Word: breakfast
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Dates: during 1960-1969
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ZERALDA'S OGRE by Tomi Ungerer (Harper & Row; $3.95). This lonely ogre has sharp teeth, a big nose, a bad temper and he sometimes eats little children for breakfast that is, until he meets Zeralda, who is such a good cook that he swiftly switches to pompano, roast chicken and other goodies. Though it may sound scary to adults, it is the kind of story that is invariably amusing to children and the youngsters will love the menacing drawings. Also recommended: Ungerer's Moon Man, a story of the man in the moon's brief visit to earth...
...Angel obviously isn't a palace version of Robinson Crusoe's efforts. And as an expose of forced community living, it doesn't go far. The director, Luis Bunuel, rarely shows what--besides distaste--one character feels for another. Adultery seems as interesting a switch as scrambled eggs for breakfast instead of cheerios...
...Apple Pie!" In what was probably his final tour as a noncandidate, Romney last week addressed 1,300 Republicans in St. Paul, then flew to neighboring Wisconsin for a day of speechmaking. He impressed a breakfast meeting in La Crosse, particularly when he blasted the Democrats for having saddled the nation with "the New Deal, the Fair Deal, and now, L.B.J.'s Ordeal." The reception was chillier at the University of Wisconsin, where blue-jeaned students greeted him with catcalls. When Romney declared, "There's nothing more basic in America than belief in our Creator," one student jeered...
Compare an imaginary middle-class Mr. U.S. in 1917 with his counterpart today. After breakfast cooked on a cast-iron stove, Mr. U.S. of 1917 wrapped himself against the early autumn chill, went out to his open Model T, hand-cranked the engine into ear-splitting action, and headed for the office at the blazing 15 m.p.h. demanded by the bumpy, unpaved road. Back at the house, his wife kneaded the dough for the day's bread, then took soap and dishcloth to wash the Mason jars in which she was about to preserve apple butter. When she hurried...
Today, Mr. U.S. finishes his breakfast of frozen orange juice and diet-bread toast, pops a vitamin pill into his mouth, steps into his fastback Barracuda, punches the tape deck button for swing or symphony, and heads for the freeway. The six-lane concrete strip lets him proceed at 65 m.p.h. toward his office in town-except when there are so many other cars going the same way that he can listen to all of Beethoven's Ninth. By the time he gets to the office, his wife has already called-from the pink, push-button Princess extension...