you can't always get. . . something even remotely acceptable

Someone who knows told me that one of the things I'd miss most about New York would be the food. He was right. Anyone who knows me knows how much I love mah food; fortunately, I'm not afraid to cook it myself, especially when I can't just go out and get what I want.

So recently I was craving some falafel. In Fort Pierce, Florida, expecting to go out and find a hot, tangy, fresh falafel sandwich is akin to waiting up all night for Santa, or expecting to jump off the top of a skyscraper and not get dead. Ain't happening. Long story short, I found the can of chickpeas in the pantry, the proper spices, cilantro, olive oil, the pitas. . . I even had yogurt and cucumber so I could make raita. I didn't have a choice. Even after I read the warning in the recipe about how frying falafel inside would make your whole house smell like a Lebanese garbage can (in August), I still had to do it. This is the result (note glass of $6.99 Pinot Grigio in background):

It wasn't exactly Mamoun's, but hey, I was shooting from the hip. Not to toot my own horn or anything, but for my first attempt, it turned out pretty damn good, even if my house did stink like the armpits of a thousand camels for three days afterward.

Stay tuned for reports on my backyard landscaping project (Prospect Park, here I come) and the new P.A. system I'm installing in my car: "this is a beach-bound honda accord, next stop will be the 7-11, stanclearclosindoorspleez."