We’ve got sheep! And a tummy-ache. More tomorrow, if I don’t die of bloat first. Stupid eating holiday.
Once again, I have several entries written down somewhere on yellow notepads, but no idea where I tossed the pads. Grrr . . . okay, time to move on. Yes, I am finally home, and willing to show the awesome power of the “Army of Bun.”
I’m so pretty . . .
I celebrated Easter on Long Island today, a continent away from my children. No hiding of eggs or sharing of chocolate. No hugs, no peeps, no hurt feelings because the girl-child found all the eggs, or the boy-child stomped her eggs.
On the plus side, I did get to spend Easter with my mother, grandmother and various relatives that I haven’t seen in 20 years. Still, I miss stealing all the good stuff from the kids’ Easter baskets. 🙁
My last excursion was up to China Town, which led me to the following discovery: I am not ready for authentic Chinese cuisine. Fried duck tongues? Pass. Snails and pork intestine in porridge? Pass. Snails and crispy fins? Yes, still pass. Speaking with the only person I know who has admitted to eating pork intestine, I learned that they “taste like crap.” Since this is coming from a Chinese woman, I am willing to accept it as an accurate assessment. Who would have guessed?- the conduit for crap tastes like crap. As the punchline goes — Alimentary, my dear Watson!
No Chinese food today. Instead, I am going to the Long Island cousins and enjoying an Easter dinner away from home. True, I would rather enjoy an Easter dinner at home, but it doesn’t look like that is going to happen this year.
Yesterday after the Natural History Museum, I had lunch at NorthWest, a café on Columbus Avenue. Halfway through my meal, Matt Dillon and his friend Lease, who were on the way out of town to visit Matt’s sister for Easter, came in and sat at the table next to me. Or maybe it was ‘Lise, I’m not sure. It sounded like Lease. Being an avid people-watcher and eavesdropper, it was great fun. While Matt fidgeted and wolfed down his eggs Benedict, I stared out the window at the gawkers. Most people walked by, oblivious to being so close to greatness, blind to the shining star that is Celebrity. Okay, I’m playing things up a bit here — most people just walked by. Really, I shouldn’t mock the famous. Considering that nobody ever comes up to me and says “Hey, you’re that guy who put all those silly comments in the C-NET web sites! You hack together some great code, man . . . can I have your autograph?”, I think I deserve the chance to mock, dammit! Crap, off-track again.
A few, though, would look in, then do a double-take. They would then slow down and whisper something to their friend, who would also turn, trying not to be too noticeable, and they would then either stare unabashedly, or argue over whether it was really Matt. Yes, everyone on Columbus Avenue in New York walks in pairs, or did so this Saturday. I just sat there, eating my wild mushroom ravioli, then later my apple cobbler, enjoying the viewing opportunities and wondering whether I should start making faces to see how many people I could distract. Is it rude to make people laugh while they are trying to stare at a celebrity?
So, what do the famous talk about? Well, Matt likes to talk about bread, pastries, and the Sicilian Mafia, the myths behind the color of blood oranges, and being in a cave. Waking up in the dark and thinking he was trapped in a cave, actually. All in all, a great day for an eavesdropping people-watcher.
Hey, what about Rental? Or Lease, or whatever her name was? Oh yeah, she had a salad (Cobb?), was very blonde with entirely too much make-up and rarely spoke. When she did, she had a habit of mangling words. Much too painful to listen to, thank you.