India came to town. “Do you like crafty thing markets?” I said. “Come on,” I said, “you like crafty thing markets.” We went to the Sunday UpMarket, where the young ’uns were out and about in messy ponytails and skinny jeans, in high-top Converse sneakers, in chunky wallet chains, in large plastic-framed sunglasses for the large Sunday sun.
We bought a necklace and a beanie and a wicked bag. We bought pies to go. It was a frenzy.
You know what is a good Sunday dinner? It is pies, and curried carrots, and a brisk green salad. Even if we didn’t make the pies ourselves. I’d bought a pieminister I hadn’t tried before, a Christmas special called the Christingle. It was roasted parsnips, honey, chestnuts, cheddar, some rosemary, maybe, I don’t remember, but it sounded good on the card.
(I remember now, though, that night we celebrated Marc’s birthday at William IV up on Shepherdess Walk, with the old-timey piano player all jaunty-like, and the stuffed animals watching us, with glassy eyes, through dusty dioramas. The candles were melty wax all the way down the brass candlesticks.
“What’cha order?” Kris said, and I said, “The roasted squash salad, with the parmesan.” “Oh,” she said, “are you vegetarian?” “No, no,” I said, “please, no.” “Then why,” she said, “would you do this to yourself?”)
Sunday night, over my vegetarian pie, all chesnutty and honey-ey, I said: “This is tasty.” “It’s tasty,” I said, “but I’ve had tastier.” “Still,” I said, “it’s nothing that can’t be fixed with a little bacon.”
We bought a necklace and a beanie and a wicked bag. We bought pies to go. It was a frenzy.
You know what is a good Sunday dinner? It is pies, and curried carrots, and a brisk green salad. Even if we didn’t make the pies ourselves. I’d bought a pieminister I hadn’t tried before, a Christmas special called the Christingle. It was roasted parsnips, honey, chestnuts, cheddar, some rosemary, maybe, I don’t remember, but it sounded good on the card.
(I remember now, though, that night we celebrated Marc’s birthday at William IV up on Shepherdess Walk, with the old-timey piano player all jaunty-like, and the stuffed animals watching us, with glassy eyes, through dusty dioramas. The candles were melty wax all the way down the brass candlesticks.
“What’cha order?” Kris said, and I said, “The roasted squash salad, with the parmesan.” “Oh,” she said, “are you vegetarian?” “No, no,” I said, “please, no.” “Then why,” she said, “would you do this to yourself?”)
Sunday night, over my vegetarian pie, all chesnutty and honey-ey, I said: “This is tasty.” “It’s tasty,” I said, “but I’ve had tastier.” “Still,” I said, “it’s nothing that can’t be fixed with a little bacon.”
posted by stellou at 11:28 AM
5 Comments:
mmm bacon. i also feel the same way about cream.
this reminds me, i must ask to borrow my mother's pie maker...
oh, CREAM.
yah! cream is pretty nice.
i am intrigued by your mother's pie maker. is he a kindly old gent named mr harold? does he have a white moustache and floury fingers?
hmmm, no but that would be nice. mother's pie maker is electric and goes by the name of sunbeam. one may think... og another contraption like the hot dog warmer or better yet a donut maker. but really, the pie maker was cherished solution for the after school snack dilema!
Oh, how I wish that there were a pie in the Pie Minister box I brought home.
Thank you for hosting me! It was nice!
deborah > mmm. that pie maker sounds like a dream. i am also interested in mr donut maker. this is like the best version of "what shall i be when i grow up?" ^_^
india > the first time i read your comment, i thought you'd said you wished you were a pie in the pieminister box! hahaha. OH, yes, it is true, we had a tasty time, we did, we did.
...mmm...
...i'm hungry.
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