Shovels and cinnamon toast
Jan. 2nd, 2003 04:10 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
quislibetI had been avoiding going outside to shovel the sidewalks (plural: we live on the corner, and have a cement walk on one side and a horrible, in a shoveling context anyway, brick sidewalk on the other). For good reason; it was no fun at all, and more akin to chipping ice off a windshield with a scraper than to more satisfying snow-moving shoveling action.
I was outside in time for the parade of home-traveling middle school students (or was it high school? I'm getting too old to tell the difference) who kept getting in my way. Bastards. They made me feel all curmugeonly. Among them was a kid who walked by singing some love ballad -- the sort of soft-hits pop song that could date to any time in the last twenty years -- in a loud voice with rather more enthusiasm than talent.
Another pair walked by. One was saying, "Dude! You shoulda went...." "*Gone*," I muttered, but they gave no sign of hearing.
I told you I was feeling curmodgeonly.
There's something -- well, something rather obvious, but still odd -- about sprinkling sand and salt on the sidewalks that makes me hungry for cinnamon toast. I came in and failed to satisfy it despite trying. While ordinarily I much prefer our homemade sourdough (so homemade that the yeast came from grapes grown in our back yard) to supermarket-purchased prepackaged and sliced encriched bread, as a vehicle for the cinnamon toast of childhood memory it fell short.
I was outside in time for the parade of home-traveling middle school students (or was it high school? I'm getting too old to tell the difference) who kept getting in my way. Bastards. They made me feel all curmugeonly. Among them was a kid who walked by singing some love ballad -- the sort of soft-hits pop song that could date to any time in the last twenty years -- in a loud voice with rather more enthusiasm than talent.
Another pair walked by. One was saying, "Dude! You shoulda went...." "*Gone*," I muttered, but they gave no sign of hearing.
I told you I was feeling curmodgeonly.
There's something -- well, something rather obvious, but still odd -- about sprinkling sand and salt on the sidewalks that makes me hungry for cinnamon toast. I came in and failed to satisfy it despite trying. While ordinarily I much prefer our homemade sourdough (so homemade that the yeast came from grapes grown in our back yard) to supermarket-purchased prepackaged and sliced encriched bread, as a vehicle for the cinnamon toast of childhood memory it fell short.
