I am presently eating some peanuts leftover from last night’s game--a fun evening, but the Mets really tanked. Their pitcher actually let the Marlin’s pitcher hit a grand slam, even though pitchers are notoriously bad hitters. It was pretty sad to see him booed off the field only one pitch (a single) later. Kharissia had to point out some of these details to me, as I am not always in tune to the subtle details of the sport. I love seeing baseball games with Kharissia. She knows every player’s position, all their stats, and how cute they are (tres important). She knows all the rules and can explain them to me. Plus, she gets into the cheering paraphernalia without thoroughly embarrassing me. She also likes to eat ballpark snacks. She really has her priorities straight, that Kharissia. We had a “four-course meal” last night, which meant we went out about every other inning and got hot dogs, ice cream (the soft-serve kind that comes in a souvenir helmet), peanuts, and finally nachos. It was quite fun, though I was a little ill by the ninth inning.
Anyway, I’m snacking on some leftover peanuts today and thinking that peanuts are pretty great. They come in little, natural, individually-wrapped packages that keep them fresh. They taste great with just salt. Nutritionally, they’re not great for you, so they give you that satisfying bad-girl feeling, but they aren’t so bad that you ever feel guilty afterwards. This afternoon, I’m realizing that peanuts in their shells are really best enjoyed at a ballpark where you can shell them and dump the shells wherever. In my little room the next day with only my laptop in front of me and the dusty shell shards falling everywhere and the thin, papery skins flying towards my keyboard, threatening the electronic innards of my little workhorse, peanuts don’t really make sense. They still taste good.
My view of Shea Stadium:
My hotdog’s view:
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