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Posts Tagged ‘chip’

Last week I stopped into my favorite little grocery store and put my soon-to-be purchases on the conveyor belt.

‘Milk and cookies,’ grinned the cashier, young enough that he probably has them at snack time every day.

‘It’s been a long day. I’m an emotional eater,’ I replied.

He looked down and saw that I had opted for the package of three chocolate chip cookies instead of the single, then looked over at the two cartons of milk, then glanced up at me questioningly.

‘And I’m an over-achiever.’

I know and you know there are definitely less fattening* ways to assuage a bad day than to snack it away. But unless you have bad days every day or even every Thursday, I think it’s a perfectly reasonable way to feel a little better if it works for you. And it does for me.

Some good friends and I were talking about this notion the other night. They had just endured a grueling, heartbreaking couple of hours caring for a neighbor who has a debilitating illness, and our plans to go out for a pre-birthday** pizza dinner that same night were especially welcome. Our night out allowed them the opportunity to 1) celebrate my birthday with me 2) eat, because they usually eat dinner far earlier and were ravenous 3) blow the grime off the whole sad experience by going to a new place and trying some really wonderful housemade pizza***. We ate, and drank, and brooded a little, and laughed a lot. And while it wasn’t a silver bullet that fixed everything, it relaxed them.

I believe each of us needs to have a working plan, a list of proven ways, to reboot for when horror strikes. Because it’s going to. As long as the ways you reboot don’t hurt anybody, do them.**** Yours might be buying a new pair of chandelier earrings, dunking your feet in the pond at the end of your street, or a long car drive to nowhere in particular. Me, I reset by watching British movies of any stripe, texting my best friends and asking them to send me off-color jokes, and eating dark chocolate. Sometimes I go the whole hog and get the chocolate surrounded by a cookie. Then I pour a cold one.

This is peace to me—a very simple, inexpensive way to smooth the uncomfortable wrinkles that get jammed into my day from time to time.

For more years than I care to count I white-knuckled my way through my life, trying to work through stuff that was going wrong at the moment while also—I’m now bewildered by this—trying to prevent bad stuff that MIGHT come down the pike. Here’s what I learned: It’s not worth it. You could have spreadsheets dedicated to protecting yourself, each member of the household, your belongings, your favorite pop star and the place where she gets her highlights done…but stuff is going to go wrong anyway.

Having a coping plan that works for you is what matters. Recovery is what matters. This kind of preparation is okay—not just okay, but vital. It liberates you beyond belief so you can just live your life, and live it big.

Scribble down some ideas for yourself right now and stick it in your wallet. I humbly suggest you start with this post’s namesake. They won’t fail you.

c

*The milk was *1%*! Cut me that much slack.

** It was 10/18. Presents and special treatment are still being entertained.

***Porta, Asbury Park, the baddest new pizza place at the Jersey Shore.

****And don’t you feel guilty for a millisecond, or you’ll have me to answer to.

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Finley imagining the possibilities.

I know, the most famous great equalizers are death and taxes, but let’s not be gruesome. It’s still summer, after all. No, I’m talking ice cream.

Ice cream may be the one thing everyone can agree on. Amazing, really, how all demographics love it—babies, old-timers, thirty-somethings. Even those with strict dietary restrictions still eat it, whether they really ought to or not. One 4th of July I witnessed a group of heart transplant patients downing bowls of the highest-fat, homemade stuff, their mates watching, lips pursed, tut-tutting at them. But the spouses didn’t stop them. Maybe it was because they understood that, like it or not, ice cream is something everyone actually needs once in a while. Let’s face it—no eats ice cream because they’re hungry.

So why do we eat it? Why do we crave it, body and soul? I think a combination of factors are in play: it’s cooling (lovely in the summertime); it’s sweet (a rare find in nature); it’s full of fat (again, rare in nature) which makes it feel luxurious and indulgent (and who doesn’t like to feel special?).

Also—and maybe most importantly—since we’ve all eaten it for as long as we can remember, it evokes childhood memories. And they’re usually happy ones. My own include trips to Carvel with my family after dinner most summer nights. To this day, I think of ice cream as a nighttime thing.*

When I was a kid, I went through ice-cream phases in which I got the same thing every time for weeks on end. First it was brown bonnet cones, soft vanilla ice cream quickly enshrouded in chocolate goo, which solidified to a candy shell on contact. Then it was soft vanilla in a cup topped with Bing cherries. During my overweight/painfully self-conscious teen years, it was Carvel’s Thinny-Thin. As unsatisfying as it sounds, but better than nothing. At the Beach Plum, where they made their ice cream on site, I got Straw Cheese (strawberry cheesecake) or blueberry, which had fresh blueberries mixed with vanilla ice cream. Incredible.

Last week my friend Lauren and the cuties above and below joined me for ice cream at Days in Ocean Grove. For years now this has been my favorite place to get ice cream, for the yummy stuff itself and for the entire experience.

Shane and Finley, with post-ice cream happy faces and sticky hands.

Days is also the town favorite, especially after evening shows at the Great Auditorium just across the lawn. The ice cream is high in fat, which you know as well as I do translates to big flavor and wonderful mouth feel. The patrons know it too, as evidenced by the long line of people you see below waiting to get in.**

The atmosphere at Days is calming, nostalgic and cozy, much like the whole town, which feels as though Rodgers and Hammerstein were on the original planning board. Days was established in the late 1800s. It features bentwood chairs and gleaming dark wood tables. The seating area is outdoors, roofed in most areas, and its tall windows are always open to allow the ocean breezes as well as the ice cream to cool you. A antique fountain bubbles in the middle, among the plants. Forgoing harsh neon lights and signs, to this day, Days is happily, entirely illuminated by light bulbs. At night it glows like a giant birthday cake and smells as sweet.

Once the sun goes down, locals and vacationers begin to amble over to stand in line—sun soaked, clad in loose faded t shirts, bikini tops, flip flops, hair freshly rinsed of salt water and slicked down, laughing, and very, very relaxed. Neighbors share adventures of the day with neighbors; newcomers chat with returning patrons about whose kids are starting kindergarten and about the virtues of Coppertone Babies lotion.

Parents of the tiniest children hold them up to the glass counter to see the choices. Teenagers love chocolate chip mint cones and sundaes with piles of whipped cream. Older folks get dishes of their favorites from childhood. The proprietor tells me that on nights of the immensely popular Doo-Wop shows, whose audiences are Baby Boomers, he always puts out classics like rum raisin and pistachio and butter pecan.

If all of this sounds like a page out of 1926, or out of Grimms’ Fairy Tales, it’s not. We’re all lucky that it’s not. And even better: we know we’re lucky.

A vintage sign and scoop.

I shot the below scene last Saturday night at around 10:30. Click on it to enlarge and see how many ages are represented.

There’s something comforting about eating a timeless treat at a venue that’s older than all of us.

For the past few years I’ve been partial to ice cream with a lot of stuff in it. Texture, lumps and bumps. My current favorite, two years running, is the below—peanut butter moose tracks. Peanut butter ice cream with peanut butter ripples and chunks woven throughout, and studded here and there tiny peanut butter cups. In other words, my pipe dream.

A new contender, chocolate midnight cookie, is vying for its place, though. No matter. Choosing a favorite ice cream is one of the happier dilemmas in life, I’d say.

*Which is not to say that if someone offered it to me during the day that I’d fight them off with a stick.

**The line you see in the photo was only half of it, by the way. If you go, go on the early side.

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When the world got to be too much for Holly Golightly, she went to Tiffany’s. Ishmael went to sea. Me, I go to Trader Joe’s just because I know the guy behind the register will take the shopping basket right out of my hand and pack everything up himself. And he’ll grin the whole time, and say the corn chips I am buying are his current addiction.

Sure it’s summer, but that doesn’t automatically mean comfort sits in our laps every day, all day. Sometimes, like today, which must be the 17th sticky, grey day in a row, we need to seek out (or barring that, to remember) the stuff that makes us grin like a Trader Joe’s cashier. Here are some of my favorites.

1) Listening to a farmer describe how she relaxes after a long, hot day at the market: she goes inside her barn, turns on the fan, and cracks open a cold beer.

2) Choosing the tightest, smoothest, rosiest heirloom tomatoes for my favorite summer sandwich: sliced on bread smeared with mayonnaise, sprinkled with salt, and summarily devoured.

3) Watching shaggy-haired groms—that’s pre-teen surfers—skateboarding to the beach with a slice of pizza poised in one hand and a bottle of Coke in the other.

4) Seeing local theatre productions that are big enough to attract extraordinary talent but small enough that afterward you can meet and shake the hands of the actors.

5) Having a teatime treat of cherries (or peaches, or blueberries) with a drizzle of real cream.

6) Visiting a local farm and having your zucchini weighed on an ancient scale.

7) Watching dogs on the beach, wet from seawater, tear up and down the beach as they follow their surfing owners.

8) Going to the boardwalk and being handed a sopping, sloppy hot sausage sandwich with absolutely no pretense.

9) Being at the beach to witness the sunset bathing everything for miles in palest pink.

10) Strolling the midway at the Italian-American festival in Oakhurst, NJ every August for the food, rides and more of my cousins on one acre than anyplace else on earth.

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I’m late writing to you guys this week because the recent heat wave that clobbered New Jersey clobbered me as well. I was dehydrated, which in semi-bad cases like mine feels like the flu, complete with unrelenting drowsiness, no appetite and a yucky stomach*. Sorry, but you need to know what led up to what I did Sunday afternoon and why it was so freaking rewarding.

I needed to retain liquids, which meant it would be a good idea to consume some salt along with the amount of Gatorade I was drinking.** The initial lap through my local market wasn’t productive, because when you’re not hungry, nothing looks good.

Except. Potato chips. Hm.

Now, I am one of those people who loves, LOVES chips, always has, always will, but never eats them.*** When eating out, I tell the server no chips, and my sandwich arrives lonely, forlorn and playing the harmonica. But in this case, I hadn’t eaten much in the space of two days. Even with a bag this size—not one of those itty-bitty fun size ones that grace you with four chips, mind you—I could easily swing this and call it a wash.

I’d like to say I opened up the bag and got down to it right away, but I was so weak from an empty stomach and from doing nothing but rolling over in bed that I couldn’t get the bag open. It was one of those elite-looking plastic bags that pretends it’s far cooler than regular plastic, with its fancy smooth satin finish and all. So I dashed its pompous delusions and ripped it open with my house key.

And then I ate the whole bag.

And then I drove away making happy little Mmmm noises, which I haven’t done since making out with one of the great loves of my life in a parking lot. Same difference, if you ask me.

*’Ooh, Maris, tell us more!’ you’re all pleading.

**Which would drown the New York Knicks, plus Charles Barkley.

***Past weight problems. Chicken of going overboard. Yada.

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