Day or night, the first step in the ritual, even before we bought a program, was to get a hot dog, dribble mustard over it (never ketchup!), and then pack in spoonfuls of sweet relish. The mustard was the bright yellow kind we knew as “ballpark
Food memories: Fenway Park
I pretty much grew up in Fenway Park; at least it felt that
way (for my mother, baseball was holy; when she retired, she moved to Arizona,
and attended all the Spring-training games she could, happily extending the
season). Early every Spring, my mother would get the advance schedule of Red Sox home
games, and we’d sit at the kitchen table plotting our Summer, picking our way
through weekend and night games with our favorite enemies (the Yankees were top
of the list, of course). When those chosen days came, we’d go downtown and
board a bus for the 50-mile ride straight to Fenway in Boston, loaded with
other baseball fans, chattering madly.
Day or night, the first step in the ritual, even before we bought a program, was to get a hot dog, dribble mustard over it (never ketchup!), and then pack in spoonfuls of sweet relish. The mustard was the bright yellow kind we knew as “ballpark
Day or night, the first step in the ritual, even before we bought a program, was to get a hot dog, dribble mustard over it (never ketchup!), and then pack in spoonfuls of sweet relish. The mustard was the bright yellow kind we knew as “ballpark
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