Foodstuffery

I’m through with days of jury duty, which were, as a friend put it from my descriptions, “High Brooklyn.” (One witness was a Teamster.) Ralph was our bailiff: our self-professed “guide through our journey at jury duty.” He has a baldpate but with a stubby, sickly ponytail; he’s gangly with pants pulled up to his armpits.

“You’ll want to bring cookies tomorrow for everyone,” Ralph told us. “The good kind—don’t buy the cheap stuff. Especially men, you should bring the cookies. Men nevah bring the cookies.”

“Don’t drink the water in this building,” he told us. “It’s full of rusty chunks. You’ll see me carrying around a pitcher during the trial and pouring water for the lawyers and the witnesses—I scoop out the chunks as best I can—but don’t you drink the water.”

[Imagine jurors suppressing horror and laughter and skinny Ralph glides through the courtroom, paper cup in hand.]

After we delivered our verdict, I asked Ralph in the jury room: “Ralph, what do you think?”

“What do I think about what?”

“About the case,” I said to him.

“I have no idear,” he said. “I’ve been doing this for 36 years. Believe me, you stop paying attention after 10.”

~

Bonus nonsense:

My Gmail is sporting this ad at the top of the page this morning:

“Spam Fajitas - Serves 8, add extra salsa if desired”

Enjoy!