a) if a sugarfree popsicle melts on your desk (it happens), it won’t be sticky
b) if the stick is tossed into a wastebasket, it won’t be black with ants in a heartbeat

When I was little, popsicles were doubles. Two popsicles, two sticks, joined in the middle. My mom never let me eat both, I had to either share one with a brother, or put it back in the freezer. No matter if it were 105°, she never backed down. I could have a whole drumstick, or banana split, which was a frozen banana surrounded by ice cream, then a chocolate shell. A whole pushup, which was no big deal - the thing came in what looked like a toilet paper roll, and the last of the sherbet tasted like cardboard. I didn’t much like any of those choices. She firmly believed that something made of ice would thin my blood.

At one time, I wished fervently to have a tonsillectomy. Never mind that there might be pain, all I heard were the magic words, ‘all the popsicles you can eat’.

Now I can eat a whole box of 24 if I wanted. Sadly, these are the no-sugar kind, and the thrill is not quite the same. It’s the only fun part of the whole low-carb thing for me. After one or two, my brain shudders in protest, ‘These things aren’t real. Quit eating, or I’ll start with the earworms.’

One of the holy grails of evening walking: the smell of yeasty dough baking. I stopped in my tracks. There was no dearth of grilling meat smells, it being another warm night after an almost hot day. But we seldom experience the fragrance of bread in such an immediate way, without being the person who had labored to produce the bread. One would have to assume that someone was waiting with oven mitts to take the bread out, or had just done so, and was getting ready to spread some nice butter (or reasonable facsimile) atop a warm slice.

We then talked of vegetarianism, and could we ever imagine life without a steak now and then. Somehow the subject took a nasty turn to hookworms, then tried to steer back to the happier topic of food via Stiff (the book I’m reading), in which the author writes of someone who used a cadaver to determine exactly how much food a stomach can take in before exploding.

I will have to play with the recipe, this one being a bit bland. Cheese and garlic would add some punch, but it was a good foil for the chicken.

There are 3 racks of spareribs in their vacuum-sealed packages in the fridge, and a large container of homemade barbecue sauce. An interesting week lies ahead.

A roast chicken, and in the oven, spoon bread. I’ve been flipping though southern cookbooks, and did not want to make cornbread. What I’d really like is stuffing, but I may not see stuffing again till Thanksgiving. In the past (pre-lowcarb), when spring seemed closer than usual, I would make a vat of potato salad, with egg, pickle, celery, and mayo.

There were two spoon bread recipes considered, one with 3 cups of milk, and the other 1 cup of milk and 1 cup of boiling water. I chose the latter. It is looking as ‘custardy’ as promised, and I will report on its worthiness later.

Paul Horn, Inside the Taj Mahal, Vol. 1. A real oldie, but still good.

Two days of summery temps works wonders.

Suite for Cello & Jazz Piano Trio, Claude Bolling and Yo-Yo Ma.