;)
;)
What you're looking at here is day-old soba noodles with "salad" and hard-boiled egg. More specifically, what you're looking at is the first cold soba noodle and salad of the year. For whatever reason, around this time of year I switch off the deep fried foods, the french fries and the tostadas, and switch on the fresh, sometimes cold foods like this one.
There's nothing all that mysterious about the switch, you know, since I'm one of those snobs who, for the most part, doesn't like to eat vegetables that are locally out of season. Granted, half of the vegetables here were probably trucked in, and so this meal is only a preview of things to come, but sometimes we get so excited about spring our conduct slips.
My conduct slipped last night at the Wilco concert in Hartford when I hollered out, "Quit changing Tweedy's diaper!" Between every song the roadie, clad entirely in black, rolled onto the stage so Tweedy could play a fresh guitar. It seemed pretty ridiculous that he needed a fresh guitar for each song. Anyway, I'm sure Wilco is on their tour bus at this very moment, snacking on breakfast burritos or some other delectable items appropriate for aging rock stars on tour. Oh, and my sweetheart gets credit for the addition of the hard-boiled egg to this popular dish.
So long
:)
:)
:)
1 comment:
hard-boiled eggs are "rampant" around my bungalow. There is also a view of the Hollywood sign, via the Northern backdrop. One walking along the sidewalk of fuckin' Vine, may accidentally glance upwards once a year (usually looking at the ground to avoid stepping on crack needles...), and will assuredly see the might sign itself, still rigidly posed in reflection of poor, mainstream movies, but still treated as God, esp. around these parts, and the Midwest too. Grandmothers beset on having eye-sex with the latest male hunk actor, will spend all her social security loose cash so that we can race around and rarely fix the roads, or attitudes, or our gay community: did I mention homosexuality perhaps? well it's here you'll find a plenty. I thought it was supposed to be S.F., but it's not - it's here! "cocksucker LA," many have termed it. Anyway, sorry for being such a freak in wolfsclothes, but we are very literate around these parts, as the city offers nothingmuchelse besides walking on red carpets, and I'd likely move to San Diego the day before I was scheduled to do so. I boil my precious eggs for 11 minutes. That's my recipe. Then I put salt on them, and on Sunday's I opt for a quick dash of pepper as well, to obey the Sabbath. After wall, wouldn't want to go to hell like all the sex addicts around here. The whole place will go up in flames some day, but I'll be visiting friends in family in the Midwest during such. Exempt for the apocalypse! Shit, not a bad life after all.
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