Word: rinds
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...sits down to consume one of the Lucullan meals he regularly cadges. Wambaugh's feeling for food is almost erotic. Thus as Bumper takes dessert in an Arab restaurant: "I scooped up a mouthful and let it lay there on my tongue, tasting the sweet apricot and lemon rind, and remembering how Yasser's wife, Yasmine, blended the apricot and lemon rind and sugar, and folded the apricot puree into the whipped cream before it was chilled...
Just One More. Two days later, when I pulled Anglin' Sam out of bed at 5 a.m., he remarked that I had a funny glazed look. "Bass on the brain," he called it. The odd smell in the air-a combination of pork rind, outboard motor oil, anise and fish scales-he called "essence of largemouth." That afternoon, while twitching purple-plastic worms off the bottom, I had a strike that seemed to turn the boat around. When I set the hook, it felt like there was an anvil on the other end. Diving and circling the boat...
...drapes into the dehydrated eyes of snockered politicos, lobbyists in underpants, Pentagon sources and the secret police, when the hands that guide our collective destiny reach to kill the screams of the alarm clock and grope for the girl (already fled), at that hour Habbakuk is pushing aside the rind of his grapefruit, sipping the dregs of his coffee, and rereading the telegram that sends him flying to New York by cocktail time, where he must perforce plug in his connections, drop his names, jiggle through a dance or two till he's in a position to float Valerie...
Canning the tomato is the triumph of the ego, the suppression of the natural, the inexorable advance of civilization. Technology has found a way to "cook" the tomato without shriveling it to an inedible rind. One simply puts the dangerous natural tomato into a can. Magically it is civilized, it is cooked. Now take it out of the can and it is "safe" to eat the tomato...
...Conerico Was Here to Stay, by Frank Gagliano, gives another squeeze to that rind of a man, the antihero. He shows the standard stigmata-conformity, terror, absence of identity, lack of responsibility and commitment-yet after he is stranded on a Manhattan subway platform, the vulnerable humanity of Mark Gordon's expressively modulated performance makes one care about him. Gagliano has a gift for capturing the acrid flavor and jagged tempo of the city's mental and physical derangements. A blind man, his white stick rattling frenetically, goes into a convulsive attack of "the crazies" as the city...