These fixtures of American towns dominated local markets but were later liquidated by corporate competitors
I’ve been shopping at a certain store known more for busting unions and bloating welfare rolls than for peddling quality goods. It’s pretty much the only mercantile action in my small Rust Belt town. The mom-n’-pop shop hale enough to have withstood the Walmart Wehrmacht is rare in even the biggest burgs. Where I live they’re like snow leopards or skunk apes: rumored to exist but seldom seen. So with a heavy heart I step into the fluorescent glare to sift piles of shoddy junk to find whatever it was I thought I needed that day. I guess you could say I’ve been big-boxed in.
A helping of Halloween heebie-jeebies from The Ghosterity Kitchen
Emanuel Swedenborg arrived famished to a London inn late one April night in 1745. The dinner set before him he devoured, pausing only to savor its aroma. “How pleasant the food smells!,” he remarked. “How wonderful the flavor!” After cleaning his plate he sank back in his chair. “I’ve never enjoyed a meal more,” he sighed.
Though not always a smorgasbord, meals enjoyed by Norsemen sometimes offered a little taste of Valhalla
It always surprised me that, though she hailed from a small island (little more than a rock, really) tucked away somewhere along Norway’s bleak coastline, my grandmother didn’t like Norwegian food. She had no truck with boiled cod. Nor did she like boiled carrots, boiled potatoes, or even boiled swedes. Reindeer meat was alien to her, elk meat revolting; and never once did I see her eating those wonderful pork and veal meatballs Scandinavians usually seem to relish. Only on Christmas Eve would she revert to type and prepare a great steaming pot of rice pudding doused in lingonberry syrup. This she ate with gusto. Otherwise her favorite meal consisted of a generous slice of Entenmann’s cake, a cup of coffee and a Virginia Slim cigarette.