Wastin’ away again in . . . antville…and a Portuguese lady story
The next time Jimmy Buffett, my favorite of all time, comes to town, remind me to do a blog on the food in his songs. He talks a lot about food and drink and not just magaritas and hamburgers. I had a ball at Jimmy’s Waikiki Shell concert last night. Husband was mildly amused (he’s not a fan). Crowd was grayer, plumper and less hirsute than ever. We took our own food (including Jewish honey cake — see my story in the Star-Advertiser). There’s another story in why the food at concerts can’t be better, don’t you think? I did a walk-around and there wasn’t one thing I would have purchased if I’d had the money or was hungry. They oughtta get some of those Eat the Street trucks in there.
I wish I could say I’d cooked anything of interest lately but the barley soup and sugar-dried tangerine peel I’ve already written about were about it! We’re being overrun with ants and the kitchen hasn’t held much interest for me. I mean flowing RIVERS of black. I brought in some heavy duty stuff recommended by a bug expert and it seems to be working. When the ant thing dies down (I’m being optimistic), I’m going to tear everything out of the pantry and scour it. They discovered the dry catfood and have been hosting a banquet for all the ants in the neighborhood in there, I think. And the damn flying flour bugs are back, too. It’s this wet weather.
It’s odd what these ants will and will not eat. They love cat food but don’t care about Oreos. (Husband did it, not me.) They love honey but ignore honey cake. I’ve been tempted to leave small bits of a variety of things on the counter just to see what would draw their attention but I figured I’d then have to pack all MY small bits and find a new home because Husband loathes ants and has no sense of humor about them. If he thought I was courting them, he’d probably stop courting me.
This reminds me of my all-time favorite Cyrilla-my-godmother story. One time, she got roaches. When you realize that she is the quintessential Portuguese housewife who cleans her floors on her hands and knees and still uses a push lawnmower you’ll understand how much this upset her. She called an entomologist friend. He asked her what the roaches looked like. She described them and he said, “Oh, those are German roaches.” And she said (get ready to laugh), “I don’t care what nationality they are, they can’t live in my house!”