Dig the origins of 10 Food Phrases over at cool site called Mental Floss:

Sowing Your Wild Oats: Avena fatua, a species of grass in the oat genus, has been referred to as “wild oats” by the English for centuries. Though it’s thought to be the precursor of cultivated oats, farmers have long hated it because it is useless as a cereal crop and hard to separate from cultivated oats and remove from fields. Literally sowing wild oats, then, is a useless endeavor, and the phrase is figuratively applied to people engaging idle pastimes. There’s also a sexual connotation in that a young man sowing his wild oats is spreading seed without purpose.The saying is first recorded in English in 1542, by Protestant clergyman Thomas Becon.

A Piece of Cake: The earliest appearance I can find is in Ogden Nash’s Primrose Path in 1936, and the phrase seems to have descended from the earlier “cakewalk.” This second term originates with a 19th-century African American tradition where slaves or freedmen at social gatherings or parties would walk in a procession in pairs around a cake and the most graceful pair would win the cake as a prize (this may also be the origin of “takes the cake”). Although the cakewalk contest demanded some skill and grace, the phrase was eventually adopted as boxing slang and flipped to connote an easily-won fight.

It’s been chilly the past few nights here in New York. October baseball is in the air for Yankee fans and I’m here to tell you that it feels good to be so spoiled. For years my sense memory informed me to get anxious in this weather which meant the start of school. Now, it’s been replaced by a luxurious feeling–the Yankees and the playoffs. It is a sensation that I cannot take for granted.

Now that autumn is fast approaching the summer bounty is running dry. No more corn, just a few precious tomatoes left. These here were grown on a rooftop in Manhattan. August is my favorite time of year for food and I’m always sorry to see it go, but take comfort in the fact that it’ll return next year. And when it arrives again, just like when the Yanks make the playoffs, I’ll appreciate every last moment.

Look Back in Hunger

By Guest Author: Greg W. Prince

How is it we crave what we haven’t tasted in 40 years? How is it I’ll be doing anything and suddenly be overcome by a desire for a grilled cheese sandwich from the Beach Burger in Long Beach?

A quick Googling shows Beach Burger is still up and running on the South Shore of Nassau County, or at least it’s there again. It changed names at least once during my youth. I would assume it changed hands a few times. Since I don’t live that far away, I could conceivably drag myself over there and seek that grilled cheese sandwich, but I can’t imagine it would be the same.

Besides, I can only imagine eating it across the street. And I can’t imagine doing that.

My experience with the Beach Burger grilled cheese sandwich that intermittently returns to my subconscious did not take place at the Beach Burger proper. It happened on the other side of the city’s main thoroughfare, known alternately as Park Street (commonly) or Park Avenue (officially and a little fancily). It happened at Franco Fanelli. That wasn’t a pizza parlor, to use the term no one uses anymore. It was, if you will, a clip joint.

Specifically, they clipped hair there — my mother’s hair. Franco Fanelli was a beauty salon…more often referred to as a beauty parlor (whatever happened to parlors, anyway?). Going to the beauty parlor was a big deal to my mother, big enough so that when she had an appointment and had to schlep her seven-year-old son, the sense of occasion was extended by ordering in lunch. It wasn’t just my mother doing that. They did it for all the ladies.

All my life going to barber shops it never occurred to me eat around falling follicles. But that’s what they did at Franco Fanelli. I suppose it was as much a social outing as a hair care event.

Me, I’m sitting off to the side somewhere. It’s a terrible place for a seven-year-old. There’s gabbing and industrial-strength hair dryers blasting away and enough hair spray in the air to make Love Canal seem pristine by comparison. When you entered Long Beach, you were greeted by a billboard that welcomed you to America’s Healthiest City.

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I was in elementary school during the last, sad years of my parents’ marriage. We had moved out of New York City to Westchester and lived on a street that was more country than suburban. I had a friend named Kevin who lived up the road in a big, dilapidated house. He kept a water-logged copy of Hustler under the front porch–my first glimpse of pornography. Next to the house was an enormous barn. They had horses and Kevin’s mother and his sisters gave riding lessons in a big rink next to the house. The father had recently died.

I remember being inside that house wondering, What happened? Kevin’s mother was polite, looked respectable, and went to work in the City. But the house was a mess. It smelled of cat urine. There were cats everywehre. It was cold in winter and the floors were covered with newspapers soaked with cat urine and covered with cat shit. I navigated the upstairs corridors in fear, quickly moving to Kevin’s room, which had a small TV where we once watched ABC’s Monday Night Baseball.

It was as if after Kevin’s father died, everything fell apart. At least that’s how I imaged it as I lived in dread that my parent’s marriage would not last.

There were only two smells that cut through the stench. One was the sweet smell of shampoo in Kevin’s sister’s feathered hair. It could have been perfume too. They listened to rock records, wore tight jeans and seemed so grown up. All they had to do is pass by and the air was cut by a rush of their wonderful and mysterious femininity. The other came from the kitchen. It was a cold room too and the fridge always seemed bare. There, Kevin would toast a few slices of white bread, spread them evenly with butter and then shake equal parts cinnamon and sugar on top of them.

His cinnamon toast was reminder that even when life is filled with disappointment, and seems to be caving in around you, when there is no money for indulgences, there can be something simple and satisfying that keeps you going.

It is a bit chillier in Manhattan than it was five years ago to the day. Otherwise, it is a brilliantly sunny day, eerily reminiscent of that fateful morning that altered the city and the country forever. I rode the IRT to work this morning and there was the usual commotion, but there were also some hints of somberness too–a business woman in a black suit, a strapping Jewish kid with a black yarmulke, a gray-haired liberal with a black t-shirt that read, “What Really Happened?” Today is certainly a day to remember those who lost their lives in-and-around 9.11 as well as an opportunity to appreciate the good things we’ve got in our lives.

I sure have plenty to appreciate, that’s for sure. On Saturday, Emily and I took a ride up to Westchester to spend the afternoon with my mom and my step-father. While Em and Tom busied themselves with a project in the back yard, mom and I made a batch of madeleines, the shell-shaped cookies made famous by Proust in “Remberance of Things Past.” They are wonderful tea-time cookies, and must be eaten almost immediately. Even an hour or two after they’ve come out of the oven, they begin to change in nature, going from a light, sponge cake to a heavier, greasier cookie. It’s not even that they are my favorites, I just like the idea of them–the immediacy of it all. And you just can’t have them without a strong cup of tea for dunking.

Here they are fresh out of the oven. That’s my ma, adding some confectionate sugar, the final touch (dig, her beloved Tintin swatch).

And here is the final product, along with a simple plum tart and a strong cup of Earl Grey tea.

A small, good thing, if there ever was one.

A heppy ket.

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