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My un-American pie

A slice of the un-American pie

To celebrate Barack Obama winning the 2012 presidential election, I made a whole-wheat Williams pear pie with pecorino sardo and orange-blossom–honey streusel. (I’m going to have to find a shorter name for it. Let’s just call it Un-American Pear Pie for now.)

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Who’s the platypus now?

I’m reading Kant and the Platypus, and I realize I’ve never shared a conversation I had in 2010 in Louisville with Marcel Danesi, who was standing in line behind me at the hotel’s Starbucks, and was drawn to my Italian name on my name tag like a bear to honey.

Danesi: “So, did you study with Umberto?”    
Me: “I took a class with him in my third year. However, I’m a structuralist.”    
Danesi (with a mixture of resignation and mockery): “Oh, so is he.”

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My false analogies

Things my Fivefingers have been called:

  • fins
  • mermaid feet
  • duck feet, frog toes, or generally webbed toes
  • Martian feet (whatever those are).

Of all these things, my Fivefingers are actually the opposite.

Things my Fivefingers are not the opposite of:

  • regular human feet.
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Thirty-something

At the end of 2011, within my first-degree family circle I’m the only one who’s in his thirties. My first cousins are all in their forties and fifties, and the next generation (the first-once-removed) ranges from zero (born today, even) to twenty-six.

I’m an island.

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