Monday, February 01, 2010

From Schmear To Modernity

Not everyone agrees, but after much reflection and considerable practical experience, I am of the opinion that one most assuredly can lie supine, read a paperback, and dip Oreo® Double Stufs into icy-cold milk without their glopping to the bottom of the glass, depositing under one’s French manicure, or soiling one’s chaise longue.

If one, in fact, owned a chaise longue. In the same way some folks have flashbacks when assailed by certain scents or sounds, sometimes I’m reminded how much I enjoyed a particular section of a beloved novel by the junk-food smudges schmeared across the page. But with the advent of e-readers... READ MORE, BELLAS!
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Lori Wilde Winner: lastnerve, you've won a copy of "Sweethearts' Knitting Club" + limited-edition needles. Congratulazione! Thanks to all for visiting for Gannon's and PJ's cyberpal's day. Next month, they've got something hot in store for you!

5 comments:

Becke Davis said...

I don't have an ereader yet, but I wonder if that will change people's reading and snacking habits.

lastnerve said...

Thank you oh so much for makingme a winner! I can't wait to read it!

Val pearson

PJ said...

Congratulations, lastnerve! Hope you enjoy the book!

Jill Kemerer said...

I snack on M&M's while reading. They cut down on the smears! :)

PG said...

In the same way some folks have flashbacks when assailed by certain scents or sounds, sometimes I’m reminded how much I enjoyed a particular section of a beloved novel by the junk-food smudges schmeared across the page.

'She sent for one of those squat, plump little cakes called "petites madeleines," which look as though they had been moulded in the fluted valve of a scallop shell. And soon, mechanically, dispirited after a dreary day with the prospect of a depressing morrow, I raised to my lips a spoonful of the tea in which I had soaked a morsel of the cake. No sooner had the warm liquid mixed with the crumbs touched my palate than a shudder ran through me and I stopped, intent upon the extraordinary thing that was happening to me. An exquisite pleasure had invaded my senses, something isolated, detached, with no suggestion of its origin. And at once the vicissitudes of life had become indifferent to me, its disasters innocuous, its brevity illusory - this new sensation having had on me the effect which love has of filling me with a precious essence; or rather this essence was not in me it was me. I had ceased now to feel mediocre, contingent, mortal. Whence could it have come to me, this all-powerful joy? I sensed that it was connected with the taste of the tea and the cake, but that it infinitely transcended those savours, could, no, indeed, be of the same nature. Whence did it come? What did it mean? How could I seize and apprehend it?'