Eastside Road, Healdsburg, December 2, 2008—
NATURALLY WE BOUGHT eggs on our return from Italy; naturally Tom had left us half a dozen in the icebox, excuse me, refrigerator. Fortunately science has changed and eggs are okay now, so though we skipped the softboiled eggs on Sunday morning we feasted tonight on a farmer's omelet: eggs, potatoes, onion, bacon. Broccoli on the side. Green salad, of course.Merlot, Esser Vineyards 2006 (the rest of the bottle)
1 comment:
Don't apologize for the word "icebox." I can remember, as a kid in the sixties, the ice wagon still made regular deliveries to our street, mostly cubes and crushed ice for parties and the like, but also for a few neighbors who still had wooden iceboxes and needed blocks. The ice house in Claremont — next to the railroad tracks, a remnant of the orange grove era — was still in operation many years beyond that. Besides, icebox is a great, sturdy word
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