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Odd random thoughts.
Jan. 14th, 2009 07:03 pm1. In which the Curmudgeon muses upon old fashioned Amish craftsmanship.
Scene: Gleaming booths and counters surround the restaurant section, selling everything: cheeses, meats, baked goods, candy, pretzels made hot and fresh on site, jams and preserves, all freshly brought down from Lancaster each week, all of the highest quality. Saturday's breakfast features the Best Bacon On The Planet, perfectly cooked, two scrambled eggs whipped up to a size that makes me suspect Mutant Amish Ostriches laid them, and scrapple - a savory fried slice of what looks like roofing shingle made from the meat scraps not good enough for sausage. Our waitresses bustle by in starched caps, baggy calf length dresses in solid colors, pinafore aprons and black athletic shoes with black stockings. Inevitably, my eye is drawn, because I'm a 100% self-taught seamstress. It's home-made, all right: laundry-friendly poly cotton blends for workaday, machine sewn except for hems which are done by hand. (Yes, I've done enough hand sewing I can tell the difference from ten feet away.)
These are Lancaster County Pennsylvania Dutch folks, renowned for a strong work ethic, traditional values, fine craftsmanship and all that. Yet I saw unraveling machine embroidery, the sort of bubbling at the hem that says "I pulled the thread too tight!" and unfinished seams revealed by rolled up sleeves.
Maybe it's because it IS their waitressing clothes and their Sabbath dresses are better put together. Maybe it's because they're in perpetual motion making and serving food to the hungry, appreciative Annapolitans that crowd the place and too busy to put more time into their sewing. Maybe it's even part of the whole emphasis on plain dress: after all, here I am being vain about MY hand sewing skills.
2. In which The Curmudgeon is a babe.
Monday night as I watched the departures board light up with cancellations, I determined that I was going to find some place relatively civilized to eat, even if I was stuck in the airport for the night. I darkened the door of Harry Caray's, a sit-down bar and restaurant, that is apparently part of a local chain of steak houses. It was empty except for the bored staff, leaning against the bar watching one of the three flat-screens. The manager, a cross between Ed Asner and Charles Durning, managed to be both gruff and apologetic at the same time as he informed me that all they could do that night was salads and sandwiches. I was fine with that and asked for a Caesar salad with chicken and inquired as to what might be on tap. He carded me (I guess it's policy, but it still made me chuckle) then brought me a pint of Sam Adams right away.
Now, O My Readers, think back to what your waiter or waitress said to you the last time you ate out and substitute "babe" for "sir" or "miss" or "ma'am." "Is everything all right, babe?" "Can I get you anything else, babe?" I cannot find it in me to be offended either. It was the way he said it, like it was 1960 and nobody had even thought of burning brassieres yet, like he calls everybody "babe." It was oddly comforting. Granted, there were only two other people in the place, but I was served promptly, checked on an appropriate number of times, and bidden a friendly "Have a good night now," as if it wasn't obvious my night was going to involve hanging around the terminal.
3. In which The Curmudgeon is Not Oprah. Oprah has a TV camera in front of her face in which to lament about her weight problems. The Curmudgeon does not. The Curmudgeon is not going to subject you to whining. Or "Before" pictures. Or more whining about how hard it is. Or weigh-in reports designed to solicit attention. Keystrokes are cheap.
The Curmudgeon went grocery shopping tonight because she does not have a personal assistant to do it for her. London Broil was on special. The plan was to broil it, slice some up and have it over salad. It smelled great while it was in the broiler too. However, the entire thing just went into plastic and into the fridge, uneaten. The Curmudgeon isn't actually hungry right now, so why eat just because the clock says so? I know what I need to do. I know what I want to do. I just have to do it.
Scene: Gleaming booths and counters surround the restaurant section, selling everything: cheeses, meats, baked goods, candy, pretzels made hot and fresh on site, jams and preserves, all freshly brought down from Lancaster each week, all of the highest quality. Saturday's breakfast features the Best Bacon On The Planet, perfectly cooked, two scrambled eggs whipped up to a size that makes me suspect Mutant Amish Ostriches laid them, and scrapple - a savory fried slice of what looks like roofing shingle made from the meat scraps not good enough for sausage. Our waitresses bustle by in starched caps, baggy calf length dresses in solid colors, pinafore aprons and black athletic shoes with black stockings. Inevitably, my eye is drawn, because I'm a 100% self-taught seamstress. It's home-made, all right: laundry-friendly poly cotton blends for workaday, machine sewn except for hems which are done by hand. (Yes, I've done enough hand sewing I can tell the difference from ten feet away.)
These are Lancaster County Pennsylvania Dutch folks, renowned for a strong work ethic, traditional values, fine craftsmanship and all that. Yet I saw unraveling machine embroidery, the sort of bubbling at the hem that says "I pulled the thread too tight!" and unfinished seams revealed by rolled up sleeves.
Maybe it's because it IS their waitressing clothes and their Sabbath dresses are better put together. Maybe it's because they're in perpetual motion making and serving food to the hungry, appreciative Annapolitans that crowd the place and too busy to put more time into their sewing. Maybe it's even part of the whole emphasis on plain dress: after all, here I am being vain about MY hand sewing skills.
2. In which The Curmudgeon is a babe.
Monday night as I watched the departures board light up with cancellations, I determined that I was going to find some place relatively civilized to eat, even if I was stuck in the airport for the night. I darkened the door of Harry Caray's, a sit-down bar and restaurant, that is apparently part of a local chain of steak houses. It was empty except for the bored staff, leaning against the bar watching one of the three flat-screens. The manager, a cross between Ed Asner and Charles Durning, managed to be both gruff and apologetic at the same time as he informed me that all they could do that night was salads and sandwiches. I was fine with that and asked for a Caesar salad with chicken and inquired as to what might be on tap. He carded me (I guess it's policy, but it still made me chuckle) then brought me a pint of Sam Adams right away.
Now, O My Readers, think back to what your waiter or waitress said to you the last time you ate out and substitute "babe" for "sir" or "miss" or "ma'am." "Is everything all right, babe?" "Can I get you anything else, babe?" I cannot find it in me to be offended either. It was the way he said it, like it was 1960 and nobody had even thought of burning brassieres yet, like he calls everybody "babe." It was oddly comforting. Granted, there were only two other people in the place, but I was served promptly, checked on an appropriate number of times, and bidden a friendly "Have a good night now," as if it wasn't obvious my night was going to involve hanging around the terminal.
3. In which The Curmudgeon is Not Oprah. Oprah has a TV camera in front of her face in which to lament about her weight problems. The Curmudgeon does not. The Curmudgeon is not going to subject you to whining. Or "Before" pictures. Or more whining about how hard it is. Or weigh-in reports designed to solicit attention. Keystrokes are cheap.
The Curmudgeon went grocery shopping tonight because she does not have a personal assistant to do it for her. London Broil was on special. The plan was to broil it, slice some up and have it over salad. It smelled great while it was in the broiler too. However, the entire thing just went into plastic and into the fridge, uneaten. The Curmudgeon isn't actually hungry right now, so why eat just because the clock says so? I know what I need to do. I know what I want to do. I just have to do it.
