Red Hook Submersibles

Terror strikes! For god's sake, where is the olive bar, it used to be right here? Oh my god! What happened to the Fairway olives? Fear, I feel it, and longing. Not to worry, there it is, it moved, not only did it move, it doubled in size! Not knowing what olives to get, and being a gourmand, I mix all the mixes together in my container. Tuscan, Greek, 5 kinds, 8 kinds, other kinds, not Mexican, maybe next time.

I read from the newly installed signage that Fairway tends to its olives with great care. Is this called husbandry? As in cheese husbandry? Always loved that expression, it makes me feel hopeful. Who doesn't need husbandry to keep flavor delicately nuanced and texture carefully protected from the agents of entropy? The flavor of many of those olives reminds me of the experience of trolling around the hook, the rich juxtapositions, which include the sense of salaciousness mixed with civility one experiences when reading the words "Happy Hookers" painted on the fire station. The rustiness, the freshness, the iron, the salt, the brick, the siding, the open spaces, tiny houses, plant nurseries I haven't had the chance to visit. hmmm... Flanked by brine that invites the hardy, those that don't mind a long walk to the subway, those fearless types who yield to the lure of homemade sea vessels.

I'm so jealous. I'm jealous of the fun and adventures of those involved with the launching of the Bushnell Turtle - is that what it's being called? The only therapy I can imagine is to reenact the slide show I viewed on their flickr sight, in my bath tub, using a cantaloupe and action figures. And eat some olives.