Hold the Leash!

I want to take a quick left turn away from the Canine Community for a couple of items, then we’ll go back to the woofers.  Lots more to see there…

Confidence Booster

I have oft remarked that it is gratifying to read some pro restaurant reviewers like Tom Sietsema come up with the same feelings and principles that the Feeder has espoused for years.  Last Sunday in the (revamped) Post Magazine, Tim Carman, his pinch hitter and probably heir apparent, wrote a little piece called “Setting the bar for neighborhood spots” that reviewed “The Dish and Dram” a little place in Kensington MD, (2 stars (good)).  The premise was that it was a “neighborhood bar” and that everybody had an idea of what that meant.  He “interviewed” some unnamed folks and came up with criteria for what he considered made a bona fide Neighborhood Restaurant.  I Include his findings below verbatim:

“A neighborhood restaurant, these diners told me, must be locally owned, and the owners must be on site.

It must be cheap enough so they can dine there frequently.

It must have history with the ’hood, at least 10 years.

It must be casual.

It must be walking distance from their home.

It must not take reservations.

It must support the community, maybe even the local farmers market.

It must have regulars and know their preferences (maybe even their secrets).

It must have a bar where locals engage with one another.

It must stay open late.

It must not be a chain.

It must not cater to tourists.”

At this point, after all my harangues over the years, bells should be going off in your head and you’re thinking:   Hey!! Most of these are exactly what the feeder looks for in an establishment to qualify for his “Just Right” designation!  Maybe he ain’t so dumb!

Thank you very much!

The long awaited confession

Well, I can no longer make excuses, or postpone the inevitable admission.  I have to come clean about my problem.  I have an addiction.  They say the first step to recovery is admitting you have a problem.  I have a problem.  Hopefully by sharing with my loyal following, I can at last get some relief. 

Here’s the story:   Every couple of weeks or so, I go to a web site, and with a few clicks cause an innocuous plain brown cardboard box to be deposited on the front porch.  By that time, I usually am in pretty desperate straits needing to feed my habit, so I usually rip open the box to reveal my monthly dose:

And with shaking hands bite open the package to release the source of relief

Ah, those little morsels of heaven in beckoning colors

So easy and enticing, have to restrain myself from gobbling the whole bag.   Usually a dosage of two or three pieces a couple of times a day keeps me on an even keel. 

I suppose the seeds of my affliction were sown in my youth borne out of Easter Mornings, when I searched the house looking for a little wicker basket of plastic green grass, cradling the cherished beans within..  Yes, they are BEANS…. JELLY BEANS!   You can call ‘em Jelly Bird Eggs (what a stupid name) if you want, but they are Jelly Beans!  And don’t even talk to me about miniature, or “Spicy”, they ain’t the real thing.   And I don’t look at those puny little highly flavored nuggets called Jelly Bellies.  Ptooie!

Oh, BTW, black are the best. 

There, my conscience is clear!

DFD and keep up the crusade for

NMMJ