Ramble On (Alt. Title: Ode to Finnegans Wake).
This morning The Bassoonist commented that it smelled like Man. I got a whiff and was instantly transported to childhood.* It was the smell of Bruce Johnson, the father of a neighbor friend. Bruce Johnson used to leave his toupee on the soup tureen on the dining room table.
A friend of mine from grammar school once said that growing up in Beverly was like growing up in the 1950s. He called me last week and told me he was probably getting a divorce. I would never join a club that wanted me as a member! Ha Ha!
I started selling Frosting Shots at The Canary. Yes, that is little plastic shot glasses filled with buttercream for a happy hour $. Little gelato spoon is included if you want to be dainty. People love the Frosting Shots. They think they are wild. I can't wait to see how they sell this weekend.
I've started thinking about the future of The Canary and am seriously tossing around the idea of selling it in two years. The thought of more executive foodie work is very appealing. Then I could wear clothes that needn't get dirty. And I wouldn't be stressing over my livelihood as much as I have the last two years. Maybe. Cupcakes for thought.
*The olfactory bulb is next to the bulb in your brain that stores memories which is why smell is such a memory inducer. See, grad school wasn't good for nothin'.