You’re all welcome to join the fun and post a poem, prose, photo, pertaining to the noble SANDWICH. And since I was the one who offered this prompt, I’d better respond, too. Here’s a little story my mom-in-law once told.
Years ago a busy mother, approaching middle age and broadening her…er…personal horizon, was visiting her doctor and he was concerned about her weight problem. (This was back in the 50s, while it was politically okay for a doctor to mention such things.)
“Your heart’s under too much strain, Helen. I think for your heart, and for the good of your overall health, that you’d better take off some of that weight.”
Helen sighed. “I’ve tried cutting back, but I just can’t seem to lose a pound. Even when I eat less and am on the run all day, I still don’t lose weight.”
Bright sunshine forecasting a beautiful day and I’m celebrating my birthday by having a coffee, doing the laundry, and generally staying home and avoiding all human contact. 🙂
Not quite true, as I’m cooking supper at the seniors’ residence this afternoon; also, my dear husband gave me a card and a kiss before he left to pick up a few groceries. Thankfully, I can visit online as well, so won’t you all join me this morning for a cup of coffee, a piece of cake, and a few relevant verses.
Here are a few haiku I wrote yesterday, combining thoughts of warmer days to come with our current situation:
run rings around
my safe space
not knowing the law
comes way too close
if only mosquitoes would get the point of social distancing
Back when we lived in SW Ontario my husband worked at factory in Mitchell, ON, that produced rubber car parts for the big auto makers. The plant operated 24/7 almost all year, except for two weeks in the summer when it shut down for necessary maintenance of the plant and its presses. This gave the workers a nice long vacation — in the hottest part of the summer.
We weren’t interested in the sweltering South in mid-July, but we did make half a dozen trips to Pennsylvania to visit the congregations of our church and fellowship with the church folks there. This was back in the day when the state’s Tourism slogan was “You’ve got a friend in Pennsylvania” and we did indeed have a few. Still do.
There are four congregations of our church in PA: Mifflinburg; Belleville (in “the Big Valley”); Shippensburg, and Fleetwood (not far from Reading.) Bob had a prior acquaintance-by-letter with a fellow from the Belleville area, plus two couples from Fleetwood visited Ontario soon after we arrived. So these places were our first destinations in PA, but over time we’ve visited all four places and made the acquaintance of a number of families. The farmlands and rolling hills of southern Pennsylvania are beautiful country — especially once you’d driven through the cramped little coal-mining towns en route!
On one of these vacations we stopped at a farm near Mifflinburg to visit a family who, like ourselves, had recently joined this church from an Old Order Mennonite background. The Byler family operated a dairy farm and was busy with normal farm-related things when we got there, but they hospitably left their tasks to visit with these new people — from Canada, of all things! People who originated in a strange place called Saskatchewan.
We enjoyed our visit, but noted that it was getting close to dinner time and thought we should be pushing along. However, they urged us to join them for a simple dinner and we did. Sweet corn was in season, so they picked a few more cobs, boiled enough for us all, and cobs of corn, buttered, was our entree. For dessert we enjoyed the whoopie pies the wife had baked that morning, together with servings of ice cream.
The Waldorf -Astoria couldn’t have produced a more delightful meal.
I will confess my ignorance: I never heard of eggplants until I was an adult, buying my own groceries and cooking my own meals. One recipe book that came along with my husband was The Chatelaine Cookbook; one day I was looking through it and noticed a recipe called Father Fainted. This was an eggplant, tomato & herbs dish that apparently so impressed the writer’s father that she gave it this unusual name.
To peel or not to peel, that is the question. I’ve never pursued the art of creating eggplant dishes because I’m never sure how to peel the things—or don’t you? And since they’re quite bland with no enticing flavour of their own, I pass them by.
When I hear the word EGGPLANT, I rather tend to think of the French word AUBERGINE, which is used quite a bit in England, I gather. And in French an AUBERGE is an inn. I’m not sure just what the connection is there; maybe that’s what guests were fed when they stayed at roadside inns circa 1500?
Then I think of the colour AUBERGINE: “a dark grayish or blackish purple,” according to Merriam-Webster. Which brings me to this tongue-in-cheek verse, a senryu:
cheerful blonde seller
of produce at roadside stand aubergine roots