FROZEN GRAPES
Here at Mango Pudding Blues, this is what we do: We take green grapes and lay them out on a cookie sheet and we put them in the freezer until they’re as hard as little rocks and then we put them in a plastic container and store them in said freezer and pull them out on hot Sunday afternoons to plunk them into our stainless steel travel mug that is filled with cool, crisp white wine, say an Ontario dry riesling, and we head over to the grounds of the Governor General’s mansion to listen to the free concerts and picnic on Italian cured meats and fine French cheeses and our wine stays cool cool cool, and when the picnic is over, one eats the grapes and then lies down in the hot sun and falls asleep like a little baby, waking up woozy and confused when washed over by crowds of departing Ottawans who, hoisting high their revolting folding campchairs, gingerly step around the boozy but beautiful couple sleeping in the soft grass.
Tuesday, July 27, 2004
EXISTENTIAL INOCULATION
And so we neglected to get the recommended inoculations before we went abroad to Paris. I’m fine, but Killer caught a strain of French existentialism, and now, filled with ennui, drapes herself languidly over the furniture with an espresso and a gallic shrug.
She never used to drink espresso.
