Goo Reuben

I will be in Omaha soon, a first visit to Nebraska, and understand that the Reuben sandwich might have originated there. There is no disputing the brilliance of the Reuben’s construction. Frankly, I cannot imagine the path to the Reuben but will take a stab at it.

Corned beef and rye begets

Corned beef on rye with cheese begets

Corned beef on rye with cheese and Russian dressing begets

Corned beef on rye with cheese and Russian dressing. And sauerkraut? Huh? Sauerkraut? No lie, sauerkraut is delicious but, I swear, someone had sauerkraut in excess (of course because…cabbage) and thought it could be hidden behind CORNED BEEF, RYE, CHEESE AND RUSSIAN DRESSING because, without a doubt, a GIANT Louis Vuitton bag could be hidden behind CORNED BEEF, RYE, CHEESE AND RUSSIAN DRESSING. The bag would be eaten – lock, stock and barrel – almost without notice, so yeah, let’s unload a mess o’ kraut while we’re at it. And the world pivoted on its axis.

Booeymonger – speaking of being unable to imagine a path, I cannot imagine the path to that name, Booeymonger. Must sleuth. The original Booeymonger – tiny, on a side-street, open very late, oh-so-intriguing to a wandering teen – had the Guruben on it’s menu, a sandwich name on par with the Teuben (a Reuben in a casing, sausage-style at Hot Doug’s in Chicago), as well as the Vegetarrorist at Cafe Clementine (so clever, so not-scary when it was conceived, funny, so funny, and now not, damnit!) Booeymonger, to this day, lists the Patty Hearst on its menu. How now, provolow? The Patty Hearst but no Guruben? What wokeness has got by me?

Life. Sandwiched Between Birth and Death.

Between adulthood and your finish.

We like lists. I like lists. Lists are arbitrary. Lists are artificial.

We like life. I like life. Life is arbitrary. Life is…so real it is artificial.

Checking off items on a list and noting the dopamine rush – accumulate accumulate accumulate yes! – is my jam jam jam marmalade.

Speaking/writing of marmalade I will never get to France and eat these sandwiches and checkcheckcheck them off a listlistlist. I am familiar with most of them. Does familiarity satisfy?

All so delicious. It is food after all, that weird stuff we put in our mouths to masticate, taste, eat, swallow, digest. Weird, wonderful, sensual, sustaining. Ah. Gah. Yes. Do you want to live forever? No, you do not. Nevertheless, life’s glories are limitless, unmeasurable, vibrating.

Not rushing off to France to eat, yet noting the range of my desire. Feeling more alive for it. Sandwich my desire between buttered bread please. Then take a luscious bite, chewchewchew noting the barbarianism, … of it and STRETCH OUT WITH ALIVENESS.

Merci, Monsieur Spaulding!

 

A Triumph Over Death

is the egg.

By Miriam Rubin

At sundown on Friday, April 6, Passover will begin as Jews all over the world gather around dining tables. They’ll light festival candles. They’ll read ancient prayers and passages from the Haggadah. They’ll sit at tables set with gleaming silver, pressed linens, Grandmother’s china, or maybe just a hodgepodge of plates. Each place will have a wine glass, because drinking wine or grape juice is an essential element of the ceremony. Read on here.

And for all of us, celebrating Passover or not, the surging renewal of spring is upon us and the egg is triumphant.