Feb. 26th, 2004

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Our furnace is dead again. The landlord found a way to keep it working until the plumber could look at it; this worked for several days. The plumber came in yesterday and "fixed" it. By evening it had stopped working entirely.

It's chilly here.

But in any event, I have before me (1) a cat and (2) a bottle of "molasses of figs" J.'s parents brought her from Italy a few months ago. The bottle is here so that I can type what is on it; the cat, apparently, is here to prevent me from doing so.

Despite the cat, I now transcribe the label from the bottle exactly as it appears (well, except for font -- an old-fashioned typed cursive -- and line-breaks). It works best if you declaim it aloud as a prose poem.

Molasses of Figs
An ancient speciality of Calabrese tradition, but new and exclusive on the market, find its better utilize in confictionery, in particular like substitutive of the bee honey, on the fruit-salad, with fresh pine-apple and maraschino, up the greated-ice drink,like sauce up the beffsteak, and irons cooking fruit, for sweet of simple dough, on the cocktail, up and other use suggested of the immagination and of the taste.



The cat jumped out of the way as soon as I finished typing that.

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