And Then a Miracle, a Squash (I Can Never Grow Zuccha Anymore)

I’m gonna hide
If she don’t leave me a gourd
I’m gonna run – away


’cause you can never grow zuccha anymore

Listen. Does this sound familiar? You wake up every morning, walk through the garden every day, spend your nights staring at the moon,
just passing the time away.
Life is so lonely like a dirt-covered pepper without a wash.
Then a miracle, a squash.

And that’s called “glad.”

Now my garden is a good garden
and she loves me with all her soil.
But she said I was too greedy to have a harvest
and the squash and I would have to recoil.

And no matter how I ranted and raved, I screamed, I pleaded, I cried
she told me it was not really a worthwhile harvest,
but only my green-thumbed pride.

And that’s called “bad.”

(Never grow zuccha anymore)

Now if that’s happened to you, don’t let this.
I pulled weeds and hoed
and watered them every night.
Though she couldn’t promise me a yield
I was sure I was right.

And you know something funny??
I forgot that squash right away.
Instead, I remember picking tomatoes
and hearing my garden say…

(Hush, little vegan, don’t you cry)
(Garden won’t go away)


(You can never grow zuccha anymore)

I can never grow zuccha anymore

Listen, I’m not finished…
Do you ever get that feeling and wanna rake and till her? Do it now-
Show her you love her. Don’t do to your garden what I did to mine. She grew so lonely
in the end. Angels picked her for a friend.


And I can never grow zuccha (never) anymore

And that’s called “sad.”

I like the Shangri-Las.
This was written by Jerry Grimaldi.
Although I can’t be certain, I will assume that due to the fact he was an eye-tie, Fran and Sam liked his work.
Miraculously, a single summer squash plant grew back and I found the above, yellow yield.
Get it? Too bad.


Goin’ to Carl and Dave’s for Some Tofurkey Breast

Sears Ave.
Crossing Atwells at the church.
Aisles too narrow for stroller.
Tiny hands smudging the deli display case.
1/2 pound.
Never “turkey” – always “turkey breast”.
Three flights back up.
Toasted Crugnales.
A slathering from a butter knife, dripping with that savory spread, so intoxicatingly yellow.
Glass jar, no squeeze.
Skim milk.

Today’s lunch consisted of Tofurkey on the last two slices from my sister (brought loaf over earlier in the week, see earlier post).

While at work, my mid-day meal certainly wasn’t from Carl and Dave’s Deli (RIP), but with the French’s mustard squirts (sadly, glass has since been retired) I could barely tell the difference.


An Italian Tradition Since 1917… Just Don’t Call It “Crugg-nail’s”

Growing up in Providence, everyone had their favorite bakery – D Palmieri’s, Scialo Bros., DeLuise, P Guadagni’s (RIP)… In our family, it was Crugnale’s (say it with me now, Crewn-yah-lay).

Led by her incessantly pastry-craving sweet tooth, Frances would escort us from the third floor, down the steep descent that was Cambridge, through Academy, until finally we reached our destination at the corner of Newark and Valley. It was a mighty troop for my converse-clad four-year old peds, but to be greeted by the aroma of freshly baked, well-done Sicilian loaves made it all worthwhile.

When gazed upon under the proper conditions, translucent spirals seemingly leapt from the dense cell structure of each slice – standing metaphor for the steadfast dedication to hard work and unwavering familial bond, whom their exclusively blue-collar clientele gratefully savored these nice, crusty pagnotta with. Plus they had these to chomp on, making the trek back that much less dreadful.

Ok, so perhaps in retrospect Crugnale’s Bakery may have not been the most renown (compared to those on the “authentic” side of Atwells Ave), but as was just outlined, they certainly were the closest. By virtue of our spacial proximity, we were however able to experience the most delicate sfogliatelle, most perfectly tart fig squares and perhaps most frequently consumed at 27 Sears Ave, the iridescently food-dyed marble pound cake – which was always good to have on hand… you know, for when the kids come visit..