I have just finished eating twenty cocktail olives. It’s eat-everything-in-the-kitchen time because the subletters are moving in next week. Usually this means a grim grim analysis of the ridiculous sauces I’ve bought over the last eight months and used once each (really Rachael? Four different rice vinegars? That sounds like a great idea.). Were Boston to be Pompeii II, archeologists would analyze my pantry and think very highly of my eating habits. As it is not, I’m left with the facts that I often buy loads of grains, find old glass jars, pour said grains into jars, and cheerily put them up on shelf never to be acknowledged again.
Does this pantry make you sick with envy and lifestyle jealousy? no? Just me.
So the arrival today of 2500 very endearing little things that start with m–not monkeys, guess again–was enormously cheering.
Matchbooks! We sell a lot of cigarettes at the market. Pack a/day, pack a/week, pack a/ “I only smoke on vacation.” And they all want matches with their purchase. As we see it, with matches you either can have them, or you can have them awesomely. We chose awesomely, obviously. We like to think Roy would approve of the cribbing, and are happy to give the beach babe second chance at pop culture stardom.