oh fucking hell. . . very little gets me all teary eyed . . . damn little in fact – usually only happy puppy stories and the climaxes of those sappy sports flicks. But sometimes sentiment sneaks up and smacks you in the face like dead fish.
It’s winter in New England and my normal habit is to buy fresh pecans to have around the house and to whip at the animals when they annoy me. But none have been to be had these last few years and like everything else I can’t find in the real world, I had been eyeing internet sourcing. Since I have been running too close to the pocket lint lately, I was still hoping to find them in a grocery aisle so I could sate myself with a pound. But apparently New England no longer gets shipments of in shell pecans, just bags of the icky pre-chopped ones.
This morning I checked my bank balance and rang up Georgia to get my booty . The lady at Bostick Farms, graciously referred to me Miss Joyce throughout the call; a nostalgia overload ensued. No one has called me Miss Joyce since I was a kid, back before my mother went crazy, back when life was all potential and nothing labeled a disappointment.
Proustian moment over, I have to go back to work now. My fresh nuts should be here long about my birthday- how long they will last is questionable.