Sunday, September 21, 2008
Regis called. He and Young Regis are seeing lots of old friends and family on their trip back east. They've also eaten at the 130 Diner in Howard's honor. We don't have restaurants here in Minnesota that are called diners (except for Mickey's Diner in St. Paul) but there are some, mostly cafes, that are similar. I don't quite understand the distinction but there it is. Young Regis had scrapple for breakfast this morning at the 130 Diner. Scrapple is mentioned in the John Gorka song, "People My Age Are Startin' to Look Gross" if that gives you a hint.
Believe it or not, this is popular and it's served in most diners. It doesn't look too bad, kind of like meatloaf, but it has a mushy texture that is off-putting. This is what Wikipedia says about scrapple:
Scrapple is typically made of hog offal, such as the head, heart, liver, and other scraps, which are boiled with any bones attached (often the entire head), to make a broth. Once cooked, bones and fat are discarded, the meat is reserved, and (dry) cornmeal is boiled in the broth to make a mush. The meat, finely minced, is returned, and seasonings, typically sage, thyme, savory, and others are added. The mush is cast into loaves and allowed to cool thoroughly until gelled. The proportions and seasoning are very much a matter of the region and the cook's taste.
Yeah, lovely. Hog offal. That doesn't sound good, does it?
Here's Howard's obituary. Don't think you've missed something if you're surprised to see the H in my name. There is no H. Must be the newspaper's mistake; Howard wasn't a WWII vet either.
I made whole grain, low-fat biscotti this afternoon. They aren't exactly the white chocolate and macadamia nut ones that are so good but they'll do.
I'm reading a book that is so good, it's stunning: Divisadero by Michael Ondaatje. Same author as The English Patient, of which I was not a fan. But this is very good. I liked this line so well I stuck it on my email as a signature: There is the hidden presence of others in us, even those we have known briefly. We contain them for the rest of our lives, at every border that we cross.
In modern times, maybe that's considered a sign of respect for a person's words....sticking them at the end of an email. I've been known, though, to assume mistakenly that a signature is part of what the email sender is writing to me. I hate this expression, but... duh.