When we (that is, the government) wanted to stop people drinking alcohol, neither destruction of the product nor Biblical verse persuaded any of them to do so. It was a scene which decades later was unconvincingly repeated with nefarious combustibles. Now both alcohol and marijuana are legal. The government that once denounced the products now sells them. Government is like parenting (“Do as I say not as I do“); that is, well intentioned but always a titch out of the loop.
In an atmosphere of perpetual retirement it seems hardly befitting to squawk about taking a break. From anything. I mean to say, I’m already broken! The chain that once linked me to productive employment long ago disintegrated. Apart from what appears to be a revolving list of dental and medical appointments, there is otherwise little if anything on the horizon which remotely touches the character of work. Yet today it was time for a break.
Mary I (18 February 1516 – 17 November 1558), also known as Mary Tudor, and as “Bloody Mary” by her Protestant opponents, was Queen of England and Ireland from July 1553 until her death in 1558. She is best known for her vigorous attempt to reverse the English Reformation, which had begun during the reign of her father, Henry VIII. Her attempt to restore to the church the property confiscated in the previous two reigns was largely thwarted by parliament, but during her five-year reign, Mary had over 280 religious dissenters burned at the stake in the Marian persecutions.
It comes as no surprise that a man with the middle name “Natchbull” is related to Jane Austen’s best friend. Today is Mr. Justice James Knatchbull Hugessen’s 88th birthday (July 26, 1933). When we spoke on the telephone a moment ago he was evidently in fine form and ready for a fight!
It is hardly possible that I can evoke a colourless affection for plunder when I recall the familiar association of it with matters nautical of which I am generally exceedingly fond. Nonetheless I will say it had in fact occurred to me that plunder may indeed have a less than marauding implication; say for example, the ill-gotten gains of life – those peculiarly rough but always welcome insights that come from mistake, silliness, misadventure, loss or failure. Apart however from that twist or manipulation, I don’t suppose plunder has an altogether favourable caste. Blackbeard the Pirate may have infused the word with the same popular fervour enjoyed by Robin Hood and his merry men.
The expediency of my nightly slumber is forever incalculable. Specifically, the reason why I do or don’t sleep well is untold. Whenever I have a good night’s sleep – such as I did last night – I marvel at what might have been the stimulating cause. It may be nothing more than Nature’s soporific but I preserve the idle projection that it may have been something I ate or drank including the handful of prescription drugs I take routinely throughout the day and to which I add some of the Government of Ontario’s THC/CBD combo. No matter. What’s important – like everything else these days – is that whatever it is, it works; and, that is the sole measure of profit.
While I don’t wish to be anywhere else at the moment, we are nonetheless having to endure a mildly disconcerting state of suspension as we await President Joseph R. Biden, Jr. of the United States of America to announce what we anticipate will be the reciprocal opening of the border to Canadians for non-essential vehicular travel. It is a state of siege until that event occurs; and, for the present we haven’t the sense of commanding our own destiny. Nor have we the assuaging privilege to blame anyone. The pandemic is a blunt instrument of inescapable reality affecting us all.
My late father told me when I was a young man that if I wished to make a point, exaggerate the difference. For example, to highlight the implication of a large or small tire for one’s vehicle, imagine the vehicle with a tire the size of a thimble going over a pothole. Clearly the bigger the tire, the smoother the ride. No doubt there are competing reasons of a different nature for a smaller circumference (radius) but that inquiry doesn’t address this dialectic model. The metaphorical use of black and white extends to any binary expression including for example the predominant political parties (Liberal vs Conservative, Democrat vs Republican) of Canada and the United States of America. In other countries where loyalists compete with anarchists the suspension of distinction is frequently moot; but the competition is invariably real.
An affogato or more traditionally known as “affogato al caffe” (Italian for “drowned”) is an Italian coffee-based dessert. It usually takes the form of a scoop of fior di latte or vanilla gelato or ice cream topped or “drowned” with a shot of hot espresso. Some variations also include a shot of amaretto, Bicerin, Kahlua, or other liqueur (Frangelico).
Though restaurants and cafes in Italy categorize the affogato as a dessert, some restaurants and cafes outside of Italy categorize it as a beverage. Whether a dessert or beverage, restaurants and cafes usually serve the affogato in a tall narrowing glass, allowing the fior di latte, vanilla gelato, or ice cream to melt and combine with espresso into the hollowed space in the bottom of the glass. Occasionally, coconut, berries, honeycomb and multiple flavors of ice cream are added. A biscotto or cookie can also be served and enjoyed alongside this beverage. Affogatos are often enjoyed as a post-meal coffee dessert combo eaten and or drunk with a spoon or straw.
In Italy, it is known as “gelato al fior di latte” with the translation to English “flower of milk”. Typically the ingredients in the ice cream includes dairy, starch, and sugar. It is popular in countries where they dress it with chocolate syrup, cantuccini, or biscotti to provide extra flavors.
There is no possible overstatement of the day! After an uncommonly restful night – and following yesterday’s sudden cold front and violent soaking – we were instinctively drawn to the clarity and freshness of the midsummer azure atmosphere. We cycled what is now our customary 8 Km through the subdivision, past the library and old town hall, over the bridge then along the former rail line to Carss Street and back. The simple exercise did more than expiate guilt; it completed a rhythm of habit. The cheery nature of others was evident too – people walking their dogs or pushing perambulators or completing their own morning constitutional demanded of any day of the year. The town was alive with gusto! Even the polished black limousine parked in front of C. R. Gamble funeral home on Church Street looked strangely gratified.