Nothing But Love :: golf blogger

Before we got to that juncture, however, we made our way through the produce vendors outside and through the rear door of the building. I always make this mistake. I apologize to fish afficionados everywhere, but why do fishmongers arrange each fish so that thousands and thousands of fish eyes stare at me, watching me with their fish mouths smirking, some showing their little fish teeth, as I walk past the fish stands? Nobody else walking through notices this phenomenon -- and I'm not crazy. Don't tell me that I am because when I was crazy, I could hear the fish talking about me.

I jostled for position at the Pierogi Palace counter, waiting for the bleached-silver-blonde sixtyish woman to finish with the woman who had been there before me. The woman paid the lady behind the counter the $16 for her two dozen; and the lady behind the counter looked at me, inviting me to speak.

I asked her for a half dozen potato-and-cheese. She said that she was out of those. I told her that I wanted a half dozen ricotta cheese, which she retrieved and put in a plastic bag, slapping a small label on the bag. She looked at me again.

"Half a dozen potato, please."

"What kind?" she asked.

Now, you are sitting there reading this thinking that she didn't hear me over the din of the thousands and thousands of people packed into the building on this Saturday of the holiday weekend. And that is what I thought, too.

"Umm ... potatoe," I said, thinking that she might be a Republican and adding the "e" to the end would be appropriate.

Stupid, stupid me. I added fuel to the fire. She was, first of all, upset because she was out of potato-and-cheese. She snarled, "What kind of potato? We have more than one kind." I heard "you fucking moron," but her lips did not move much at all. She pointed to the array of pierogis in the glass case with hand-written little cards indicating the myriad of potato pierogis. Then it happened. She yelled, "Come on! We don't have all day, mister!"

What was I supposed to do? I didn't dare ask her what "French Potato" actually was. Or German Potato. Then there was Sweet Potato, Yukon Gold Pot./Fresh Parsley, another five varieties of "Yukon Gold Pot" that I didn't have time to read.

Then I saw "Potato (Plain);" so, I blurted out, "Potato plain."

She shook her head, since she was right about me being a fucking moron, getting plain potato pierogis when I could have gotten potato/bacon/cheddar, potato/onion, potato/parmesan, potato/roasted garlic, or potato/sour cream & chive.

She said, obviously disgusted by my imbecility, "There's the menu ... for next time," pointing to the Pierogi Palace menu.