A Walker in the Suburbs

It was one of my favorite songs in the old days. Short on finesse, but full of raw energy. Even the name of the group evoked primal power: the Troggs.

“Wild thing/ You make my heart sing/You make everything/ Groovy … /Wild thing.”

It was a song that seemed radical in its day, and I was always a little proud to claim it as one of my favorites. Especially since it consisted of about three chords, played over and over again.

So imagine my surprise when I heard it recently during an Olympics interval.

“Wild thing/ You make my heart sing.”

And what was this wild thing being shilled? A fast car, a new show, a brand of mascara?  Uh, none of the above. The “wild thing” in question is … an Applebee’s hamburger.

Lo, how the mighty have fallen.

(Photo: Wikipedia)

Last month, the Washington Post health section ran an article on sugar’s addictive quality.  Convincing, but poorly timed. Who wants to read that right before the holidays? Still, it left an impression, and I thought about it again this morning as I shoveled far too much sugar into my tea.

For the most part, I’m a healthy eater. Lots of vegetables and fruit, not much meat, trying for more calcium these days. Where I fall apart, though, is in the sweets department. I know too much sugar is bad for me. But tea doesn’t taste like tea unless it’s milky and sweet.

I sometimes fantasize that I could cut down my usage one grain at a time. Would I never notice it that way? Or would there come a point, the proverbial straw, that would halt my experiment and send me screaming back to the heaping teaspoons?

At this point I’ll never know … because I’m not about to try it.  My tea is already decaffeinated; it can’t be de-sweetened, too.

In the homespun calculus of cooking, lasagna does not present a terribly difficult equation. But recent attempts at concocting the dish have reminded me that shortcuts make a difference.

Take no-boil noodles, for example. They save time but require liquid. Which also means they require more thought, especially if one uses a recipe meant for boiled noodles, which I did.

In the end, anything made with six cups of cheese is bound to be good. But now that I’ve started this lasagna gig, I’d like to perfect it.

Next time, I’ll make a more liquid-y sauce. That is, after I eat up all the left-over lasagna from this round!

(Photo: Wikipedia)

As in a cushy chair or ample love seat.

Or a wicked stepsister’s foot in a delicate glass slipper.

Or a bag of leaves crammed to bursting (as I look over a backyard full of leaves that need cramming).

Or a two bushel baskets of gourds in one bushel basket.

Overstuffed is how I felt last night after the turkey, dressing (two types), mashed potatoes (two types), green beans (two types), corn, cranberry sauce, roasted brussels sprouts and cauliflower, roasted root vegetables, autumn slaw and rolls.

And that was before the apple crumble, chocolate cookies and pumpkin praline pie.

Maybe no eating today?

On a lunchtime walk through the neighborhood yesterday I smelled what I imagined was a hot lunch bubbling away on a stove. It smelled vaguely tomato-ey, and made me feel cozy and warm, as if I would soon stroll into a kitchen, pull up a chair and dig into a plate of spaghetti.

Instead, I ate my usual salad.

What is it about the hot lunch? It’s old-fashioned, for sure, because someone must be home to cook it.   In fact, it extends further back than I can remember, to a time when people worked close enough to their homes to eat lunch there.

It implies small towns, then, or the Venice of Commissar Brunetti mystery novels. Guido Brunetti often eats lunch at home, if I recall, but he (in addition to being fictional) lives in a place that builds its society around the big lunch and the long siesta.

That will not happen here, I know. But a walker can dream.

(Photo: wikipedia)

Celia subscribes to a cereal blog, in which she gets the latest word on campaigns and brands. I haven’t gone that far, but I am a big fan of a certain cereal, and I want to take a moment to sing its praises.