Time to spice up your life
Attention. Special events are approaching. It’s feasts. Foods.
Father’s Day, graduations, vacations, weddings, Juneteenth, July 4, Labor Day, Columbus Day, Veterans Day, Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year’s, maybe grandma’s birthday in between.
Forget your calendar. Consider your stomach. Today it’s a tutorial on your spices.
Pepper. King of spices. Prized during the Middle Ages. Birthplaces were Genoa, Alexandria, Venice which owed them their prosperity. Today pepper encompasses the globe with US, Japan, Korea the biggest consumers. Main producing countries are Vietnam, India, Indonesia, Brazil, Malaysia, Sri Lanka.
Black, dried, from flowering vine Piperaceae, its pungency comes from the piperine compound — whatever that is. A home remedy that supposedly helps cure constipation, diarrhea, indigestion and insect bites. However, it cannot help with City Hall.
Clove. From dried flower buds off the tree Myrtaceae. This thing does not grow in Brooklyn. The name’s derived from Latin. I tried saying it to my Yorky. Didn’t help. Damn dog still didn’t stop barking. Whatever the stuff is it’s big in Asia, Africa, Middle East and often combined with apples, pears, rhubarb. Nice stuck inside pumpkin pie.
Cinnamon. From the inner bark of trees. The stuff got to Egypt by 2000 BC when the Bible says Moses used it in the holy anointing oil. If not Moses then maybe Jane Fonda. De Blasio probably had it in a City Hall drawer.
Cardamom. Supposedly it’s our most expensive fruit. A German planted it in Guatemala before World War I. How we got it, who knows. I’m glad I know this much.
So there’s also cumin, chutney, oregano, thyme, mint, paprika, sage, garlic, rosemary, chili, salt, nutmeg and onion.
If unlucky and nobody’s inviting you, throw together your own holiday meal. Or, call for delivery, have a dude on a bike deliver someone else’s leftovers then call three pains in the ass people you stopped talking to six months ago. Invite them over.
Listen, if Hiawatha could make do by the shores of Gitchie Goomie — so can you. You got the East River.
Best of summer
There’s always the campfires, roasted marshmallows and warm beer people. Also beach bums who schlep blankets, toys, umbrellas, towels, straw hats, mini barbecue pits, crappy potato salad, electric heaters, franks covered with sand, thermos things filled with lukewarm coffee, sun cream and beach balls. Also a basically unwanted relative, unstoppable talker neighbor, not necessary friend who got foisted on you, nearby blanket sitter whose radio belts out songs loudly, plus a kid who won’t stop crying, plus a friend desperately needing the nearest john which is on the far side of Weehawken. And then — it rains.
I remember the year 2000. Holiday time. Bloomberg about to run for mayor. Having plenty to be appreciative for, he said to me: “For most people this coming holiday period would be a step up. Better house, better visibility, more power. For me it’s a step down.”
In the words of Crapdammy’s living room: Only in New York, kids, only in New York.
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