Blathr Wayne Lorentz

Show me a Greek-Italian chanteuse with Brooklyn backup singers, and I'll show you Feta Chini and the Alfredos.

I went to public school in my early childhood. And you know what sucked? Public school.

You know why public school sucked? Cookies and orange juice.

What kind of sick bait-and-switch bullshit is that to pull on a six-year-old?

Oh, boy, itʼs snack time! Here comes the nice lady with the tray of cookies!

Om nom nom nom. Boy are these dry. I sure hope thereʼs an appropriately-paired beverage to go with them. Oh good, here comes the drink lady!

Iʼm only in first grade, so I canʼt see whatʼs on the red plastic cafeteria tray sheʼs holding…

Sheʼs handing me a paperboard box…

This is going to be so good…

Itʼs…

Fucking orange juice!

Are they serious‽

Attention primary school teachers! Itʼs “cookies and milk,” not “cookies and throat-scratching sauce!” Everyone knows this. Ernie and Bert know this. Romper Room knows this. The Magic Garden knows this. Shit, even that spinning vortex of terrifying LSD fever dreams The Electric Company knows this.

It wasnʼt until I transferred to private school that snack time became a civilized coupling of cookies and milk. Crunchy cookies with delightful morsels of sweet delight, washed down with cold, smooth, soothing cow squeezinʼs.

Say what you want about Sister Maria and her Yardstick of Doom, at least nuns know enough to serve milk with their cookies.

One of these cheese snacks is “It.” But the other one is “Better.”

Astrologers say that when the sun, Mercury, Venus, Earth, and Mars align, itʼs a sign of good things ahead.

I say the same is true when water, coffee, bagel, and tangy sauce align.

On the left: 16 ounces of Wonderful® pistachios, purchased at Whole Foods for $10.79.

On the right: 16 ounces of Wonderful® pistachios, purchased at H.E.B. for $8.49.

Same amount of nuts. The only differences are the price and the size of the bag.

I shall work here today. But first, lunch.

Iʼm starting to think that my doctor is completely untrained in what to do when someone puts the lime in the coconut and drinks it all up.

Today at Home Depot, I was surprised to find that you can buy french fry seeds.

I am very glad to see an ice cream truck prowling downtown Houston.

I will be very sad when a Metro train turns him into soft serve for parking on the train tracks.

This morningʼs promenade in the garden revealed a sleeping bee and a baby pepper.

What did one burrito say to the other burrito?

“Aaaaahh! Oh, holy shit! A talking burrito! Aaaaahh!”

If a supermarket comes out with a new flavor of ice cream named after the sportsball club that plays a few blocks away, Iʼm required to eat it, right?

It turns out this is a quality product. Very pronounced flavor. And in what may be a first for store-brand anything, I think it might actually have too much going on inside.

One of Appleʼs edge servers is called “Croissant.”

It turns out my eight-dollar fish sandwich is actually a $63.11 deluxe fruit tray.

Thatʼs what I get for buying lunch at a liquor store.

McDonaldʼs worker: “What kind of sauce?”

Me: “Honey mustard.”

McDonaldʼs worker: Hands me spicy buffalo.

Me: “No, honey mustard.”

McDonaldʼs worker: Hands me hot picante.

Me: Walks away with my nuggets.

I told Pizza Hut I do not want text message updates about my pie.

Forty-four minutes later…

Thanks for completely ignoring my choice, Pizza Hut!

I only rarely go to McDonaldʼs; maybe three or four times a year. So I was surprised and delighted to find itʼs McRib season!

The McRib is the finest fast food sandwich there is. Better than a double Fisch Mac. Better than Starbuckʼs Thanksgiving panini. Yes, better than Chick-fil-a.

Itʼs never McRib season in Las Vegas, so for the seven years I lived there, I had to make my own — Driving three hours across the Mojave Desert to the nearest McDonaldʼs that had them, in Barstow, California. I never did find out why the McDonaldʼs franchises in Vegas donʼt carry McRibs.

Here, in Houston, McRib does exist, so I grabbed a loaf of that sweet, smokey, salty, crunchy, sesame seeded goodness.

Pro tip: Serve the sandwich on top of a pile of fries so that the sauce drips onto the fries, and you donʼt waste any of it on the plate.

Museum cafes are almost universally overpriced. I figure that Iʼm paying a premium for the convenience of giving my feet a break, having a snack, and then resuming my mental stimulation with minimal delay.

A lot of museums think their food has to look like art, cater to waifs, and embrace the ”less is more” cliché.

But the New Orleans Museum of Art is different. Portions are large, prices are reasonable, and its fried chicken sandwich is quite good.

Also, thereʼs paintings and stuff in the other rooms of the building.

It doesn't have to be good, but it is.

The bar at the Hotel Monteleone puts out quite a nice meat-and-cheese tray. “Charcuterie” if youʼre trying to be fancy-schmancy.

There are a dozen reasons to waste four to six hours in the Monteleone bar: Watching the people on the carousel; watching the tourists perambulate outside; absorbing the art, music, and food New Orleans proffered throughout the morning. But the smörgås-on-a-board encourages you to linger, to sip your drinks slowly, and to chew as often as youʼre supposed to.

I wonʼt pretend to know or like every item on offer, but thereʼs enough variety for both me and my wife to find things we like, and we have very different tastes.

I made cookies today. Truthfully, I made about 40 cookies today, but these are the six that donʼt look awful.

Why is there a door knob on the inside of my pantry door? Do my Froot Loops and Hamburger Helper get claustrophobic during the night and go out for a walk?

I miss having Darcie around to dote on so I can pretend that my real life doesnʼt exist.

Sheʼs still at work, so Iʼm baking her a cake right now. Iʼll probably burn it, like I did with the last cake. And the cupcakes. And the pumpkin pies at Thanksgiving. Baking is not my thing.

I don't remember the bars in Cincinnati serving complimentary apple pies when I lived there.

The fact that this is the first photograph I took with my new phone should tell you everything there is to know about me.

If a steakhouse has an oil painting of the mayor and her mob lawyer husband on the wall over their regular booth, itʼs probably a good steakhouse.

If a steakhouse has brass plaques identifying the regular tables of people from Frank Sinatra to Mario Andretti, itʼs probably a very good steakhouse.

But do you know how you can tell if a steakhouse is an excellent steakhouse? Creamed spinach, baby!

Five nuns walk into a pizza shop…

Nope, itʼs not a joke. Itʼs what happened when I was waiting for my wife at Beggarʼs Pizza.

Itʼs good luck when thereʼs a priest on your plane or train. With five nuns in attendance, this is going to be the luckiest meal of my life.