more breakfast tacos than donuts, so we’re getting our protein and dairy as well. Perhaps the combination of sugary coffee and beignets led one doctor last year to declare Louisiana as “the obesity-diabetes heartland of America.”
Still, it’s hard to say goodbye to tradition, especially after 149 years. These guys were sad to see it go.
My Nuts Make Me Better Than You
Last week, we were in the unfortunate position of being in a Target, which I try to avoid, as they discontinued playing music and always only have one checker, despite there being 1200 patrons in the store and 15 lanes. In a stroke of luck, we found some Planters cashews on sale, and curiously, the wholes were the same price as the halves and pieces. Now, listen, I’m not royalty. I don’t toss my bills into the air all devil may care. I’ve spent my life eating halves and pieces like the lower to middle income person I am.
But here was an opportunity–finally–for me to feel superior to everyone, to put a nut in my mouth the way that God intended, whole, not broken, like most of this country. And in a time of unrest and people unemployed and so bored that they look for every opportunity to be offended where no offense was intended, I decided YES this is my moment. My moment to step up that ladder one caste level and taste what I’ve been missing.
To be clear, this was not a short fat can, like short fat poor people. This was a long and lean tin like greyhounds and Windsors and ladies who lunch, despite eating disorders. This was a can of abundance and hope and opportunity. This can was my people, where I truly belonged. No longer was I tossed out “pieces” like a commoner, a prole, a dog begging his master for scraps. Nay! This was the entire brown crescent! Not crushed by the foot of the man, here to oppress me. But untainted, unbroken, uncompromised. And while the image says “lightly salted,” ye who know me know I am nothing if not salty.
I poured out a handful of the beautiful cashews. Now I am important! This is my mink coat! This is my rapper grill, demanding that others affirm my value! Look at me, I have gold chains! My messy past is erased, and now I matter! But guess what? They taste the same. They simply require more labor from you, as they need to be chewed more. And what is the lower class but not the laboring class? Chew, prole, chew. Fatten up, for there is much labor to be done! So many dichotomies. And it occurred to me that I didn’t need whole nuts to feed my self-esteem. The fact was I was eating cashews, and that still made me better than any peon eating peanuts, no? And “peon” literally means Spanish-American day laborer. So there you go. Can we choose to be offended by that? Now, I’ll go one you one better!
Uh-oh! Don’t say that one out loud.
How I Feel When Another Guest’s Fajita Plate Sizzles Past Me
We lunched at Chuy’s today, where I’ve eaten since about 1983. They’re still using their crappy limited quarantine menu, while every single other restaurant around here has been full menu for months. Still, though, I can’t quit them, as their creamy jalapeno dip runs in my veins. And just as in every trip, someone with far deeper pockets than mine has ordered the fajitas. My head cocks quickly as I smell the meat and hear the sizzle from a black skillet passing our table. The fajitas seem to wink at me, as if to suggest today is my day to give in. I sigh longingly. No, fajitas, not today, my friend. But one day. One day, we will be together.
Long-Lost Beautiful Bean Footage
These Boston women cooked up jars/vessels/urns of their city’s famous baked beans, often eaten at Sunday breakfast in days of yore, per the British tradition. What about ye? Hast thou partaken of an English breakfast? Who wouldn’t want to start the Sabbath off with a healthy start of fried eggs, bacon, bangers, half a tomato (why?), a burnt hockey puck, and buttered toast?
Did the Irish later come in and change our whole notion of breakfast by trading beans for potatoes? The only beans consumed in my house for breakfast are refried and tucked inside a breakfast taco.
We Got Your Produce
Italian teens peddle their wares for coins on the Boston streets near Quincy Market and Feneuil Hall, which opened in 1743. 1743? You Northeasterners will be much more familiar with structures that old, but for a Texan, 1743 meant my state was still Mexico. How interesting it would be to imagine your great-great-great grandparents walking the same Boston streets centuries before you, keeping the city fed during the Depression, and feeling pride in work.
Below, we see plump green cucumbers being sold by pushcart vendor Signor Passanisil, as the Customhouse Tower rises in the background.
Property Of The Banana
This gal throws much attitude, but I honestly can’t tell if she’s 13 or 23. Huge Jackie O sunglasses, permed bob, lip gloss, tight waist. Love it! While her shirt cuffs are reminiscent of my own tees in 1985, this was actually September of 1975, exactly 45 years ago. That was the year emissions testing on the exhaust analyzer went into effect, and she was watching her go through testing at an inspection station in Cincinnati, Ohio.
What I don’t get is the possessive S after banana. Is the world going bananas? Sure, that’s solid. But banana’s? Certainly it doesn’t own her. She looks like the boss of herself.
Looting The Furniture Store
Let It Wip
It’s guaranteed not to sour, so I say we try this old can out and test the claim for ourselves.
In any event, I bet I’d prefer 1954’s version of Qwip to today’s:
At Least Somebody’s Enjoying Them
Truth be told, I’m all figged out, my friends. If I skip a day of figpicking, the birds and bees will devour them.
This is what I see when I get up under the tree.
And this is what I see when I come out from under the tree, looking up through the cottonweed tree.
Some of the leaves appear to have been chomped on by caterpillars. But no matter.
Cottonwood leaves still make the BEST swishing sound when the wind blows through them.
Pillsbury Unveils New Eel Crescent Roll
Folks Should Call Me Miss Figgy At This Point
As some of you know, our fig tree (a cutting from my husband’s grandfather’s tree many moons ago) flaunts her fecundity each June, and then promptly closes shop within the month. This year, she held on to her small green figs until the very end of June, when they plumped up all purple and big as softballs, in some cases.
As soon as you twist one off a branch, a sticky milk spurts out, and it’s quite itchy. Even three rounds of vigorous Soft Soap won’t make it go entirely away. Nature’s weapon.
This was Thursday morning’s haul.
I’m always surprised by how few people have ever eaten a ripe fig, but it makes sense, since you never see them in the stores. They die after 48 hours, so you have to eat them quickly. As neither my son nor my spouse are fans, I have had to force myself to eat 3-5 figs daily, just to fulfill the chintzy gal inside me, who cannot pass up free food. Plus, it’s healthy!
Sometimes I have to add them to a salad, so I don’t get so bored.
I gave a bushel to a Facebook friend, who sees me post them daily, and tried to offer some to the new Asian family across the street, but he thought I was asking him to come trim my tree. Eventually, I spoke with the wife, who was happy to try some, and I packed a dozen in a to-go box for them. Another 10 were given next door to our Indian neighbors, who thought at first we were offering “pigs” last year. They said they didn’t eat meat and politely declined. But once we got past the consonant confusion, they were down with a pile of figs.
Lastly, the neighbors behind us actually can see the purple orbs as they hover on branches above our fence. We told them to snag whatever they like, since the abundance is overwhelming, and I packed up another box for them and passed it over. It will be 107 today, and zero chance of rain, as usual, so I don’t know how long this tree will keep pumping them out. But until then, I’ll keep reaching for the figs (except the top branches; those are for the birds and squirrels).
I Don't Get It 