But first… so long, Phil. Was great having you here. Phil’s new Boston Terrier puppy, Wilson, arrives off a plane Friday in Virginia and I almost feel as though I am getting a dog too. Or maybe not. But I can dream. Of the day. Also, Phil got Jonah a really cute little tee with the hammer and sickle on it. Because when they were young, they called Bryan’s dad “Stalin”. I am wondering if it’s in the DNA.
Back to the new and increasingly important term that is bringing people to my blog from search engines:
Now, spaghetti doesn’t scare me. There isn’t as much pressure as the old favorites, “American slavery” and “British breakfast”- two concepts so rife with misunderstanding and human divide.
But still. Spaghetti?? How, what, who, when, where? It’s like finding out people have found your blog via the search term “water”. I just mean, isn’t there a better source for information than moi? Better question: who the hell Googles spaghetti?? But I have almost 5,000 page views from that term alone- possibly more than all others combined.
But I will say this where spaghetti is concerned. Recently I made my old standby for dinner- spaghetti and meatballs. I take a lot of pride in caring for a baby all day- with all his insistence at tearing my hair out in chunks, setting new records for decibel shriekiness and my rapid-fire memorized mental inventory of each item of clothing he owns and gifted from whom. And after all this, I prepare Bryan a home-cooked meal while multi-tasking at least half a dozen other hare-brained schemes of mine, often involving a printer or at least decoupage glue. On this particular occasion I sort of threw in the oregano, some panko breadcrumbs, blah blah blah. At the end of the meal I noticed a mash of meatballs in Bryan’s bowl. Now he eats like a bird, fine, but this appeared to be one of those juvenile efforts at disguising non-eating with strategically placed bits around a bowl.
I said, in all my regrettable Jewish preemptive guilt way, “Yeah, I overcooked the meatballs and pasta, huh?” And I’ll be damned if for the first time in ten years, the man didn’t agree with me. “I mean, you cook for me honey and so who am I to complain? But they weren’t your best.”
So I bought myself some new black boots.