From the Diary of a Renegade Deli Heiress
Some sell their soul to the Devil. Some sell their soul to the Deli.
’Tis a fine line between Comedy, Tragedy and *Headcheese.
*Headcheese /ˈhed.tʃiːz/ is a cold cut that originated in Europe. Headcheese is not a dairy cheese. There is no cheese involved.
Can't see the Deli for the Headcheese
Instead of diamonds on the soles of my shoes, I've got Headcheese.
She Lived like she Died
Headcheese slices by her Side
Glazed Lips still Smiling
The moon is made of Cheese, but the darkside of the moon is made of Headcheese.
A rolling Head gathers no Cheese.
“The Headcheese Maneuver” not to be confused with “The Heimlich Maneuver”
You can take Schatzie away from the Headcheese. But you can’t take the Headcheese away from Schatzie.
An idle Head is the Deli's Playground.
Deli is a 4 letter word.
D E L I = L I E D
Headcheese (no cheese involved)
Bierwurst (no bier)
Corned Beef (no corn)
Hot dog (no dog)
Blood Pudding (no pudding)
Schatzie’s new fragrance is launching ‘Eu de Headcheese’ - Essence of snout, with cheesy high notes and carnivorous undertones, creating a heady scent. (Caution!: Don’t wear it to the dog park)
May your Headcheese be glistening and sliced.
Peace. Love. Headcheese.
A Headcheese in the Hand, is worth two in the case.
When life gives you Heads make Headcheese.
Schatzie is slicing the Headcheese at both ends…
Do not judge me until you have walked a mile in my apron.
Instead of a scarlet ’S’ on her frock Schatzie has a scarlet “H”
In Deli years... I'm 68.
Eat Headcheese - Food for thought
In need of Headcheese Therapy.
It’s 6 degrees of separation from Headcheese for Schatzie
We are all just dried meat.
I know what this gathering is about. It's a Headcheese Intervention.
Thar be Heads in them thar Cheese
Keep Calm and Eat Headcheese
Coming to a theater near you! ‘Night of the Living Headcheese’ starring Schatzie
Move over Barbie. There’s a new doll in town…and she’s gotta knife. A deli knife. It’s Schatzie the Renegade Deli Heiress.
I’m an “Heiress”
A “Deli Heiress”
A “Renegade Deli Heiress”
“Renegade” being the operative word
Schatzie’s deli angst is directly proportional to her Headcheese art output.
Schatzie, the Renegade Deli Heiress went to The Ball Saturday night!
She left in a hurry as her beautiful carriage was to turn back into *Headcheese at the stroke of midnight.
Alas she left behind her glistening (with *Headcheese) glass slipper. If found, please contact her fairy godmother. Danke schön xo
Ach du lieber! For the love of Headcheese!
Schatzie has “Meatmares”
Friends don't let Friends eat Headcheese.
Where the Head meets the Cheese.
Head > Cheese
Eat Headcheese - A mind is a terrible thing to waste
Current state of being Haiku...
Fire BURNS beneath me
Simmering is NO option
Rapid BOIL ’til DONE
One never knows what one is capable of unless one is left to one's own devices.
I am drowning in my parents Fountain of Youth.
It’s hard to live by the rules, I still try but I never do.
Absurdity is my panacea.
My Grooms may come and go but my Bridesmaids last forever.
And when I finally found the end of the rainbow, all I found was myself.
Birthday Wishes: May a diminutive hairy gnome with a pink hat whisk you away for a slice of Zwetschgenküchen.
Birthday Wishes: May your Knödel never be soggy and your Kügelschreiber never run out of ink.
Limerick conceived on my Bay Trail run, inspired by the site of a washed up…khaki-hi-tech-fabric-moisture-wicking-floppy-upf-50-sun-protection HAT. The HAT favored by the #Normcores that congregate on the Bay Trail. Normcore: a style of dressing that involves the deliberate choice of unremarkable or unfashionable casual clothes.
One Less Normcore
There Once was a Normcore from Berkeley
Crossed Paths with a Gent as Dapper could Be
There was a Mishap
Over Gucci? or Gap?
Poor Normcore, afloat out to Sea
Strange but True
Then the unabashed, self-proclaimed “Dove Hunter” explained his bacon-wrapping-dove-cooking-technique to me. I was curious if he shot the mate-for-life Doves in pairs, but I took flight. Peace.
Impulse pillow shopping while wearing my skeleton costume as Day of the Dead Celebration had just ended. After lying on mattresses and resting my head on various down-filled pillows, I asked the already suspicious sales woman if…”they killed the geese after they plucked all their downy feathers?”. She looked at me, paused and said, “No one has ever asked me that”. And then I left.
The Schmetterling (Butterfly) Hunter
The dreaded butterfly net. Such a simple device. Such a deadly device. My brother kept his homemade net with him at all times. Anytime we exited our old paneled station wagon on our Road Trip across the States, my big bro would sprint off into the nearest flowery field in search of his prey. I would try to keep up with him, but only to warn the butterflies that the 'Schmetterling Hunter' had arrived. Sadly there would always be one butterfly that did not hear my cries. The 'Schmetterling Hunter' would swoop down and capture the beauty in the white mesh contraption. Wings all a flutter, he’d then pinch it’s thorax and into the Killing Jar it went. (The Killing Jar: A hermetically sealed jar with a killing agent, chloroform usually). Those beautiful fluttering wings now fluttered in slow motion…ever so slowly… seemed like forever until that very last flutter.
They took my money, ID, the clothes off my back, and even my shoes. I found myself stark naked in a dimly lit, damp, small room. No windows. A stranger shut the one door. Hands were all over me. After what seemed like forever the door opened. I emerged into a bright hallway and saw others like me, walking zombie-like, wrapped in thin pieces of cloth. I was given a small amount of water to drink, and raw fish to eat. Aaaah I love you Kabuki Springs Spa.
Feeling very ALivE! after being ‘escorted’ across the Golden Gate Bridge by voracious Wind & Rain on an early morning run…And my heightened sense of vitality continued at the SF Ferry Building, while biting into a luscious Nutella-filled-Donut after completion of the body soaking 2.5hr run. Most times it’s the simplest of things that make us feel alive… Rain. Wind. Donuts.
“What are you reading?…the Bible?” said my old-timer Dad to me as I was intensely focusing on my i-phone...For the i-phone tells me so... Apple loves you…Amen.
And I replied to my dental hygienist that I was gagging, not because of her prodding, poking, scraping and jabbing my teeth and tender gums, but… because of my subjection to the Taylor Swift and Katy Perry music that was being piped into the exam room. Now that was painful.
Saw a one legged woman and her three legged dog.
Ran face front into LARGE occupied spider web while diverting antler skewage from LARGE buck being chased by SMALL beagle with LARGE owner on this morning’s LONG run.
National Donut Day June 6th 2020
I frequent Donut Shops. I only buy one Donut at a time and I only use coins, no bills allowed. That started when I needed a Donut after a long run. I had no wallet, but I was able to find just the exact amount of change hidden in the various cavities of my car. Ever since that day I’ve only bought Donuts with change. 'Donut Money'
I only buy Old Fashioned Glazed Donuts, and if one is not available I’ll get an Old Fashioned Chocolate or maybe maple and if those is not around…well then I am ‘Donutless’.
I am fascinated by the Donut Shop culture, the Donut Ladies behind the counter, the Donut Men in the back room, the Donut Decor, the fake ferns, the Donut Artwork and that very tiny ATM machine to get Donut Money from. Sometimes the Donut Lady, slips an extra Donut in my bag. You never know when that will happen…it’s a ‘Donut Surprise’.
My first job was at a Donut Shop…Wayne’s Donuts. And Wayne looked like the perfect Donut Shop Owner…short and wide. Then there was Benny, the also wide Donut Maker. He came in the middle of the night and left when I was just arriving to work. And I can’t recall if there was a midget? (pc to say back then), and a one legged man? or both working there. I sold Donuts and was also the bussing tables girl. All the customers who hung out in the shop were Old Men. They smoked cigarettes, drank coffee and ate Donuts. I cleared the dishes using a small rolling cart even though the place was really tiny. I collected Ashes and Leftovers.
That was a long time ago. Wayne’s Donuts is still there it’s called Donut Time, and not much has changed. I also go to Donut World. I love that they have the shortest possible miniature stools drilled into the floor to sit on… along the giant windows..underneath the huge DONUT WORLD sign.
One time I went to my favorite Donut Shop. I had 125 pennies worth of Donut Money. My regular Donut Lady was not there. I scattered my 125 pennies on the counter and asked for my usual (I had to tell her what my usual was though…) and I told The Unknown Donut Lady there were 125 pennies. I thought she’d just whisk them into her drawer, but she started counting them. She told me I was short some pennies. I told her there were 125, and that she must have counted wrong, but I would bring her the 3 pennies next time…and to give me my donut…please.
I go to All Star Donuts and Happy Donuts as well. There is another “Happy Donuts” that I pass by, but I’ve never been to it…I call it “Sad Donuts”, as there are always homeless people lying in front of it. It’s next to a Liquor store…But maybe they are happy…They have Liquor and… Donuts.
Driving and Donuting
Bruno's 1977 Mercedes
(published in "My Ride" - San Francisco Chronicle)
My family took a trip to Germany when I was in High School in 1977 to visit relatives…and pick up a new Mercedes from the Sindelfingen Plant I still have the original. “Ausfuhrbescheinnigung fur Umsatzsteuerzwecke” (export certificate) paperwork. My Dad Bruno is from Germany and the plant was near his hometown. We drove it all over Europe (3,750 km) including on the Autobahn. What a thrill it was to fly at 90 mph as other cars were passing us! After our vacation we shipped the Mercedes back to the Bay Area, where it still lives.
The Mercedes was our family car for many years, and Bruno let me drive it every so often. I remember taking the Mercedes cruisin' on the "Main" with my girlfriends back in 1979. We dressed up, hung out of the sunroof – just like American Graffiti. But the car was mainly Bruno’s, and he kept his car immaculate.
Bruno decided to upgrade, and he sold the Mercedes to a dealer. My brother found out, and he had a nostalgic moment and decided to buy the Mercedes back. My brother and his son (who called it the "mermer" as in heart murmur), drove it for years. It was put in storage for a while, and then I decided to buy it from my brother. It’s not as immaculate as it once was – but Bruno doesn’t seem to mind the orange and black tassels lining the windows, or the bobble-head Buddha in back (I’m a Bikram yoga enthusiast). Now my 16-year-old daughter also drives it, and soon her sister will as well.
I like the “Verbandkasten” mounted in the back – the original “First Aid Kit” unopened after 34 years. And of course my vintage bumper stickers: “Greg Kihn at the Old Waldorf 1982” and "Skylab is Falling". And who knows how long the unopened bag of "Salmiak Pastillen" (German licorice bits) has been in the car for...perhaps 34 years as well. I would pick up casual carpoolers on my commute to SF. Everyone enjoyed the ride (except for the man that complained about a spring sticking into his back) I learned various things from some Mercedes aficionados. I didn’t realize that the stuffing coming out of my seats was horsehair? Hmm
My car has taken me all over the Bay Area with only minor problems. It is a diesel and there is really no way to quietly leave any place as the click-click-clang is a distinctive sound. Perhaps one day I’ll convert it to a vegetable oil only vehicle. And I have my paint ready to turn it into an“Art” car when I have time.
My wheel bearings were worn recently. I was explaining the problem to Bruno, and he responded, "Oh, you mean "Das Kugellager." I had to laugh, as the German words are much more fun than ours. I particularly like saying "Windschutzscheibenwischer" for "windshield wipers." Recently my car was having sporadic starting problems. I took it to my mechanic, who told me that when I insert the key…I need to practice "Gedenken Minuten” - just a little minute of meditation/prayer before starting the car. He said there is a lot of “Gedenken Minuten” happening all the time in Germany. At least he did not charge me. I tried it for a while...but eventually had to get it fixed. Bruno found the original mechanic that had worked on it in the eighties, and now it starts just fine..no more praying.
Yes. I know I’ll probably need a more reliable car someday… but for now I enjoy driving my piece of history. Everyone needs a little Fahrvergnügen in their life.