This week, for lunch I packed cotto salami sandwiches, twice on homemade bread and twice on store bought white bread. Every time with mustard and sometimes with American cheese, sometimes not. I’ve talked before about remembering my sack lunches from Mom that I used to take to school. Back then it would’ve had Doritos with the sammy. I haven’t had a good cotto salami sandwich in a long time and it made lunch hit different. Even without her notes.
It was a real break in the days because it took me away to another place, another time. This is necessary during a long work day; it clears the mind. You’ve ever thought of a salami sandwich as a palette cleanser? Well, it was for me. I also enjoy biting into the surprising bits of peppercorns. Peppers. The spice of life.
During our week of mostly melt and very little freeze, the perfect blend of both flavors, I was happy to notice again the gradual return of starling song to my neighborhood. The ravens were extremely active and vocal and last Sunday, bedded down in my neighbor’s yard, snuggled up against their foundation were six whitetails.
I’ve sufficiently recovered from my big fall to enjoy walking on the dry pavement that can be fairly easily found during sun-filled afternoons. My mobility is returning.
All of this returns just in time for us to adapt to change in the form of lower temperatures and more snow. More slush; more ice.
It’s crappie season I guess, and I also guess that it really hard to distinguish if March has come in like a lion or a lamb or perhaps a Minnesota version of a chupacabra (that’s a “goat-sucker” -- a legendary, perhaps hairless, fanged cryptid first reported in Puerto Rico in 1995, notorious for killing livestock—especially goats—by draining their blood.) For further reference, see the Scooby Doo cartoons or X-Files episodes, both of which I speak fluently. March can be a mess.
I miss those days, sitting by the fireplace in our old (drafty I guess) living room, playing with my Johnny West cowboys and matchbox cars on one of Grandma Brauer’s rag rugs, watching Saturday late morning cartoons and enjoying yet another cotto salami sandwich on Mom’s homemade bread.
Going out to play in the snow and to take water the horse and chickens -- check on my big white rabbit with the red eyes that was born under the cabins at Silver Rapids lodge. Circa most likely 1975. My dad wouldn’t have been drilling wells on Saturdays in the winter; he certainly wouldn’t have been mowing his boss’s lawn. Maybe we would have hung out. Maybe mom and him would have thrown me and my sister in the car and gone antique picking. Maybe we would have driven to Dixon to go to Dairy Queen and see Grandma and Grandpa Stouffer.
See. Nostalgisist. That’s me. Through and through, right to the made-up word itself. I’d get a chocolate vanilla twist crunch cone with an extra cup of crunch coat and a red Mister Misty float. The best of both, a bit of soft thaw and just the right amount of flavorful freeze. March; not so messy after all. Sign me up.
