The red count
Of course, both Maryann and Regina declined my invitation to mock the concept of the "blog" "meme", but I can't help but feel a teeensy bit responsible for the former's memoir of nonna (complete with Ellis Island manifest), and the latter's history of the burro (no permalink, so:
I grew up calling burritos burros, which is what my family's Mexican neighbors in the poorest part of a tiny Arizona town wrapped them up as. Lola, next door, made her own flour tortillas and kept them soft in a big pot on the stove, and she filled them not with the luxury of leftovers but from scratch, with not much more than pinto beans enriched with lard. Bean burros were lunch and dinner and sometimes breakfast on a street where the whole debate over farmers' markets vs. supermarkets would sound like so much static from Mars even today.
Put that in your Greenmarket ennui and smoke it.
Miscellany: Further Julie Powell dogpile assembled at OwF; eat Dana's pie; Ibérico is coming, allegedly; shisitos: Japanese-style pimientos de Padrón; the mysteries of Zinfandel; don't drink Greek tequila.
Finally, instead of the correction, why not run a weekly disclaimer:
R. W. Apple, Jr. is drunk on power and free wine, and cannot remember anyone's name.