So I had about 1 1/2 cups of shredded sweet potato left over from a soup I made on Saturday. What to do with it?
Took the sweet potatoes, mixed with 1/2 cup Bisquick, between 1/2 and 3/4 cup of water, mixed up, added some raisins, and fried the thing as 3 "pancakes" in oil in a pan. After a few flips, they looked good, so I put them on a plate, slathered them with sugar, and now I'm eating them.
They're good! Possibly these are sweet potato fritters?
There's been an extremely loud labor protest going on somewhere near here... Don't know where, however, as I can't see it from my window. Soon I'm going out to the post office and I guess I will find it... and avoid it. Not that I don't support a labor protest, but it is damn hard not to be intimidated by 10-30 pissed of men (well, usually it's men) yelling at the top of their lungs and jamming flyers at you. I'm guess it's the woodworkers union again, as they have been very active launching picket lines in several locations over the past couple of years.
So I went down to the mail distro center, way the hell down Pryor Street, past the city court, the prison, and under the highway, where a very unlovely underpass allows access to an area I assume rapidly turns into ghetto (not that I went to find out). After a long rummage around in the bowels of the building, I was given a little pile of accummulated correspondence. I seem to have received a lot of late Christmas cards. Thanks everyone!
Meanwhile I was within a couple of block of my building, sweaty and eager to get home, reading The Sun magazine, when the following "conversation" occured between me and this young black guy (who I'll call "Slick" for convenience sake:
Slick: Say, what you looking for?
Slick: Where you from?
Slick: No, you're not. I mean originally.
Me: (No response, since this same talk has occured 100 times before.)
Slick: You look like you're from Europe, maybe the Czech Republic.
Me: (No response.)
Slick: No, seriously, you look like the women in the Czech Republic.
Me: That could be... *Sigh*
Slick: And I tell you one thing...
Slick: I'm goooood. (Licks lips in a rather repulsive, suggestive manner.)
(We cross the street.)
Slick: See, I spent a lot of time over there, in the Czech Republic.
Slick: It's real nice there.
Me: So I've heard.
Slick: Can't get me no women like that here...
Me: Sorry, I have to go... (Slips into the building with the produce stand, safe at last.)
After buying a pineapple and a smoothie, I caught the same guy up the street a bit, looking like the wanker he is. I wonder what his other lines are, since obviously the "Czech Republic" one is kind of limited in usage.
I guess I now have to add Czech as another nationality I've been mistaken for. I'm usually singled out as German, but there's also been Dutch, Belgian, English, Swiss, Austrian, and various Scandinavian nationalities. Oh, and Russian, Polish, French too...
I was just looking at some old LJ entries of mine, and found this line that I can't believe I wrote!
I should note that my headache and depression seem gone. Those two are like bandits, always descending together and leaving suddenly.