Baltimore is such a nicely creepy city, thanks to Edgar Allen and his ravens. What other city would name its football team the Ravens — the creepy offshoot of the Orioles. This sign was in the window of a store that sells “Shoes & Chocolate.”
The winter was rough at Valley Forge for Washington and his men, but lunch with Nancy and Eric on our way down today was a blast.
Nancy was as horrified as I was to learn about the endangered status of chocolate sprinkles. She managed to score this precious sample on the black market for $275.
I’ve never had a pickled egg, so when I saw this posted by Bob Lyons of the Dull Men’s Club (UK) I perked right up: “I tried my first ever pickled egg today. Not sure if I liked it or not.”
It seems like the sort of thing you’d know if you liked or not, but maybe it isn’t? Here are some comments:
Sarah Wallis noted: I worked in a Fish and Chip shop when I was 15, some 29 years ago. We used to have massive jars of pickled eggs on the counter. I always thought I’d try one, one day. 29 years later, I still can’t bring myself to try one. I expect it will be a food I request on my deathbed.
Simon Macfeeters asked: Did you swallow it whole?
Eric Hage: I bought the giant jar. Impulse purchase. Took me a year to get through it.
So it got me thinking I should try them. A whole bunch of varieties are sold on Amazon, including pickled quail’s eggs. Not cheap. I guess getting the quail to stand still while it’s pickled increases the labor cost.
These look good.
Here’s a quail with her baby. Neither has been pickled (yet).
Jim Daniels wrote this poem called “American Cheese.” It was in today’s Writer’s Almanac.
At department parties, I eat cheeses
my parents never heard of—gooey
pale cheeses speaking garbled tongues.
I have acquired a taste, yes, and that’s
okay, I tell myself. I grew up in a house
shaded by the factory’s clank and clamor.
A house built like a square of sixty-four
American Singles, the ones my mother made lunches
With—for the hungry man who disappeared
into that factory, and five hungry kids.
American Singles. Yellow mustard. Day-old
Wonder Bread. Not even Swiss, with its mysterious
holes. We were sparrows and starlings
still learning how the blue jay stole our eggs,
our nest eggs. Sixty-four Singles wrapped in wax—
dig your nails in to separate them.
When I come home, I crave—more than any home
cooking—those thin slices in the fridge. I fold
one in half, drop it in my mouth. My mother
can’t understand. Doesn’t remember me
being a cheese eater, plain like that.
We’ve been enjoying Irish Cheddar since our trip last October. A cheesemonger in Dublin started us off with a sample.
See you tomorrow (I hope).
The Wellington Files 