For people who attended Crawford High School or would have attended if they hadn't
moved -- or just have fond memories of San Diego in the '40s, '50s and '60s.

Check out the Crawford High web site.

Wednesday, November 26, 2014

November 27, 2014

It’s Thanksgiving Day!!

I thought you might enjoy Richard Lederer’s column from last Saturday’s U-T

Every Day You Say A Mouthful Of Food For Thought.

Thanksgiving is a delicious time of year to nibble on a spicy, meaty, juicy, honey of a topic that I know you’ll savor and relish. Feast your eyes on the veritable banquet of mushrooming food expressions that grace the table of our English language and season our tongue. As we chew the fat about the food-filled phrases that are packed like sardines and sandwiched into our everyday conversations, I’ll sweeten the pot with some tidbits of food for thought guaranteed to whet your appetite.
I know what’s eating you. I’ve heard through the grapevine that you don’t give a fig because you think I’m nutty as a fruitcake; that you’re fed up with me for biting off more than I can chew; that you want me to drop this subject like a hot potato because I’m a spoiled-rotten weenie; and that you’re giving me the raspberry for asking you to swallow a cheesy, corny, mushy, saccharine, seedy, soupy, sugarcoated, syrupy topic that just isn’t your cup of tea.
OK, so you’re beet red with anger that I’m feeding you a bunch of baloney, garbage and tripe; that I’ve rubbed salt in your wounds by making you ruminate on a potboiler that’s no more than a tempest in a teapot; that I’ve upset your apple cart by rehashing an old chestnut that’s just pie in the sky and won’t amount to a hill of beans; that you want to chew me out for putting words in your mouth; and that you’re boiling and simmering because you think I’m an out-to-lunch apple polisher who’s out to egg you on.
But nuts to all that. That’s the way the cookie crumbles. Eat your heart out and stop crying in your beer. I’m going to stop mincing words and start cooking with gas, take my idea off the back burner and bring home the bacon without hamming it up. No matter how you slice it, this fruitful, tasteful topic is the icing on the cake and the greatest thing since sliced bread.
Rather than crying over spilt milk and leaping out of the frying pan and into the fire, I’m going to put all my eggs into one basket, take potluck and spill the beans. I’m cool as a cucumber, happy as a clam and confident that this crackerjack, peachy-keen, vintage feast that I’ve cooked up will have you eating out of the palm of my hand.
I don’t wish to become embroiled in a rhubarb, but your beefing and stewing sound like sour grapes from a tough nut to crack — kind of like the pot calling the kettle black. But if you’ve digested the spoon-fed culinary metaphors from this meat-and-potatoes disquisition, the rest will be gravy, duck soup, a piece of cake and easy as pie — just like taking candy from a baby.
I’ve lived to a ripe old age beyond my salad days, but I’m also a smart cookie who’s feeling my oats and is full of beans. I may be wrinkled as a prune, but I’m a salt-of-the-earth good egg who takes the cake, knows his onions, makes life a bowl of cherries and is the apple of your eye and the toast of the town.
Hot dog! I hope you’re pleased as punch that this souped-up topic is a plum, not a lemon, the berries, not the pits. The proof of the pudding is in the eating, and this cream of the crop of palate-pleasing food figures is bound to sell like hotcakes. I’m no glutton for punishment for all the tea in China, but, if I’m wrong, I’ll eat crow and humble pie. I don’t wish to take the words right out of your mouth, but, in a nutshell, it all boils down to the fact that every day we truly eat our words.

You can read the Golden Anniversary Pacer from November 25, 1964 on the 1964-1965 Pacer page or just click HERE.

NEXT THURSDAY is First Thursday.  Nancy Miljas has changed the artwork to reflect the REAL time folks arrive.  I believe that will be December 4th on your calendar.  That's the Amigo Spot, King's Inn, in Mission Valley.

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