Thursday, November 5, 2009

Ode to Balls of White Flour Dough

The cold is starting to infiltrate the middle toe of my left foot. It's the toe I let frostbite into one cold night in the depths of hell.

It is officially stick season here in Vermont. The colors have died and they crinkle under foot as we help with the process of their slow decomposition.

The darkness prevails, once again, and seeps into our lives earlier and earlier as we turn our bodies away from the sun.

I am making a pot roast for a friend that just had her uterus removed because she had a fibroid the size of a 14 week old baby in it.

The debt guy just came to unload his liquid dept into our propane tank.

The dryer is broken and so I have sheets and towels drying from the beams in our living room. It's like we live in a tent city. I'm okay with this because it just prolongs the debt guy's inevitable return.

I just hid the letter that Claire wrote to Santa Clause asking him for an American Girl doll. I want to tell her the truth, crush her spirit, break her innocence. Santa only brings one gift to our house. How am I going to explain that Santa ran out of American Girl dolls? That shit isn't entering this house.

We have an alpaca suffering from an ulcer. Things don't look good.

And then I remembered that it was Thursday.
Praise the great spirit that it's Thursday.
Because do you know what Thursday is?
Thursday is bagel day.

Dean Menke of The Backdoor Bakery makes these beauties for me and Paul and the spawn. They are the best bagels I have ever tasted in all my life, and I've tasted a few bagels. I would drive 13 hours and 8 minutes to get these bagels. And you should too. And while you're standing at his backdoor, if you have time before your 13 hour 8 minute drive home, you should try one of his almond croissants.

Whenever the spawn run from my monster mini van to their school's front door, I'm reminded of the story of Brer Rabbit and how he tricked Brer Fox by saying, "Please don't fling me into that briar patch yonder, please...whatever you do, for the Lord's own sake, please don't fling me into that briar patch yonder." And so Brer Fox does just that and then he, "sees he's been had." And Brer Rabbit sits down on a chinkapin log and combs the tar out of his hair with a chip and yells back to Brer Fox, "Bred and born in a briar patch, Brer Fox- Bred and born in a briar patch!"

I just want to yell after them, "bred and born on bagels, bred and born on bagels!"

So, with all the cold and dark and debt that's coming our way these days, I'm very grateful to have a little round ball of white flour dough that I can slather with cream cheese, and slip a fried egg white into, and then all of it seems to go away. So in honor of balls of white flour dough I'd like to play this song...which is a hint at what might happen to me if I eat too many of them.

Baby Got Back - Sir Mix A Lot

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