Scene from a TV newsroom:
Ok people, we need 17 minutes on how freak-ass cold it is. NASA wants us to distract ‘em from that wack astronaut love triangle diaper lady, and we sure as sheep sac don’t wanna spend a lotta time on the “oops, we bombed the Brits” story. No, I want wind chills, wearing layers, that how-much-heat-escapes-through-your-head statistic.... Johnson, gimme a graphic on the colors your cheeks turn as they become frostbitten. Rabinowitz, let’s hit the archives for some video. Red noses, frozen snot, that sort of thing. And Jonesy, I need an extended package on how to walk on the sunny side of the street…
(Serious. Yesterday one NYC broadcast, having so little confidence in the collective intellect of their viewers as to believe we’re unable to tell sunshiny sidewalks from shaded, actually told us which sides of which streets would be sunny. Neglected to mention the reverse would be true after noon.)
But through all these frigidy fillers and extenders, not one mention of hot chocolate. Journalistic integrity has indeed taken a dive, so I’ll take up the slack.
Scharffen Berger Drinking Chocolate. This ain’t no Swiss Miss. It’s not even cocoa, but semi-sweet shavings in a pretty box that boasts such ridiculously dainty instructions as, “It is best served in a demitasse.” It also suggests you use 1% milk, to which I say pish. It’s hot chocolate, g’dammit. Make it by the mugful and make it thick. And you needn’t fuss with stirring a pot, either. Dump the shavings into your milk mug and nuke it a minute and a half or so. (Watch it. It’ll ‘splode.) By the time the milk’s warm enough, the chocolate’s just about melted. Defile it with whipped cream, if you must. Stir, sit, and savor.
Ok people, we need 17 minutes on how freak-ass cold it is. NASA wants us to distract ‘em from that wack astronaut love triangle diaper lady, and we sure as sheep sac don’t wanna spend a lotta time on the “oops, we bombed the Brits” story. No, I want wind chills, wearing layers, that how-much-heat-escapes-through-your-head statistic.... Johnson, gimme a graphic on the colors your cheeks turn as they become frostbitten. Rabinowitz, let’s hit the archives for some video. Red noses, frozen snot, that sort of thing. And Jonesy, I need an extended package on how to walk on the sunny side of the street…
(Serious. Yesterday one NYC broadcast, having so little confidence in the collective intellect of their viewers as to believe we’re unable to tell sunshiny sidewalks from shaded, actually told us which sides of which streets would be sunny. Neglected to mention the reverse would be true after noon.)
But through all these frigidy fillers and extenders, not one mention of hot chocolate. Journalistic integrity has indeed taken a dive, so I’ll take up the slack.
Scharffen Berger Drinking Chocolate. This ain’t no Swiss Miss. It’s not even cocoa, but semi-sweet shavings in a pretty box that boasts such ridiculously dainty instructions as, “It is best served in a demitasse.” It also suggests you use 1% milk, to which I say pish. It’s hot chocolate, g’dammit. Make it by the mugful and make it thick. And you needn’t fuss with stirring a pot, either. Dump the shavings into your milk mug and nuke it a minute and a half or so. (Watch it. It’ll ‘splode.) By the time the milk’s warm enough, the chocolate’s just about melted. Defile it with whipped cream, if you must. Stir, sit, and savor.
Really. Sit down. Focus. The stuff’ll give you a little buzz, if you let it.
2 comments:
Normally, i'm a devout winterphile but this year it's killed my spirit.
Day before yesterday i was walking my dog up on the railroad tracks when the wind chill (the local news helpfully informed me later) was 30 below. It was like walking into a flurry of razor blades and baby...i was REALLY drug.
The perfect visual image of the whole experience came to me and, not having my camera, i missed making a classic.
I could see a panorama of the the depressing frozen urban tundra, with my penis hanging out in the foreground with a limpness that only a penis pulled out in 30 below wind chill can possess.
Hope this interjection will be taken not for inappropriate ungentlemanliness, but for the expressionistic inspiration that it was.
Hope your expressionistic inspiration wasn't strong enough for Mr. Winky to actually make an appearance, Dr. Hewmann. Genital frostbite's a mother. Just ask the late Mr. Leona Helmsley.
(Dig the archaic ref? I've also got crispy "mall bangs" and Dorothy Hamill eyeglasses.)
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