Friday, March 15, 2013

Pizzeria Bubalina

video



Every artist has his method. Though unorthodox, Bub has honed a definitive style of making pies. It is unique, it is a secret, and I am here to sell out that secret. This is straight from his personal cookbook:

Pizza

Serving size: Some for everybody

Materials: Big purple bowl (must be purple). That’s it.

Ingredients: Pickling spice, chili powder, celery salt, nutmeg, cinnamon, seasoned salt, coriander, caraway, empty oregano jar that may or may not contain a Matchbox car (optional).

Directions:
1.       Be sure to leave ALL of the caps on the spices. Or Daddy will get mad. Except for the empty oregano. This you can open, just be careful not to spill your Matchbox.
2.       Also, we do not lick the chili powder. It is very spicy. You can smell them, though.
3.       Shake each spice into the bowl, one at a time. It really doesn’t matter how much you add. VERY IMPORTANT: Be sure to sing while you do this. I recommend ABCs, if you are familiar.
4.       Now line up your spices in a semi-circle formation.
5.       Next, count your spices. You should always have 27.
6.       Finally, enjoy your pizza. Make sure Bankie gets a piece. It is soooooo good!


Tuesday, March 12, 2013

Mix Tape

Milk, milk, milk, milk, milk, milk...thank you, good night!



Bub’s taste in music is nothing if not eclectic, a unique hybrid of children’s classics and whatever happens to pop into Daddy’s brain that captures his fancy. I had the pleasure of discussing it with him today at lunch:

Me: So Bub, what’s your FAVORITE song these days?
Bub: Hello, Everybody.
Me: Oh, from music class? Nice choice. What’s your second favorite?
Bub: ABCs.
Me: Classic. How about third?
Bub: Um, Twinkle, Twinkle.
Me: Yep, those two we sing every night before bed. But what’s number four?
Bub: Um...uh…um…Oh, Daddy’s writing NUMBERS!
Me: That’s right, I’m recording your top ten. Just like Casey Kasem. So what’s number four?
Bub: Um…uh…um…uh…um…uhhhh…ummmmmmm….aahhhhh….ummmmmmmmm…Alejandro!
Me: A little Gaga, sure.
 
And so on. So, rounding out the top ten were:

1.       She Sells Sea Shells (Traditional)
2.       Hush (Deep Purple)
3.       Only the Young (Brandon Flowers)
4.       Yon Yonson (Traditional)
5.       Diamonds (Rihanna)
6.       Choppin’ Broccoli (Dana Carvey)

Missing the cut, but honorable mentions are:

Uh Oh Falling in Love (Gloria Estefan)
Manamana (from The Muppets)
Paradise (Coldplay)
My Buttons (Storytime song)
Anything by the Black Keys

Wednesday, March 6, 2013

Meet Bobby

Bub Froman, the sausage king of Chicago



So either Bub has begun making imaginary friends or we have a friendly ghost that only speaks to him. Yeah, just like that horror movie. I guess I'm marginally partial to the former.

Oh, Bobby, Bobby, Bobby. At first, we thought he was saying ‘Bubbe!’ Makes sense, he has a Bubbe. He sees quite a bit of her. He was quick to clear that one up at one family dinner.

“Bubbe? Are you saying Bubbe?”
“Um, nope.” Long pause, then he looks out to the sun porch and yells: “BOBBY!”
“Bobby? Who is Bobby, Bub?”

Coy little smile. Ohhhh, he is just looking at his reflection in the glass door. Got it.

“Is Bobby about yay tall, sitting in a high chair, with blueberry stains on his chin?”
“Um, nope.”
“Okay, what does he look like, then?”

He casually shovels some yogurt onto his pasta wheels. Says doodley-squat. Like I was The Man, trying to get him to squeal on his low-life buddy. Denying him his phone call, threatening the rubber hose. Okay, fine, I could play detective.

“So he’s on the sun porch, huh?”
“Nope.”
“But you just looked right out there and yelled to him.”

Coy little smile again. Like I was boring him with my amateur theories. Go ahead and look, PIG. Okay, fine, I try a new tack. I fling open the door to the sun porch. No reaction.

“Oh, THERE he is! Hi Bobby, how’s it going? Aren’t you cold out here, little buddy? You want to—“
“BOBBY! BOBBY!” Bub starts yelling down the hallway, opposite direction.
“Alright, YOU KNOW WHAT? FUCK BOBBY, BUB! FUCK HIM AND THE DONKEY HE RODE IN ON! FUCKING BOBBY CAN TAKE A FLYING FUCK AT THE MOOOOOOOOOON!”

Okay, I didn’t say that. I said ‘horse.’ Who fucks donkeys anymore, seriously?

No no, I just stopped talking. Took the high road. Then I thought, for just a moment, the sensitive little Bubster could sense my despondence; he looked concerned.

“Daddy? Daddy? Daddy?”
“Yes, Bub?”
“Um…where’s Bobby?” Not concerned, not sensitive. Big, shit-eating grin. Totally messing with me. “Where’s Bobby, Daddy? Daddy, where’s Bobby?”

And so on. Anyway, this is what we know about Bobby so far:

1.      He is invisible, at least to the untrained eye.
2.       He possesses formidable powers of teleportation.
3.       ‘He’ could be a ‘she.’ Bub gets confused with gender pronouns. I don’t know where she gets that from.
4.       He hides. Which is kind of redundant if you’re already invisible, stupid-head.

If encountered, best to terminate with extreme prejudice. And tell him it was from Daddy. If I don’t find him first.