Speaking of Memory

In the 'I could not make this up’ category, in my mother’s basement (yes, the same basement where we have previously found Little Blue Books, lurid paperbacks of the ‘30’s, a selection of mustards sampled by Napoleon, and 300 unused labels for the bottles of “medicine” produced by the still in the barn) on a shelf a few feet below the upper shelf bearing 8 linear feet of old 78 records, you can find a couple dozen very musty and dusty empty wine bottles, and this label:

EMPTY WINE BOTTLES
WITH GOOD MEMORIES



My mother has no memory of such a shelf or label existing,nor does she remember the occasions that prompted her to place the empty bottles on said shelf.

Goose fat

One of the pleasures of staying for a time at a relative’s house (in this case my parents', also the house I mostly grew up in) is the opportunity it affords for poking around in their closets, bookshelves and refrigerators. In my parents’ house this is especially amusing because my mother is the 1963, 1976, 1985,1987, 1999 and 2007 World Champion Organizer and Labeler; so it is possible to discover a stash of tiny change purses in assorted colors on a shelf in a closet in a distant bedroom, and they will be neatly lined up like sardines inside a box, and labeled: "Bonne Maman’s Top Drawer 1997". It is also possible to find a full length turquoise gown with a matching jacket and fox fur collar, inside a clear garment bag, with a hand written label affixed to the hanger by a satin ribbon that reads: “Given to MBL by Gene B in 1968 [his wife had just died and she had great clothes, really great clothes]; worn to Architectural Historians Gala 1976; worn to Prague Castle 1995.” It is even possible to find, in the same closet, a plastic bag filled with free hotel shower caps, labeled: “Shower Caps”.

But I did not intend to catalog the contents of any closet, at least not today. Last night my sister B came to visit and (in search of grainy mustard) together we enjoyed a stroll through the byways and pathways of my mother’s vast refrigerator. We found many delightful condiments and tidbits, but here is what intrigued us the most.

Goose fat, indeed, from a long ago Christmas Eve. It begs the question: what does one do with 11-year-old goose fat? What does one do with fresh goose fat? Being helpful sorts, my sister and I briefly considered purging the above goose fat. But why? It had been there for these 11 years and the label wasn’t even smudged. Who were we to second-guess its permanent place on a shelf in the fridge? We put it back exactly where we found it. For the next generation.

Let it Bee Local

Last night, with the help of our intrepid neighbor Dawn, we put labels on 144 bottles of honey. Not to cavil, but there are such a lot of labels. There is the Let it Bee Local Honey label, the one I love. There is the cautionary label warning against giving honey to infants less than one year. There is the label identifying the honey’s provenance (a Manhattan rooftop, that’s as specific as we can be, given the legal issues). There is the Unsafe at Any Speed label. There is the Pray to Saint Ambrose, patron of beekeepers, label. There is the nutrition facts label. There is the bar code. There is the Turn Right at the Apiary label.

However, lest you think it was all work and no play, while affixing labels we listened to the Kingston Trio (huh?), which was very satisfying, because Charlie on the MTA is one of the few songs I actually know the words to. (He will ride forever ‘neath the streets of Boston…)

And then today, expecting to ford a flooded Saw Mill Highway, I delivered all 8 cases to Murray’s Cheese store on Bleeker Street, our newest venue for Let it Bee and the first for Let it Bee Local Manhattan rooftop honey.

On the way home I had the opportunity to stare long and hard at the illuminated sign at 42nd street announcing the number of days before the Intrepid returns. 6 days. It seems just yesterday there was a grand fiasco when they tried to move the Intrepid away for repairs and it was stuck in the mud.
Before that I saw two unleashed, unaccompanied, perfectly white bull terriers standing on the sidewalk at 14th street and 7th Avenue waiting for the light to change. They crossed with the light and continued walking north. I should have stopped and at least looked at their collars. I should have done something about those two well-behaved but strangely alone dogs in the city. I should have overcome my irrational aversion to dogs with downwardly tapered snouts. But I kept driving, eager to be home before the next nor'easter. Those dogs may be in Washington Heights by now, far from their frantic owner, a solitary man in his forties who plays jazz piano and visits his mother every week at a Nursing Home upstate.