You are visitors landed on a hot morning in late summer of 1971 (or perhaps 1972), in the city of angels. And after a few miles long treks small and large sunny streets here that v'imbattete a storyteller. It is singing. Los Angeles, give me something about yourself! Los Angeles, meet me as I come to meet me, my feet over your streets, you, beautiful city that I loved so much, sad flower in the sand. Hello, old houses, juicy hamburgers, singing in the cafes of the lowest order, subject to Bing Crosby, who sings too .
It 's true, someone is singing their own (apart from the storytellers) but it is Bing. Behind a wooden wall of a house-style "house-of-Donald" someone is actually singing. Bang! Wonder of wonders wonderful, you're going to meet a legend of your childhood burned in front of the CTV during the legendary (for you) the eighties of last century. There
strung in a backstreet, still some shuffling, between whitewashed walls and painting pink under a blue sky without a cloud, and you entered through a door window in the spacious and bright kitchen of an old junk shop singing. And 'he who is singing, Fred Sanford, while cooking for his firstborn and only son, Lamont. The old man is preparing his "special recipe" for breakfast the child. Pull off one of pockets 100 vs. vs the fisherman's jacket. notebook with a black cover and take notes of the procedure, 'ste occasions to grab the fly, only happens once in a lifetime to meet a cesarina so special like Fred Sanford (and you've already lost the recipe for chicken necks fried, with the story of the greedy cousin of parcels of fried chicken that was punished by the gods for his excessive greed, it swallowed the bones of the packages of chicken instead of cough him back into the pot as required by bon ton and so a black night and appeared promptly pointed a chicken's crop, so much so that he could no longer then shaving the Adam's apple, but if I had to pluck every Saturday the village from poulterer under house story that seems to run away in despair from the pages of Origin of Table Manners by Claude Levi-Strauss ).
The special recipe of the old junk for breakfast his son, Lamont.
Slice 1 onion and white inciotolatelo in a nice deep bowl (like jelly for the Neapolitan Mastiff)
½ sliced \u200b\u200bred tomato salad, inciotolate;
broken 3 whole eggs in the bowl;
pepper and salt in abundance, then put on a superstitious ritual for the salt shed;
stir the ingredients with panache, to form a heterogeneous mixture;
pour the bouillon in a saucepan and set fire to gas;
mixed, by 'within the outer pan with a wooden spoon for 35 seconds;
Serve over 2 strings of bacon, before (who knows when) fried in a little' lard ;
bruciaticcio scrape the excess from a couple of slices of bread forget in the old electric oven, then spezzatele in half
decorated the plate with three-quarters of toast, I recommend ways with the French (and pocketed the remaining ¼ of toast fell on the ground). Findings
impromptu Lamont: looks horrible!
Lamont organoleptic rating: not reached.
window concealed in the house of Sanford is right in the picture-collage, it seems that the image has captured the restless ghost of the old junk, shake here and there, of course, is only pretending to sweep a carpet. Fear not, for not need to be afraid of the boogeyman ... unless they're members of the League, but in this case are very different fears, well, 'however, do not be sad, rather than look out the window. You see the outer wall of the house, and beyond the wall there will obviously be the kitchen. But, as we saw in the post No 6 (A) we are not in a bourgeois interior, and the kitchen soon becomes a living space and self, the heart of home, hearth where Lamont drag his father into heated discussions. But the window at that point are severely restricting the new stage area.
And so the window disappeared and it was as if there had ever been.
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