Heeding the signs.

While grocery shopping at Dave's this weekend, I saw this:

My favorite thing about this sign is the fact that it implies that at one point, escarole was for Italians only. The rest of us, making do as best we could with kale and arugula, could only press our sad noses up against the glass and watch them chop this unremarkable leafy green into their chicken soup while they twirled pizza dough, drank Chianti, waxed their moustaches and exclaimed “Madonna,” only it sounded like “Marone.” Sure, if you really wanted it you could grow it, but you risked having Italians come into your garden at night and wrecking up the place, and writing “Escarole  not-a for you!” in marinara sauce on the side of your house. But who liberated us? Who brought escarole out of the Italian darkness to where it truly belongs, crammed into the top produce row at Dave’s market, right between the curly endive and the lemon thyme, where no one, Italian or not, will notice it? Who on earth do we thank?

In other news, this was attached to the gas can I bought at the Shell near exit 10 off 295 in Cumberland this weekend:

What this tells me is that there are people who start fires with gasoline.

Ahem.

People. Who start FIRES. With GASOLINE.

ON PURPOSE.

And not just one or two. There are enough people who make the conscious decision to start fires with gasoline to warrant a point-of-purchase PSA campaign on gas cans that’s meant to say, “Hey. Hey there. Hi. You know that stuff you’re probably going to put in this shiny new gas can? Don’t use it to start a fire, okay? It’s wicked dangerous.”

I actually saw a person start a fire with gasoline once. It was my landlord when I was living in Lake Forest, Illinois, one of the few places where burning leaves in autumn was still legal. We spent the afternoon raking leaves into a gigantic pile, and when we were all finished, my landlord poured a gallon of gasoline over the whole thing. The resulting fireball shot so high into the sky that neighbors for three miles in every direction called 911 and sent about six engines to our house. My landlord, who was a true idiot, got a scolding from the firemen and was duly embarrassed. What I took away from that experience, aside from the sheer astonishment of seeing what I saw, was that it was the dumbest thing I had ever seen anyone do, before or since. And I’ve lived in New Jersey.

Honestly. Unless you are an active arsonist, when is the need for fire so urgent that, say, lighter fluid  -- or the naturally present oxygen in the air -- just won’t cut it? Gasoline is so flammable that oily rags and nail polish remover are ashamed to call themselves fire hazards if gas is within earshot.

I suppose it shouldn’t be so surprising. After all, we live in a world where people set off fireworks indoors and keep incredibly dangerous animals as pets that ultimately kill them.

No wonder we’re the dominant species on the planet! Go humans!