Happy Shrove Tuesday!

What is Shrove Tuesday? I have no idea. Let's put aside all the "real" news for a second (Tom Brady has a baby in in his ex-girlfriend's oven, Britney shaved her dome piece and checked back into rehab, Jet Blue is testing out a Patron's Bill of Rights) and let's find out, shall we?

Shrove Tuesday is the day after Collop Monday and the day before Ash Wednesday. It's also known in Irish communities as Pancake Tuesday, and in Polish communities, Paczki day. So eat your pancakes while you can, people, and confess to what a jerk you were all year, or the Easter Bunny is going to blow you off. Because after today, you've got 40 days of no fun, and no fun is literally translated into liturgical fasting where only the "plainest foodstuffs can be eaten." So says Jesus and everybody, anyway. What are you gonna give up? Is bologna a plain foodstuff?

Speaking of bologna (and I'm so happy you brought it up), I witnessed a strange "bologna incident" on Sunday. I've seen other incidents surrounding bologna in the past, but this one took the processed meat cake for sure. There were a gaggle of gals in town this holiday weekend, and on Sunday we decided to go to Beso for brunch in Brooklyn. There was (and always is) a long wait, because the food is good and they have pitchers of interesting mimosas (none containing bologna).

While my peeps waited inside to escape the chilly weather, I went out front to make a phone call. As I was chatting, I was fixated on this couple, a white mother-daughter couple who were ambling down the sidewalk, the mother with a small pushcart. They were both dressed in sweatpants, and flannels, and bed head--stuff common to Sunday attire, and it was obvious that they didn't have much money, but I couldn't tell if they were homeless. Mother was in her sixties, daughter was in her late twenties, tall and on the obese side. Walked with a gait that is lead by the belly. She appeared a little "touched" and perhaps Ma, who was biting the end off of an enormous baguette--wider than a French baguette but just as long--was the caregiver.

As Ma made her way over to the bus stop shelter with the baguette and her pushcart, she handed the baguette to her daughter. The daughter then took a piece off the end the size of an average sandwich, and with her arm outstretched, shouted, "Ma! Ma! Ma! Take this!" and motioned for Ma to take the piece and put it into the cart. Daughter kept the footlong-sized piece. It reminded me of the old gag when a wife asks her husband for money, and he takes out his wallet, puts a bill or two in his hand to give to her and she takes the wallet instead.

Anyway, daughter starts chewing on the end of the bread when Ma hands her some bologna she had in her pocket.

Let me repeat: In her pocket.

Sure, it was in the 99 cents plastic off-brand traditional processed meat container, but it was in her pocket.

Daughter walks around to the interior of the bus stop to accept the fistful of bologna. In one hand she held the bologna pieces, and with the other, rips the baguette down the middle. She then smoothed about a piece of bologna on her hand and licked it from top to bottom. Stuck it on the bread, and removed it again to lick it. Again. Then stuck it back down. Again with the second and third pieces. Lick. Stick. Lick. Stick. I didn't notice any condiments being handed over, so perhaps the saliva was the trick.

Once the sandwich was assembled, Ma got up off the bench with her cart, moved out onto the sidewalk and walked away. Daughter was to follow. She held the sammich with two hands up to her face and munched and walked. Munch. Walk. Munch.

Bologna Incident.

The next time I see you in person and you would like me to act out this scenario, I will do it, but only if you ask. Now I will repent for being such a jerk*.



*not likely