Sundays & Sundaes
Sundays suck, they've always sucked, and the older I get the more they seem to suck. There's just something dreary about a Sunday. As a kid, I remember them being gray and rainy and the tv shows were bad, no cartoons, all current events, sports or depressing fare like Grizzly Adams (the wistful folky theme song; the premise, a man on the run for crime he didn't commit; the era, 1970s masquerading as 1850s —so downtrodden and dirty). Obviously, this was pre cable tv or internet. I read in bed a lot during the afternoon. Now, I have other distractions, but there's still something dread-filled about a Sunday. I don't understand the whole "having a case of the Mondays" (what a poignant phrase) because by Monday you're already in the thick of it. Sunday you have a whole day to dwell on the awfulness of the impending week. Saturday I wake up no problem, but Sunday I often lay in bed well past noon, not really tired, but reluctant to get up because it means the weekend's end is drawing near and it's too much to bear. Melodrama aside, it's true. Motivation is tough even though it tends to be sunny in NYC. (Sometimes music helps—I'm very keen on the Envelopes today)
Today was balmy enough, and it was the opening weekend for the soccer and food stand extravaganza in Red Hook. I mean, it's only about a 12-minute walk from my apt. and it's not like you can get a decent taco anywhere in BoCoCa (oh, yes I did). After one massive huarache, I was done. I could've squeezed in an arepa, but didn't want to go overboard as I'm known to do.
The word huarache is amusing to me because if you recall huaraches, the sandals, were popular somewhere in the '80s. And my dad who had like zero accent (he would occasionally put the emphasis on the wrong syllable, but that's about it) would pronounce huarache with an insane amount of precision and Spanish flair. You know, like when newscasters speak standard English and then call Chile chee-lay. Every time my dad would theatrically say hurache, my sister and I would bust a gut and try and find ways to work the word into conversations just to get him to say it again.
Instead of going the more meat and corn route, I went wild and bought a baggie of fruit, which is very unlike myself because I rarely eat fruit. Nature's candy (what a crock) just doesn't do it for me, I have to force myself to eat it (I bought a bag of tangerines yesterday with the notion that I'll bring them to work as healthy snacks, but I see that lasting about one day). But I love the Mexican style of preparing mangos, which is actually very Thai right down serving the slices in a plastic baggie with disposable fork (dispensing beverages this same way, but with a straw, seems very precarious, however. See random person's photo for example). They sprinkle the fruit with salt, chile powder and lime juice (actually the Red Hook vendor used bottled lemon juice, but same idea) and you get that crazy salty/sweet/spicy effect. It's almost like you're not even eating fruit, which is a plus in my book.
So, my Sunday afternoon was tolerable but now it's starting to get dark out and night time means Monday is mere hours away and that's a hideous thought. At least I have some leftovers from yesterday's Sripraphai excursion to look forward to later. It's not a good thing when food is the only exciting part of your day (my cat is the same way. Do you think pets get their owners' personalities? Like Caesar, James's cat, is kind of prickly, keeps to himself and is not one for idle chit chat. The cat won't meow to save his life. Sukey, my cat, is talkative and constantly meowing and complaining and is obsessed with eating. In fact, she's starting to get a feline gut)…or life, for that matter.
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