Some of you may have observed, via the Sun or the Times-Dispatch (or possibly the Post, if that rag hasn’t been too busy wringing its hands over the plight of the snail darter or some similar idiocy) that Hecht’s is soon to fade into the afterglow. I’m preparing a pretty lengthy dissertation upon that bittersweet subject, so consider yourselves forewarned.
Tonight, however, I have lighter things in mind. Colder things, really.
On Sunday I visited with two friends who have lately embarked upon the journey of mutual housekeeping — those friends, in fact, whose poop I helped to move last week and whose furniture nearly caused me to sink into ’70s-topia. Having consolidated said poop into one apartment, we have been searching the city for a more permanent residence.
I hereby enlist all of you to beam good thoughts towards T. and A. (I never fail to remind them of the inherent scintillating possiblities of their initials) so that they’ll get the house we saw on Sunday. This place is the ultimate 1930’s Baltimore Happy House. It’s still a rowhouse, natch, but it’s one with a cute li’l front yard and a flagstone front porch and an arched front door that makes it look like Everyman’s Castle. Scoped through the windows were a fairly sizable living room and a dining room with a French door that opens onto a back porch, which proved to be just the right size for potential Teacher Happy Hours in the future. Like many Baltimore houses the front of the place is built up so that the basement opens at full ground level out back, and in this case it also houses a garage. This joint has great potential to jump.
After we examined the potential new residence we retreated to downtown Hamilton for snowballs. Neither T nor A are natives but both of them have readily adhered to the beauty of the snowball.
Growing up, I never realized that nobody else has these things. Every city has favorite summer treats but nobody seems to be quite as snowballcentric as the Baltimoreans. If you find a snowball stand in Richmond, they usually just have these prepackaged gloms of solid ice with the barest hint of flavor. Every once in a while, you might find a larval snowball stand in Philly, Washington or Richmond that offers five or six flavors, and for that you should count yourself blessed in those snowball-challenged regions.
The most decrepit, poverty-stricken snowball stand in Baltimore has at least twenty flavors. The hallmark of all time is Egg Custard (which is inexplicably red, usually). I personally favor those that turn my tongue gross colors, so spearmint and blue raspberry are perennial winners. Pina Colada, plain coconut and watermelon are pretty high on my list, too. The prepubescent set adores flavors like Scooby-Doo, Ninja Turtles and Sponge Bob. I have no idea what these taste like but they seem to sell very well.
Snowballs are superior to ice cream only as a heat-beater. Ice cream and ice-cream sundaes and soda floats are all wonderfully fulfilling. They are, however, heavy. The last thing you want when it’s 98 degrees and muggy is something that fills you up. Snowballs are nothing but ice and flavor. They cool, refresh and don’t fill. Unless, of course, you opt for marshamallow creme topping, which is extra tasty. A good snowball stand will offer to put it in the middle instead of on top. Some stands offer sprinkles but nice people do not do this. Leave it for Baskin-Robbins.
You can even graph personalities with snowball choices. Egg custard means someone either old or very old fashioned; kids like the weird comic hero names, yuppies like things like Wine Cooler, West Baltimoreans prefer the icky-sweet fruit flavors and younger Baltimore natives like things that taste like some kind of cocktail. Cherry is the flavor of the indecisive.
You can always tell the out-of-town types that are here to visit relatives. They always choose grape. Probably the most absolutely generic of all available snowball flavors, it’s pretty tasty but lacks panache on several different levels. It does, however, get the Auslander into the spirit of things. After eating a grape snowball, your tongue will make you look like an escapee of a medical experiment gone horribly wrong.
Tonight, however, I have lighter things in mind. Colder things, really.
On Sunday I visited with two friends who have lately embarked upon the journey of mutual housekeeping — those friends, in fact, whose poop I helped to move last week and whose furniture nearly caused me to sink into ’70s-topia. Having consolidated said poop into one apartment, we have been searching the city for a more permanent residence.
I hereby enlist all of you to beam good thoughts towards T. and A. (I never fail to remind them of the inherent scintillating possiblities of their initials) so that they’ll get the house we saw on Sunday. This place is the ultimate 1930’s Baltimore Happy House. It’s still a rowhouse, natch, but it’s one with a cute li’l front yard and a flagstone front porch and an arched front door that makes it look like Everyman’s Castle. Scoped through the windows were a fairly sizable living room and a dining room with a French door that opens onto a back porch, which proved to be just the right size for potential Teacher Happy Hours in the future. Like many Baltimore houses the front of the place is built up so that the basement opens at full ground level out back, and in this case it also houses a garage. This joint has great potential to jump.
After we examined the potential new residence we retreated to downtown Hamilton for snowballs. Neither T nor A are natives but both of them have readily adhered to the beauty of the snowball.
Growing up, I never realized that nobody else has these things. Every city has favorite summer treats but nobody seems to be quite as snowballcentric as the Baltimoreans. If you find a snowball stand in Richmond, they usually just have these prepackaged gloms of solid ice with the barest hint of flavor. Every once in a while, you might find a larval snowball stand in Philly, Washington or Richmond that offers five or six flavors, and for that you should count yourself blessed in those snowball-challenged regions.
The most decrepit, poverty-stricken snowball stand in Baltimore has at least twenty flavors. The hallmark of all time is Egg Custard (which is inexplicably red, usually). I personally favor those that turn my tongue gross colors, so spearmint and blue raspberry are perennial winners. Pina Colada, plain coconut and watermelon are pretty high on my list, too. The prepubescent set adores flavors like Scooby-Doo, Ninja Turtles and Sponge Bob. I have no idea what these taste like but they seem to sell very well.
Snowballs are superior to ice cream only as a heat-beater. Ice cream and ice-cream sundaes and soda floats are all wonderfully fulfilling. They are, however, heavy. The last thing you want when it’s 98 degrees and muggy is something that fills you up. Snowballs are nothing but ice and flavor. They cool, refresh and don’t fill. Unless, of course, you opt for marshamallow creme topping, which is extra tasty. A good snowball stand will offer to put it in the middle instead of on top. Some stands offer sprinkles but nice people do not do this. Leave it for Baskin-Robbins.
You can even graph personalities with snowball choices. Egg custard means someone either old or very old fashioned; kids like the weird comic hero names, yuppies like things like Wine Cooler, West Baltimoreans prefer the icky-sweet fruit flavors and younger Baltimore natives like things that taste like some kind of cocktail. Cherry is the flavor of the indecisive.
You can always tell the out-of-town types that are here to visit relatives. They always choose grape. Probably the most absolutely generic of all available snowball flavors, it’s pretty tasty but lacks panache on several different levels. It does, however, get the Auslander into the spirit of things. After eating a grape snowball, your tongue will make you look like an escapee of a medical experiment gone horribly wrong.
posted by Daniel | 2:32 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home