Red Sauce

I Like My Oysters With Just Lemon, Thanks

Aah, yes, blogging. I have not been so into it, lately, as you can see.
So, I am here today to tell you the obvious. Blogging will be sporadic but still here in the future.
I am just not feeling the blog lately. I am feeling dreadful and embarrassed that this has become more diary than anything else and that grosses me out, as any articulate might say.
One too many people in my life have cut me off, mid-story to tell me, “Oh, I know that already, I read it in your blog.”
My intention was not to make this a diary. But alas, intentions are meaningless sometimes.
Let me just recap some great food moments of late and then hope that when I begin working at home in my skivvies in a couple of weeks, I will have more interesting things to share than what I ate, where I ate it and what I am thinking about Mariah Carey and/or my mother that day. Oy vey…
Oysters, Crab, Aretha
Crab cake, oysters, at Grand Central Oyster Bar.
Crab cake, not freshly cooked. And oddly seemed deep fried. But nice big lumps of crab in there.
Oysters—I have decided definitively after oyster eating binges lately, my favorite oysters are Malpeques.
Spare ribs, shrimp wonton soup at N.Y. Noodle Town.
Proscuitto, Arugula pizza at Graziella’s.
On another note—the lovely Aretha (this review says she was recovering from a cold in Boston) has lost some of her Aretha range. And her show was something like a Vegas-act with old jazz standards sung in between some Aretha-classics. But she’s still the queen. Seeing her live, though, a bit sad these days.
But I have faith that she will be singing the national anthem at one of the Tigers' World Series games!!!
Go Tigers!

Kooky as Kooky Can Get

Read this . Ganda Suthivarakom of Eat Drink One Woman describes the person I always wanted to be and who I always loved and who I tend to surround myself with. Or, at least, I think that is how it is, and I am not just part of some freakshow, uninteresting, just weird.
But in the continuing sad, or not so sad, predictable course that my life is taking, my mother also surrounded herself with women like this, the ubiquitous “kooky New York aunt with a million good stories.”
My mother’s friends may have been the quirky Detroit divorcee or the drunken Grosse Pointe scribe, but it’s all the same. These are the women that can describe the other women, less kooky women, in such a way to make them seem mildly interesting or even slightly worth looking at. So thank god for us, for them.
Though I can only aspire to be the truly cool, kooky Aunt. But life’s about the journey, as Streisand would say.