A Thing I Love, Not for Thursday

For a while I copied <someone> who is wildly successful with her Things I Love Thursday blogposts.

Then I kind of forgot about it. 
Until today. And it's not Thursday. 
But I had to take a picture quick, before the Thing I Love was gone forever.

Two words:

BRIDGE MIX.

Here's why I love it. When I was a little girl, maybe 8 or 9, my grandmother taught me to play Canasta. I must have been pretty good because if she and her usual players were desperate for a fourth, they'd let me sit in. 

There was always a bowl of Bridge Mix on the card table.
I'd pick all the chocolate-covered nuts.

So when I saw this Bridge Mix recently, and it was ALL chocolate-covered nuts, I grabbed it. I'm almost through the bag.

I also love the little bowl. I bought it in Paris for my first granddaughter.
Great memories.
Now back to munching...

 

If you're still reading, here's another thought on Bridge Mix.

I once (2009, which seems like eons ago) wrote about those card games in an essay in Mississippi Magazine on Front Porch Gliders.
Here's a little of what I said:

As their frequent substitute during my pre-teen summers, I sat in on their weekly games. My seat was the low-slung porch glider.

Most often I played on the front porch of our neighbor, Miss Rubye. Her card table was cooled by a slow-turning ceiling fan and lit by a standing lamp that hovered over the table like a judge. Grandmother Keith sat next to me. No relation, but she was my friend’s grandmother and I was invited to share her, which I did, lovingly. On my left was Miss Rubye or another of the regular players if we convened on a different front porch. And across the table sat my partner, my grandmother.

The ladies held three-deck Samba hands in round holders which made it easier to grasp fifteen cards while smoking their nonstop cigarettes. They shuffled with a fascinating gizmo whose handle turned to spit out perfect decks. And they loved to talk.

They didn’t talk much about cards. They didn’t need to. These women could play with their eyes closed. They talked about our little town, the people in it, trips to the Big Star grocery, and what went on at church. They talked peripherally about cooking, although my grandmother’s idea of cooking was limited to spreading cream cheese onto Boston Brown Bread rounds or to the delicious watermelon pickle she created for her Canasta group.

I didn’t talk much at those card games. I was there to listen. That was the thing about front porches and gliders. Something was always happening, even “just” sitting and listening.