The clouds have been pestering us all day, when what we really wanted was pure unadulterated sunshine, but they do make for a lovely sunset.
I snapped these today on a morning stroll with Monkey. One-third of the cherry blossom trees on the Roosevelt Island promenade are blooming, while the rest are full of buds and look set to bloom in the next few days. If you have the time, it’s worth the trip over to the island (via tram, of course) to see the canopy of pink and white flowers. Happy Friday y’all!
This Sunday is Easter and I am looking forward to the Easter Bunny dropping a basketful of candy at my door. Wait, what? You say he’s not real? I beg to differ. I have seen his fluffy ass in Times Square. Oh, and when I was younger I left a note in my empty basket asking for his autograph and got a dirty paw print. See? Real.
I always ate my Easter candy in order: jelly beans first (after trading away the gross black licorice ones to my brother), Peeps second, chocolate foil-wrapped eggs third, marshmallow eggs fourth, malted speckled eggs fifth and big hollow chocolate bunny last. Easter was the only day our Mom allowed us to eat crap first thing in the morning (our “sugary” cereal was Cheerios, for criminysakes). By 10am I always had a terrible stomach ache but never let on lest the cherished sugar feast be removed from the holiday menu.
Here is a pic of me and my brother in our Easter finery. Notice that my basket is already empty. I may look like I’m squinting from the bright sun, but I’m probably about to barf. Happy Easter everyone!
That’s my great granny in the blue windbreaker and behind her is my great Aunt Dorothy. If you look at my granny’s hands you will glimpse what mine will look like when/if I reach 90 years of age, because the family gene pool arranged for me to get her hands.
She used her hands to make delicious food for the people she cared about: pies, casseroles, biscuits, applesauce, chops – even her salads rocked and that’s saying a lot because they were old school iceberg lettuce salads. She would whip up whatever food we caught or dug up at the beach near her home into a tasty dish.
Granny was sentimental and kind but not overly affectionate. She showed her love for family and friends by stuffing them full of homemade culinary goodness.
My own hands? Not so much. They make a mean vegetable curry (which may or may not be spicy enough for my British friends) but that’s pretty much where my cooking “talents” end. I miss my granny. Her daughter, my great Aunt Dorothy, is not much of a cook, but man alive can that woman make a martini! The gene pool also gave me Aunt Dorothy’s love of martinis. Cheers, DNA!