I have middle aged old friends that I'm looking forward to becoming old old friends with. Thanks for these pleasant reminders to stop and enjoy the rigatoni.
I'll bet there are a number of them. I named the one in Lake Wobegon for one in Minneapolis when I was a child. I grew up among very quiet people and I loved the word "chatterbox."
It’s probably an implanted memory—I listened to PHC for many years—but I seem to remember a Chatterbox Cafe from my formative years living in a very small town. If there wasn’t one, there should have been.
Plenty of "whats" to throw about in this crazy world of ours. We organize it by those "whats" we define. Its those "whats" by which we make our living. Its the other "whats" that make us laugh and make life worth living. Thank you for your gift and wisdom of laughter, Garison.
You've disappointed me greatly with this post, mostly in that your title is deceiving. To be clear, you made no mention of Rigatoni, my favorite pasta, in the post outside of the title. Try as they may, other pastas fail to reach the pinnacle that Rigatoni has, though thin spaghetti takes a close second. Ziti is a liar and a phony, he pretends to be something he is not. He tries to pass himself off as a sewer pipe but we all know he's just cheap pex tubing and he has to gather in greater numbers to equal the mass of Rigatoni. Bowtie pasta, well, they're just bowties that mix well with butter and oregano, unlike the ones you wear around your neck. Elbows, not the ones between your shoulder and hands, all know that there only place in the world is not in a thick marinara, but in a bowl surrounded by a lot of cheese. All other pastas are just too fearful to even try to compete with Rigatoni. Rigatoni is king and you failed to mention it in your post. From the title I deduced a lengthy and cleverly written (as you often do) tale of days in your home town as a youth having Rigatoni dinner with garlic bread on a Sunday evening after a day of Church, lying on grassy lakeshore with a girl and later chasing raccoons out of the garage. But no. Instead, we get a comforting image of old friends gathering and giggling at a table in a restaurant. All at the expense of the mundane repetitive daily madness we live through each day with nary a care in the world. Entertaining and pleasant reading but lacking any mention of Rigatoni. <insert huge labored sigh here>.
In other news, maybe it hasn't occurred to you, yet, or may not, but, and you can ask this of any ordinary person at or above retirement age. There comes a point in everyone's life where you just don't give a crap anymore. Though for the statement to be more effective, replace "crap" with your favorite explanative. But, we don't give a crap with a smile because we are happy and we have long realized that all the daily conflict and diatribe we muddle through each and every day is nothing more than pointless and meaningless differences of opinion that are shoved in our faces from every angle and means. And we've grown weary of it and have realized it all means and amounts to nothing. The result is the desire to tell these whiney little brats to shut up and that life is to short to go on about petty little issues. Issues we which we realized long ago are all petty.
So the solution is to sit with friends, who have also reached the same point in life, have a bowl of rigatoni swimming in a thick marinara with parmesan cheese sprinkled on top and a side of garlic bread, chit chat about old times and tell each other silly jokes you've heard a hundred times before and laugh at the whiners who will eventually be doing the same someday. We just all wish everyone would reach that point now.
All this talk of Rigatoni has made me hungry. Damn you.
As always Mr. Keillor, thank you for your entertaining words.
He did include a nice picture of rigatoni. Go fix yourself up a nice plate of rigatoni with marinara and cheese and enjoy. 🌞 Damn, now you've got me hungry, too!
That you added sausage redeems you. Sometimes I just stare at the bowl and look at it for a moment for I dive in. Somethings about a bowl of the rigs in a nice thick marinara has a lovely Monet look about it. Devine.
Personally, I don't have old, long-time friends with whom I can sit and chew the fat. Lived a nomadic life and was born completely lacking the sociability gene. So it's a gift to read about what a life with seasoned friendships is like. Thanks.
What's missing from the rigatoni here is the meatball. Either one large one or two smalls. There's a hit song from the early 60's that went like this:
"On Top of Spaghetti" by Tom Glazer,
"On top of spaghetti
All covered with cheese,
I lost my poor meatball
When somebody sneezed."
The lesson here is to never sneeze in the middle of a good conversation. Just as a Dem, no matter how angry, loses his cool, grabs his pistol, and chases another Dem! Regardless of party, let's say what we think, but for God's sake, lose the pistol and the Devil's sake. Amen!
Well, being a tad wishful (and not the least bit charitable) I think it would be fitting if an old crony dining with the old coot at Mar-a-Lago would accidentally spill a plate of rigatoni on his head.
How does one "accidentally spill" rigatoni on somebody's head? 😁 I worked one night as a waitress and was fired after spilling a bowl of pureed butternut squash on somebody's three piece suit, but that truely was an accident.
One can only fantasize... When I was in college, I worked in a campus cafeteria. One weekend I was recruited to serve at a fraternity banquet and instructed how to dress (dark skirt, white blouse). I had never served anyone before, but I brought in plates of food exactly like the other girls were doing. The frat boys didn’t acknowledge any of the servers as we squeezed between them and maneuvered a plate into place in front of each. At one point I was balancing a plate in one hand and reaching in between two oblivious guys and whoops-- a plateful of hot turkey, mashed potatoes and gravy slid neatly into a lap. He swore angrily at me and of course I apologized; it was truly accidental. But it was also a tiny example of cosmic justice.
Except Trump doesn’t have friends. I’m pretty sure about that. Of all the people who donate money, some of it hard earned, to his re-election campaign, he would not have lunch with one of them.
I miss stories about The Chatterbox Cafe. Fortunately there’s a genuine diner called The Town Diner where I go often with good friends. We never talk about politics or anything that’s dreary for that matter. It’s our Chatterbox Cafe. Anything you order there is delicious and they serve breakfast all day. I always used to get a cheeseburger but I just discovered the pot roast on a whim. I tell the owner who is often sitting at the counter chatting with staff on the way out that it’s the best pot roast I’ve ever had and he smiles and thanks me and says he’s happy to hear it. This Episcopalian is grateful for our Town Diner and the absolute joy that it brings me to share a meal there with my no nonsense friends. Amen to that.
What did he grab? Rigatoni??? So when I come home from a walk with my dog and holding my bag of you know what, and a neighbor asks me, "What's in the bag?", I can say "Rigatoni"?
I love this. When my friends and I meet to share a meal you'd never know how different we all are. We are united in conversation about children, jobs, life, happiness, and struggles. We are that table of loud laughing women and I love it.
You are far nicer than I am. When our ex Commander in Thief reaches his miserable end, I hope he is all alone with no friends whatsoever. I suspect this will be the case. On the other hand, he's always had plenty back there when he reaches for it. So he will continue to throw it.
I can assure you, that Trump hasn't a friend in the world - just minions and a few fools who still are susceptible to flattery so they can be taken advantage of. I met Trump one early morning back in the mid-1980s while returning from a wedding reception in Manhattan. He approached me to ogle my Rover sedan as a ruse to trigger small talk in the garage of his hotel. As a psychologist, I am fairly good at reading people. He came across even then as friendless. He was likely just tipsy enough to get out of character for a brief moment, but there was nothing there - just a clumsy effort to engage in what he thought of as guy talk perhaps to reassure himself that he was still and average guy like all his other age-mates (despite his Rolls pulled up behind me awaiting the valet). Ivana stayed by their big car looking annoyed, and exhausted, I reminded him that she might want to go to bed before sunrise. We chuckled and he broke off.
I have middle aged old friends that I'm looking forward to becoming old old friends with. Thanks for these pleasant reminders to stop and enjoy the rigatoni.
You are far more generous than I am regarding a certain person.
Everyone needs a real friend or two.
To have a friend you must be a friend. And I don't think the Rough Beast knows how to do that.
Nor do I, but he will probably need a friend once his sycophants flee.
I meant it. I hope he has friends. Other than his kids. Friends.
Excuse me, but there is an actual Chatterbox Cafe. Is it in Minnesota? Is it the one you have forever written about? Do you have part ownership?
I'll bet there are a number of them. I named the one in Lake Wobegon for one in Minneapolis when I was a child. I grew up among very quiet people and I loved the word "chatterbox."
It’s probably an implanted memory—I listened to PHC for many years—but I seem to remember a Chatterbox Cafe from my formative years living in a very small town. If there wasn’t one, there should have been.
The grace in the final paragraph is penetratingly beautiful.
Plenty of "whats" to throw about in this crazy world of ours. We organize it by those "whats" we define. Its those "whats" by which we make our living. Its the other "whats" that make us laugh and make life worth living. Thank you for your gift and wisdom of laughter, Garison.
You've disappointed me greatly with this post, mostly in that your title is deceiving. To be clear, you made no mention of Rigatoni, my favorite pasta, in the post outside of the title. Try as they may, other pastas fail to reach the pinnacle that Rigatoni has, though thin spaghetti takes a close second. Ziti is a liar and a phony, he pretends to be something he is not. He tries to pass himself off as a sewer pipe but we all know he's just cheap pex tubing and he has to gather in greater numbers to equal the mass of Rigatoni. Bowtie pasta, well, they're just bowties that mix well with butter and oregano, unlike the ones you wear around your neck. Elbows, not the ones between your shoulder and hands, all know that there only place in the world is not in a thick marinara, but in a bowl surrounded by a lot of cheese. All other pastas are just too fearful to even try to compete with Rigatoni. Rigatoni is king and you failed to mention it in your post. From the title I deduced a lengthy and cleverly written (as you often do) tale of days in your home town as a youth having Rigatoni dinner with garlic bread on a Sunday evening after a day of Church, lying on grassy lakeshore with a girl and later chasing raccoons out of the garage. But no. Instead, we get a comforting image of old friends gathering and giggling at a table in a restaurant. All at the expense of the mundane repetitive daily madness we live through each day with nary a care in the world. Entertaining and pleasant reading but lacking any mention of Rigatoni. <insert huge labored sigh here>.
In other news, maybe it hasn't occurred to you, yet, or may not, but, and you can ask this of any ordinary person at or above retirement age. There comes a point in everyone's life where you just don't give a crap anymore. Though for the statement to be more effective, replace "crap" with your favorite explanative. But, we don't give a crap with a smile because we are happy and we have long realized that all the daily conflict and diatribe we muddle through each and every day is nothing more than pointless and meaningless differences of opinion that are shoved in our faces from every angle and means. And we've grown weary of it and have realized it all means and amounts to nothing. The result is the desire to tell these whiney little brats to shut up and that life is to short to go on about petty little issues. Issues we which we realized long ago are all petty.
So the solution is to sit with friends, who have also reached the same point in life, have a bowl of rigatoni swimming in a thick marinara with parmesan cheese sprinkled on top and a side of garlic bread, chit chat about old times and tell each other silly jokes you've heard a hundred times before and laugh at the whiners who will eventually be doing the same someday. We just all wish everyone would reach that point now.
All this talk of Rigatoni has made me hungry. Damn you.
As always Mr. Keillor, thank you for your entertaining words.
He did include a nice picture of rigatoni. Go fix yourself up a nice plate of rigatoni with marinara and cheese and enjoy. 🌞 Damn, now you've got me hungry, too!
While we are on the subject of rigatoni, here is a link to the recipe for the rigatoni that Joe and Jill Biden enjoyed at the Red Hen.
https://www.washingtonpost.com/food/2023/03/17/sausage-rigatoni-pasta-recipe-bidens/
It was in there, rigatoni and sausage, and it's what I ate, but somehow it diappeared. Sorry about that.
That you added sausage redeems you. Sometimes I just stare at the bowl and look at it for a moment for I dive in. Somethings about a bowl of the rigs in a nice thick marinara has a lovely Monet look about it. Devine.
Personally, I don't have old, long-time friends with whom I can sit and chew the fat. Lived a nomadic life and was born completely lacking the sociability gene. So it's a gift to read about what a life with seasoned friendships is like. Thanks.
Find another nomad and teach each other. There's time.
What's missing from the rigatoni here is the meatball. Either one large one or two smalls. There's a hit song from the early 60's that went like this:
"On Top of Spaghetti" by Tom Glazer,
"On top of spaghetti
All covered with cheese,
I lost my poor meatball
When somebody sneezed."
The lesson here is to never sneeze in the middle of a good conversation. Just as a Dem, no matter how angry, loses his cool, grabs his pistol, and chases another Dem! Regardless of party, let's say what we think, but for God's sake, lose the pistol and the Devil's sake. Amen!
Well, being a tad wishful (and not the least bit charitable) I think it would be fitting if an old crony dining with the old coot at Mar-a-Lago would accidentally spill a plate of rigatoni on his head.
How does one "accidentally spill" rigatoni on somebody's head? 😁 I worked one night as a waitress and was fired after spilling a bowl of pureed butternut squash on somebody's three piece suit, but that truely was an accident.
One can only fantasize... When I was in college, I worked in a campus cafeteria. One weekend I was recruited to serve at a fraternity banquet and instructed how to dress (dark skirt, white blouse). I had never served anyone before, but I brought in plates of food exactly like the other girls were doing. The frat boys didn’t acknowledge any of the servers as we squeezed between them and maneuvered a plate into place in front of each. At one point I was balancing a plate in one hand and reaching in between two oblivious guys and whoops-- a plateful of hot turkey, mashed potatoes and gravy slid neatly into a lap. He swore angrily at me and of course I apologized; it was truly accidental. But it was also a tiny example of cosmic justice.
Except Trump doesn’t have friends. I’m pretty sure about that. Of all the people who donate money, some of it hard earned, to his re-election campaign, he would not have lunch with one of them.
I miss stories about The Chatterbox Cafe. Fortunately there’s a genuine diner called The Town Diner where I go often with good friends. We never talk about politics or anything that’s dreary for that matter. It’s our Chatterbox Cafe. Anything you order there is delicious and they serve breakfast all day. I always used to get a cheeseburger but I just discovered the pot roast on a whim. I tell the owner who is often sitting at the counter chatting with staff on the way out that it’s the best pot roast I’ve ever had and he smiles and thanks me and says he’s happy to hear it. This Episcopalian is grateful for our Town Diner and the absolute joy that it brings me to share a meal there with my no nonsense friends. Amen to that.
What did he grab? Rigatoni??? So when I come home from a walk with my dog and holding my bag of you know what, and a neighbor asks me, "What's in the bag?", I can say "Rigatoni"?
I love this. When my friends and I meet to share a meal you'd never know how different we all are. We are united in conversation about children, jobs, life, happiness, and struggles. We are that table of loud laughing women and I love it.
I have a few old friends. Not as many as I once did, for I am 90 going on 91 with the result that many of my old friends have now passed on.
You are far nicer than I am. When our ex Commander in Thief reaches his miserable end, I hope he is all alone with no friends whatsoever. I suspect this will be the case. On the other hand, he's always had plenty back there when he reaches for it. So he will continue to throw it.
I am laughing at your last line. Very good, sir. Thanks.
I’m so glad you remind us of what’s really important - health. You’re the best. I look forward to your columns. Thank you!
I can assure you, that Trump hasn't a friend in the world - just minions and a few fools who still are susceptible to flattery so they can be taken advantage of. I met Trump one early morning back in the mid-1980s while returning from a wedding reception in Manhattan. He approached me to ogle my Rover sedan as a ruse to trigger small talk in the garage of his hotel. As a psychologist, I am fairly good at reading people. He came across even then as friendless. He was likely just tipsy enough to get out of character for a brief moment, but there was nothing there - just a clumsy effort to engage in what he thought of as guy talk perhaps to reassure himself that he was still and average guy like all his other age-mates (despite his Rolls pulled up behind me awaiting the valet). Ivana stayed by their big car looking annoyed, and exhausted, I reminded him that she might want to go to bed before sunrise. We chuckled and he broke off.