Exactly who you callin’ a witch?

What’s your favorite frozen food? These were always big in the special treat department when I was a kid.

[Photo Credit: bitchassbidness]

“Large still life with coffee pot,” By Giorgio Morandi (1933)

It’s All Right.

[Photo Credit: Koolaidfr0zenpizza]

There will be no cooking tonight. Therefore…

The rain has begun in the Bronx.

Can you be a slut for a restaurant? Course you can. And that’s just what I am for L’Artusi, the Italian restaurant in the village. It’s run by chef Gabe Thompson and his wife, Katherine, who does the desserts. They are s0me kind of talented pair, boy.

All of the food is tasty. I’ve mentioned the crispy potatoes and the spaghetti with green chilies before.

The olive oil cake alone is reason to make the trip. And so is this salad with tomatoes and watermelon over a slab of pancetta. The saltiness of the pork is balanced by the sweetness of the watermelon, the acid from the tomatoes, and there is an extra kick from little cubes of pickled watermelon rinds. It’s the kind of dish that makes you wish summer would last indefinitely.

 Oh, and the service is warm, the wait staff knowledgeable and friendly. Again, can’t recommend this jernt enough. And if you like it, dig Dell’Anima, also in the west village, owned by the same good folks.

Represent.

Turn the volume up. The song is best played loudly.

[Picture by Bags]

I love legitimate theater.

Would a ticket to a night of one-acts inspired by Derek Jeter constitute the greatest gag gift ever given to a Red Sox fan?

I see a tough girl from the Bronx with a huge crush on Jeter. Her lumpy boyfriend, who is sweet but dim, takes her to a game for her birthday. Bleachers of course. He proposes at the game, fans jeer. And her answer is…?

Or a couple of low-lifes drink beer in a dark apartment working up the courage to go out and rob a convenience store. The ballgame is on in the background as they alternate between bickering and goading. The game turns dramatic, Derek Jeter sends it to extra innings with a clutch hit. Do the guys still commit the crime?

What do you see?

My old pal Ras Beats has a new single out featuring two legendary rappers:

Side A:

Side B:

Mike Flanagan, a former pitcher for the Baltimore Orioles–and a damned good one–is dead.

Mike Flanagan, left, with his manager, Earl Weaver

He was tough on the Yanks. I remember watching him pitch when I was a kid. Sad news, indeed.

[Photo Credit: Yahoo!]

‘Tis the season.

At the famrer’s market this morning.

“Standing Nude” by Richard Diebenkorn (1966)

Man, he had chops. I just love seeing all the work he did on this picture. I could look at this all day.

Dig this: 10 commonly misused words. Helpful. I often confuse “bemused” with “nonplussed” and am never exactly sure when to use either, though I think they are great words. “Disinterested” is a precise and wonderful word too.

[Photo Credit: Abelardo Morrell]

Devils on Horseback at The Spotted Pig. That’s a prune wrapped in bacon. May sound off-putting but believe me, it’s delicious.

The Duke visits Laugh-In.

[Painting by Cassie Behle]

From the 2003 exhibition, “The Quilts of Gee’s Bend.”

If you’ve never read “The Things They Carried,” by Tim O’Brien, I suggest picking up a copy. Here is the title essay:

First Lieutenant Jimmy Cross carried letters from a girl named Martha, a junior at Mount Sebastian College in New Jersey. They were not love letters, but Lieutenant Cross was hoping, so he kept them folded in plastic at the bottom of his rucksack. In the late afternoon, after a day’s march, he would dig his foxhole, wash his hands under a canteen, unwrap the letters, hold them with the tips of his fingers, and spend the last hour of fight pretending. He would imagine romantic camping trips into the White Mountains in New Hampshire. He would sometimes taste the envelope flaps, knowing her tongue had been there. More than anything, he wanted Martha to love him as he loved her, but the letters were mostly chatty, elusive on the matter of love. She was a virgin, he was almost sure. She was an English major at Mount Sebastian, and she wrote beautifully about her professors and roommates and midterm exams, about her respect for Chaucer and her great affection for Virginia Woolf. She often quoted lines .of poetry; she never mentioned the war, except to say, Jimmy, take care of yourself. The letters weighed ten ounces. They were signed “Love, Martha,” but Lieutenant Cross understood that Love was only a way of signing and did not mean what he sometimes pretended it meant. At dusk, he would carefully return the letters to his rucksack. Slowly, a bit distracted, he would get up and move among his men, checking the perimeter, then at full dark he would return to his hole and watch the night and wonder if Martha was a virgin.

The things they carried were largely determined by necessity. Among the necessities or near-necessities were P-38 can openers, pocket knives, heat tabs, wrist watches, dog tags, mosquito repellent, chewing gum, candy, cigarettes, salt tablets, packets of Kool-Aid, lighters, matches, sewing kits, Military payment Certificates, C rations, and two or three canteens of water. Together, these items weighed between fifteen and twenty pounds, depending upon a man’s habits or rate of metabolism. Henry Dobbins, who was a big man, carried extra rations; he was especially fond of canned peaches in heavy syrup over pound cake. Dave Jensen, who practiced field hygiene, carried a toothbrush, dental floss, and several hotel-size bars of soap he’d stolen on R&R in Sydney, Australia. Ted Lavender, who was scared, carried tranquilizers until he was shot in the head outside the village of Than Khe in mid-April. By necessity, and because it was SOP, they all carried steel helmets that weighed five pounds including the liner aid camouflage cover. They carried the standard fatigue jackets and trousers. Very few carried underwear. On their feet they carried jungle boots-2.1 pounds – and Dave Jensen carried three pairs of socks and a can of Dr. Scholl’s foot powder as a precaution against trench foot. Until he was shot, Ted Lavender carried six or seven ounces of premium dope, which for him was 2 necessity. Mitchell Sanders, the RT0, carried condoms. Norman Bowker carried a diary. Rat Kiley carried comic books. Kiowa, a devout Baptist, Carried an illustrated New Testament that had been presented to him by his father, who taught Sunday school in Oklahoma City, Oklahoma. As a hedge against bad times, however, Kiowa also carried his grandmother’s distrust of the white man, his grandfather’s old hunting hatchet. Necessity dictated. Because the land was mined and booby-trapped, it was SOP for each man to carry a steel-centered, nylon-covered flak jacket, which weighed 6.7 pounds, but which on hot days seemed much heavier. Because you could die so quickly, each man carried at least one large compress bandage, usually in the helmet band for easy access. Because the nights were cold, and because the monsoons were wet, each carried a green plastic poncho that could be used as a raincoat or groundsheet or makeshift tent. With its quilted liner, the poncho weighed almost two pounds, but it was worth every ounce. In April, for instance, when Ted Lavender was shot, they used his poncho to wrap him up, then to carry him across the paddy, then to lift him into the chopper that took him away.

[Photo Credit: Addiction Inbox]

Salsa Verde with Avocado from the outstanding food blog, The Year in Food.

Here’s Tracy Daugherty, in an adaptation from his biography on Joseph Heller, on the War for Catch-22:

The novel, you know,” people whispered whenever Joseph Heller and his wife, Shirley, left a party early. From the first, Joe had made no secret of his ambitions beyond the world of advertising. In later years, he floated various stories about the origins of his first novel. “There was a terrible sameness about books being published and I almost stopped reading as well as writing,” he said on one occasion. But then something happened. He told one British journalist that “conversations with two friends … influenced me. Each of them had been wounded in the war, one of them very seriously The first one told some very funny stories about his war experiences, but the second one was unable to understand how any humour could be associated with the horror of war. They didn’t know each other and I tried to explain the first one’s point of view to the second. He recognized that traditionally there had been lots of graveyard humour, but he could not reconcile it with what he had seen of war. It was after that discussion that the opening of Catch-22 and many incidents in it came to me.”

The Czech writer Arnošt Lustig claimed that Heller had told him at a New York party for Milos Forman in the late 1960s that he couldn’t have written Catch-22 without first reading Jaroslav Hašek’s unfinished World War I satire, The Good Soldier Schweik. In Hašek’s novel, a mad state bureaucracy traps a hapless man. Among other things, he stays in a hospital for malingerers and serves as an orderly for an army chaplain.

But the most common account Heller gave of the hatching of Catch-22 varied little from what he said to The Paris Review in 1974: “I was lying in bed in my four-room apartment on the West Side when suddenly this line came to me: ‘It was love at first sight. The first time he saw the chaplain, Someone fell madly in love with him.’ I didn’t have the name Yossarian. The chaplain wasn’t necessarily an army chaplain—he could have been a prison chaplain. But as soon as the opening sentence was available, the book began to evolve clearly in my mind—even most of the particulars … the tone, the form, many of the characters, including some I eventually couldn’t use. All of this took place within an hour and a half. It got me so excited that I did what the cliché says you’re supposed to do: I jumped out of bed and paced the floor.”

In all likelihood, each of these scenarios is true; they don’t contradict one another, and they probably occurred at some stage in the process of imagining the novel. But we also know from a letter to Heller in California from the editor Whit Burnett that, as early as 1946, he’d been considering a novel about “a flier facing the end of his missions.”

[Photo Credit: Vanity Fair]