The I-heart-you cookies have left the building and blissfully we are sidestepping the Grammys. I’ve yet to see a Bowie/Gaga cookie cutter but no doubt Pinterest boasts a few. The next cookie worthy event on the docket is the Academy Awards. That leaves a week before we unearth the star cookie cutters from where they’ve been snoozing since the 4th of July. Those cutters taunt with the memory of fresh peaches and summer berries. Recently, the only berries I’ve seen are blackberries sprawling in oversized plastic clamshells at Costco.
Frank may be crooning Weather wise it’s such a lovely day, but that would be a lie. Intermittent snow and car-wash rains require serious water-resilient knee high footwear. In my haste to leave the house this week, there have been several occasions when my kitchen clogs were left behind. Clomping over a checkerboard linoleum floor attired in brown thick-soled boots, an L.L.Bean fleece and capping off the look with a polka-dot bandana, I scream Glamour Don’t. At least my feet are warm.
On my recent trip to the Pacific Northwest, Sibling Sister handed me a small crimson drawstring bag. Tucked inside was the ideal gift for one who complains of cold extremities year round. A pair of lightweight yet toasty socks emblazoned with a sentiment guaranteed to please a baker, “Shut Your Pie Hole”.
This is not a phrase I toss about casually but one worth saving for just the right occasion. Last Sunday would have been a perfect time to toss the phrase over my NJ Transit train seat. Had it landed on the woman seated behind me, perhaps it would have dissuaded her from reciting the New York Times, word for word, all the way from Maplewood to Penn Station.
More importantly, the socks would have been the ideal vessel to cram into the mouth of the individual seated behind me at the matinee performance of On Your Feet. Was his ice clinking beverage and bottomless cello bag of crunchy snacks enough to suck the life out of the afternoon? Not quite. Mr. Not Interested in Being On His Feet was totally interested in texting on his cellphone. Despite a spirited cast and a conga beat that unleashed every Gloria Estefan lyric embedded in our subconscious, the distraction was infuriating. Mr. Cellphone? Don’t you ever think that for one minute I forgot you.
The return trip on NJ Transit was uneventful except for the crew’s oversight in providing air conditioning instead of heat. Which fuels my fixation on the weather and the calendar, inching its way towards the next season.
At work, I will bide my time tossing Meyer lemons with sugar and coaxing them into Shaker Lemon pies. On the home front, the world is my blackberry clamshell.