Eastside Road, Healdsburg, September 23, 2009—THAT'S WHAT I ALWAYS call it, "icebox." You can tell a man's age by his terminology: I still say "television set," never simply "television"; but I say "radio," not "radio set". I know it's a refrigerator, but when I was a kid it was always called the icebox, and that's what I still call it.
In any case, home from upcountry, dinner still from our party last Sunday. Maybe this is the last of the cold chicken. With it, a mess of kale and chard from the garden; also, stewed tomatoes — another familiar from my childhood, but without the torn-up balloon-bread Mom always included. I didn't miss that, not a bit.
Cheap Nero d'Avola