Foodtown, Metropolitan Avenue, Williamsburg, Brooklyn, NY.
Slyfox Pheonix Pale Ale, Pennsylvania
Somebody’s got dope outside. It smells like Christmas had a bastard child with an Iguana lighting a matchbox.
The windows are busted open; sounds of motorcycles gargling as a couple of Blood gang members (we’re friends and we’ve talked a lot about public transportation, In general) make last minute phone calls to their dads and abuelas who probably live just one floor above their stoop of solitude.
I’m naked sitting indian style beneath a Phillies throw cover- feeling like a bro.
All is well in West Williamsburg, Williamsburg, Brooklyn, NY, USA and in the bedroom too. I found myself sipping on a Slyfox Pheonix Pale Ale that is the epitome of that feeling you get after soaking your body in chlorine and you’re sitting out waiting to dry, in other words, kinda perfect and as surreal as it’s gonna get for most, myself included.
Just shy of four hours ago I’d returned from Washington D.C; the bus ride back peaking over five hours. We did stop at Delaware’s Peace Offering to America- the Delaware Rest Stop starring Auntie Anne’s and her twisting lassos of fornicated passion; but the driver said we only had ten minutes in Delaware, so I sipped up on some Tire-Blend slow pour from the Bucks of Stars and proclaimed their cinnamon chip scone to be nothing more than 1 part Cinnamon Chip, 4 part scone, and all 5 parts a complete waste of $2.75. First, I scoffed that my stomach didn’t even try to reject it and then I scoffed at my eyes for never noticing that there was a Popeye’s right down the way. Simple pleasures, like Popeye’s, are really tricky things- sometimes so simple you never pick them up. Maybe that’s why they’re something special; the moment you do pick up on one of them, you realize you aren’t a complete dumbass for never realizing it in the first place.
D.C. was kinda brilliant. More posts will be shot up in the A.M. and then the P.M. and then the late P.M. about it. Lots to talk about in regards to Coffee, H and U Street Bars, Petworth and the magical realism of all that is Mount Pleasant, Dupont, The hirshhorn and National Portrait Gallery, a drunken stroll through the national mall at night, and by far, the greatest mezze experience of my life, maybe the greatest dining experience of my life. It kills me knowing that I wasn’t able to write about it right after the fact, but marinating in it for a little while longer made me realize just how much a night like that was never going to shift a fraction in my mind.
That will be for tomorrow.
We rocked over to Foodtown where they sprinkle their herbs with water while they chill on the produce rack. They also got this really great marble pound cake that I once got my for boyfriend after he and our friend had specifically asked for donuts; I wanted to be a prick and wanted him to be just as upset as I was for just being upset for no reason at all. They saw the pound cake, saw it for a little while longer, I threatened to throw it out, and my boyf scrambled about promising it’d taste delicious. I make others eat my feelings for me.
He’s since forgiven me.
After the bus and the walk and the L to the Bedford Ave, we fetched some pancake mix and raspberries.
Came home. Started firing up the place. He mashed some raspberries into the mix and poured it into a boiling oil pool of what used to be a big ol’ stick a buttuh. I hit up some bacon and eggs while he continued on by suggesting that we should be experimenting more with our sunday night cooking and the asshole threw in a couple dollops of Peanut Butter on top of the already rising pancake.
Locked and loaded we stacked the clouds of life onto our plates and sprinkled a bit of fleur de sel on top before covering it in buttery Foodtown syrup. There was the bitterness of the raspberry in the fluffy cake that was lightly burnt where all the butter had decided to lay down the new order- an eleventh commandment proclaiming that everything in the world should always taste as good as the pancakes the butter itself had charred. And then in between those bites, there were these moments of ecstasy- real, down-to-Earth ecstasy. Those damn dollops of chunky peanut butter. I can’t even. I mean, maybe I could, but that’d just ruin the whole idea of figuring it out for yourself as to how fucking good it tasted. The mushy and the crunchy and the salty and the sweet and—- ugh, Lord!
We ate it on his bed and still have not left it. How the dishes were done without my knowledge is beyond me.
I just hit ground zero of the pale ale. There’s a hoppy aftertaste I’m figuring is coming from imported Pacific Northwest Regions of Hops and real craftsmanship of all crafts. It always does.
Tomorrow, I start working as a gardener- pulling and weeding and making green spaces even greener. Dirt in my nails and another run across the Williamsburg Bridge after that to follow.
Everybody, Go watch ‘Girls’.