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Or Catsup if you will. Anyway Sunday does, taste like ketchup that is.

For reasons of consistency I’ll spell ketchup K-E -T-C-H-U-P for consistency. Although someone once told me consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds. I don’t know what that means either. It might be a vague Shakespeare reference. You can look it up as Casey Stengel once said.

Looking things up is a lot easier these days then in Casey’s day. But honestly is the world a much better place because we have all of this instant information right at our fingertips on on our keyboards? I wonder what Kurt Vonnegut would say?

Sundays. Sunday mornings have been ever since I’ve been on my own and that goes back a few decades now, a leisurely and lazy day of the week, No servile work for me, no sir, unless I was getting paid for it and Sunday’s were always time a a half or double time. I forget. I retired a few years ago so it doesn’t matter any more anyway.

Sunday mornings were and still are a time when there is no rush to do or get anywhere except church. I took church off my Sunday to do list when the shut down began and I can’t bring myself to go back into a room, any room and sit for an hour trying to concentrate on my past, present and spiritual future.

Sunday morning obligation or not I always have associated Sunday mornings with fried eggs, toast, coffee and ketchup. It’s funny how a day can taste like something but it does.

When I was a kid we always ate eggs on Friday night because that’s the law, the rule which is no longer a rule or the law except maybe it is during Lent. We ate eggs because we probably had run out of food for the week and eggs were all my mother had left in the house. Iw as a kid. What did I know or care?

My dad got paid on Fridays, every week and so I’m sure my mother had to stretch that one paycheck 5 ways for food and whatever else the family needed, demanded or couldn’t live without. I don’t know how she did it.

I think banks were open to 8 or so on Fridays so all the paychecks that arrived home with dads could find their way to the bank.

Now my son lives in a state and uses a bank that is not even chartered in that state. I remember when I moved to Pennsylvania banks could only operate in those countries that touched ( contiguous?) the county in which they were originally chartered in. So at most a bank might be in three or four counties depending on the location. You can look up a map of PA counties and figure out how profitable or not that plan was. It’s all gone to hell now anyway as any bub with a plan can be a bank. Money, hah.

So, the ketchup premise of this piece might actually be about how cherished Sunday mornings are to me. How routines and certain foods and tastes and smells are an integral part of my being both in the taste and smell department.

Add in the local Sunday News and the day is complete. Mix in a Sunday afternoon ball game on the radio on the front porch life doesn’t get much better.

And somehow I’ve gotten from the title to The National Pastime and there’s only one and it’s called baseball. Football is a gargantuan spectacle that threatens to crush itself one of these days under it’s on weight but it does serve to pass the time on cold fall and winter Sunday afternoons.

Sunday in the Park with George – saw it on Broadway, Saturday in the Park, Another Park another Sunday, Sundays will never be the same and A Sunday Kind of Love.

All 57 varieties.