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Tuesday, May 28, 2013

A Blooming Shame by John von Daler


My green grocer had decided to make a bargain 
out of some incompatibles: he tried to sell me edible 
flowers.

Edible flowers? Not something a Romantic
takes lightly. What will be next: Brahms bouillon 
for the busy culinary violinist? Impressionist foie gras 
for the colorful cook? Singing chanterelles?
Oh well, who am I to complain. I'm a cheapskate 
writer too, always trying to squeeze in two meanings 
for the price of one.

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