Ciao, Ciao, Chanel.

1 09 2009

Chanel has died.  Not the fashion (even though it’s not Italian, it seems eternal) nor the designer, herself (Coco is long gone)—but the dog.

Chanel apparently was the oldest living dog at 21 years of age.  That’s 147 in dog years.  She lived in New York.  Her favorite dish was boiled chicken and rice, clearly a Manhattan thing.

No pastrami; no corned beef? And she called herself a New Yorker…

No pasta; no red wine?  Why even live to a ripe old age without the satisfaction of these staples, I ask?

Though I see the appeal of the pullet, rice is a bit like eating an old sock, and a clean one, at that.  At least pasta is sauced.

Now that Chanel is gone, a new contender has taken a stand: Max, a 26 year-old mixed breed Cajun.  I’ll bet his diet features more spice: Louisiana Rat Gumbo, Squirrel Etouffee.  

Now, that’s living.

Dinner tonight in Rome?

Pasta Puttanesca. My key to long life:

1 lb. Spaghetti, cooked and drained.

Saute 5 cloves thinly sliced garlic in 1/3 cup Olive oil until soft.  Add 2 teaspoons anchovy paste, 1/2 tsp. hot red pepper flakes, 1-28-oz can whole tomatoes in juice, 1/2 cup pitted Kalamata olives. 2 tblsp. drained capers, pinch of sugar, 3/4 cup chopped basil.

Toss with hot pasta and serve 4-6 people with, of course, a glass of Chianti…or two.

Chow.

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The Crossing, Secondo Giorno

13 06 2008

Deck twelve and this is the first thing I see that looks familiar:IMG_0632 the hind end of hound (that would be the one not wearing a blue coat…).  I am delivered to the kennel.  The hound and I exchange a whiff.  His name is Churchill. 

Of course it is.

The butlers name is Denny.  He lifts me into a well appointed cage.  Standard bars, cushy bed…cushier with my fur throw; water dish, food dish…ahhhh, my squeaky toy has been delivered.  I settle in for a nap.  What 24 days at boarding kennels does to you...What else to do?

Virginia, a whippet, huddles in the corner of the cage next to me, shivering.  Virgina is from Miami, she says mildly.  It’s hot there.  It’s cold here.  She doesn’t want any part of crossing the North Atlantic.  Icebergs, she mutters.Iceberg, Antarctica

I raise my head and look for a window to confirm her suspicions. No window, no port.  Only a simple, slick floor, Denny at the door, one long draw of the whistle and the ship gives a gentle sway.

Chow.








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