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2011-07-10 - 11:22 p.m.

It occurs to me that the word we use for the stuff we put in our mouths just kind of sits there. It comes from the Old High German fuotar or the Old English foda but in any event it doesn't feel like it fits with any of this:

- Bright-red radishes from the farmer's market, which I sliced up thin and threw on top of a bowlful of greens so fresh and delicate so as to be one stop away from completely, totally ephemeral.
- A fifteen-dollar crab cake, at Faidley's in Lexington Market, that is formed in an ice-cream scoop and fried until golden brown.
- Cold cans of Rolling Rock in Boarman's back yard. And guacamole and pico de gallo in a chili sauce.
- Tomatoes I got this morning, half-purple and half-green. Very little of the gelatinous stuff. Few seeds. Just juicy and sweet.
- Ice cream, in any form, any time, just about anywhere.

I am feeling magnanimous. Perhaps it is because I watched a women's soccer game today and, at the end, cried.

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