We have grown accustomed to - no, make that attached to - the calendar on the wall of our kitchen that reproduces the vintage drawings from something called Album Benary, an archive so foreign to us that we have long assumed (wrongly) it was of Italian extraction.
We find ourselves on the cusp of an ambivalent May, the first, fragile blush of spring already fading - a special breed of Jersey broccoli rabe, so tender it can be eaten raw, finished; good-bye, too, to the feathery, early dandelion greens (saluted with their own annual banquet in Vineland), gone.
Well, the way that Keith Masser sees it, the Idaho Potato Commission has about convinced people that Idaho is the only place to get your potatoes from, even though its Russet Burbanks - grown in irrigated, sandy soils - tend toward a dryness and don't have anywhere near the flavor of your basic Schuylkill County spud.
Around the corner from the Capital Grille, the power steakery on South Broad, and kitty-corner across Chestnut from the Olive Garden, you will now find Fogo de Chão, the newest chain operator in Center City, setting up house in the splendid, French Regency bones of J.E. Caldwell, for most of the last century the city's classic jeweler.
Rick Nichols is a Philadelphia native (a product of rowhouse Mayfair) who moved as a child to Lower Bucks County and later to New England. He graduated from the University of North Carolina and worked on the newspaper in Raleigh. After a Nieman Fellowship at Harvard, he joined The Inquirer in 1978. He was for many years a member of the Editorial Board, and has several journalism awards.