Hardpan Curmudgeon SASS #8967
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Posts posted by Hardpan Curmudgeon SASS #8967
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21 minutes ago, watab kid said:
ive had it in a number of ways over the years and ill admit im not fond of it - i like wine but that was NOT GOOD , the pie will never be touched again , after that there is nothing , i think it a weed
Can I have yours...?
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I have an occasional visitor whose long-time stance is that it's just as easy for a woman to put the seat down as it is for a man to lift it up. Not to mention the lid.
Well... sometimes the cat likes to bounce off the lid to the top of the tank and look out the window. Someone - this same visitor? - left the seat and lid up once. Poor cat came bounding through and *ker-SPLASH!*
Poor cat was mortified. Poor me was also mortified; I got to do the cleanup.
I very clearly impressed upon my visitor the house rule, "Seat and Lid DOWN!"
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My last rhubarb pie ~ this past Thanksgiving.
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Easy and Delicious Strawberry-Rhubarb Pie
(From "Half-Breed Pete And the Rhubarb Pie")
Pie crust for double crust pie
2 cups rhubarb, diced
2 cups strawberries, cut up
1 ¼ cups sugar
¼ tsp salt
¼ cup tapioca
2 tsp butter
Put the bottom pie crust in a 10 in pie pan.
Mix up the strawberries, rhubarb, sugar, tapioca, and salt
Scrape it into crust, then dot it with butter.
Pinch on the top crust,
poke a few steam holes and bake at 425 degrees for about 10 - 15 minutes, then back off to 375 for the next half hour or so or until crust is golden.
Serve with vanilla ice cream or strawberry daiquiris. Use extreme
caution if served with daiquiris.
Deep-Dish Pie
Pie crust for double crust pie +
3 cups rhubarb, diced
3 cups strawberries, cut up
1 7/8 cups sugar (Just under 2 cups)
3/8 tsp salt
1/3 cup tapioca
3 tsp butter
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Hands down ~ Bob wins!
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I think Mister Stamey's job is safe....
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New duck gun...?
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Marshal, definitely keep encouraging the lad and nurturing his talents! He'll get a lifetime of enjoyment out of it. Heck - so will you!
When Sassparilla Kid was in fourth grade he announced that he wanted to join his school's fledgling band. So, we got 'im a Getzen student trumpet, and it was Game On.
When he was twelve, he discovered Blues. By the time he was in high school you could barely walk through our li'l bungalow for all the music stuff ~ three trumpets (including an upgrade to a professional Getzen Eterna with a silver bell), one cornet, two bugles, one piano, two electronic keyboards, two banjos, one mandolin, and one "banjolele" (with eternal thanks to Forty Rod!).
Also, seven assorted acoustic and electric guitars (including a Strat he built himself), multiple amps, an old Ibanez he restored, a replica '59 Fender Bassman speaker cabinet he built when he was fourteen (with original Bassman speakers), a variety of harmonicas, a practice bagpipe chanter or two, and a kazoo. 😊
Thirteen, Scout Camp
High School jazz band
Age 15, playing a copy of SRV's "Lenny"
Overhauled Ibanez, Fender Bassman, and 1-tube Epi amp
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Another Jim Borton (Hank of the KRR) tale ....
(And yep ~ 'tis a true story)
The Court-Martial
Late Spring, 1970.
“Hey! Did ya hear? Mister Borton’s back!”
Huh? I looked at the pledge and asked “What’re you talking about? He’s only been gone for a month! How could this be? What happened?”
“Oh! His helicopter got shot down in Viet Nam, and they sent him home!”
Well, that made no sense. Jim Borton – “Mister Borton” to the current crop of pledges as he had been to my own pledge class the previous semester, had done the unthinkable – he had enlisted. Right in the middle of a school semester, no less. As he’d explained to me just prior to his departure, he was already a member of the California Army National Guard, was tired of driving from San Francisco to Reedley one weekend a month for “drill,” and decided to just get it over with. So, he transferred to the Army.
And it was immediately obvious to me that if he indeed had returned, he was BS’ing the pledges. But what the heck – why not? After all, that’s what pledges were for!
So I headed home to the Kappa Phi Delta house. Now a full Brother, I’d moved in at the end of my first semester at San Francisco State College. And if Borton really WAS back, I was downright curious to know how and why. He’d been gone a month; Basic Combat Training was an eight-week course (not counting the so-called “Zero Week”), and I was pretty sure the trainees were not given “go home” leave halfway through. And Jim had been sent off to Fort Polk, Louisiana just about a month earlier. So there was no way in hell ol’ Bort had been shot down in Viet Nam. Nope… some pledges were being BS’d.
I walked into the frat house and I’ll be danged, there he sat! Jim Borton, in the flesh! And of course, not sporting any bandages, splints, or other recuperative aids one might expect after being in a helicopter crash.
He grinned when he saw me, and barked “Grab a beer, man, and siddown! What’s goin’ on?”
I grinned back and shook his hand then accepted the offered libation.
“I’ll tell ya what’s goin’ on, Bort! You’ve got the entire twelfth pledge class all agog about you surviving a horrific Huey crash in the Mekong Delta.
“So, whyn’t you tell me what really happened and howcum you’re back?”
His grin morphed into a toothy Cheshire Cat copy and his eyes narrowed.
“Really? Good!” he said, chasing that with a hearty laugh. “Got ‘em!”
“Yup, you did. So what happened? Are you on some sort of emergency leave? Fer Gawdsake, you didn’t go and get yerself court-martialed, did you?”
With another guffaw and he replied “Nope, not quite – but almost! I really thought I WAS gonna get court-martialed at one point. Heck, I was even told I was gonna be!”
“Good Lord, what the hell did you DO?” I asked, now a bit wide-eyed myownself.
“Wasn’t what I did… it was what I DIDN’T do! Lemme get another beer, and I’ll tell ya all about it.”
And this was his story:
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So I got to Fort Polk. Damn, but that’s a miserable place! Anyway, I got there and yeah, it’s supposed to be a nine-week stay. But that didn’t work out for me.
The first week is called “Zero Week.” Just basic bullshit stuff – haircuts, uniforms issued, mail stuff home, indoctrination crap, and check-ups. So I’d only been there a few days when I got ordered back to the medical facility for a follow-up.
“Private Borton, how the hell did you get into the Army?”
“Well, Doc… I was in the Guard, and decided to go active to get it over and done with!”
“Dammit, Private – don’t you know you got bad knees?”
“Well, they do kinda creak and wobble a bit from time to time… yeah, I guess they’re not perfect, but they get me around.”
“SO!” the doc asked, “did you play football?”
“Uh… yeah, Doc. Junior high, four years of high school, two years of junior college and then varsity at SF State.”
“Well, Private, your football days are over. In fact, your Army days are over! I’m sorry, Son, but your knees are just plumb shot. What sort of work do you have in mind after college?”
“Well, Doc, I was raised on the family farm; I reckon I’ll just go back to raising walnuts and grapes.”
“You might be okay doing that, if you’re going to be driving a tractor mostly.”
“Yessir.”
So the doc said that I’d be sent home, but it’d be a while. Could be a few weeks. Meanwhile, he’d make sure I was given light duty, NO marching or field exercises.
He was true to his word! The next few weeks I mostly just delivered trucks and Jeeps for the motor pool and did K P. Both were good duty; driving around in a Jeep all these dumb recruits would see me coming and snap to attention and salute – I’d just salute ‘em back and zoom on by.
And K P wasn’t bad at all! ‘Specially the garbage can duty! All ya gotta do is hang out back behind the mess hall and empty garbage cans and wash ‘em out. That was real easy. Just hurry up and get it done, then just lounge around and if you hear someone coming start bangin’ them cans with a scrub brush ‘til whoever passed on by.
But that’s where I almost got court-martialed!
I was out in the garbage pit, takin’ it easy, watching trucks full of provisions pull in. Then along comes the corporal and barks “Private Borton! Get over there and unload that truck!”
“Yessir, Corporal! Right away”
“Don’t call me SIR! Now get over there and get that truck emptied!”
So I parked my garbage can scrubbing brush and made my way across to the loading dock. But when I opened up the back of that truck and saw what was inside, I backed right out.
The corporal saw me and walked over.
“Private! Get busy! We need that thing unloaded now!”
I looked back inside, then looked at the corporal, and said “Nope. Sorry, Corporal, but I am not going to unload this truck.”
That corporal looked at me, then said “Private – you WILL unload that truck! That’s an ORDER!”
“Nope. Ain’t gonna do it.”
Well, that corporal looked at me like I’d sprouted an extra head, then said, “Private, are you refusing a direct order?”
“Yessir, I reckon I am.”
“Private, do you know you can get in ALL sorts of trouble for refusing an order? And don’t call me SIR!”
“Yep. I reckon I can. But like I said, I’ll do anything but. I’ll scrub garbage cans until the Second Coming, but I will NOT unload that truck.”
Why, that corporal – he was a skinny li’l dude – kinda looked like he couldn’t decide whether he was gonna have a tantrum or cry. So he stomped off and I just stood there, kinda stumped and dazed.
‘Bout ten minutes later, I’m still standing there when that li’l corporal comes back with the Lieutenant in tow.
“There he is, Ell Tee!” he said, pointing a bony finger at my face. “Right where I left ‘im! And he ain’t TOUCHED the load in that truck!”
Well, that lieutenant gave me a funny look, then took a peek inside, and finally said, “Private, were you given an order to unload this truck?”
“Yessir, Lieutenant, Sir! I sure was!”
The looey looked kinda puzzled, then asked, “Well… are ya gonna unload that truck or not?”
“Nosir, I surely am not,” I said, kinda sorrowful like.
Well, that there lieutenant now looked surely surprised.
“Private, don’t you realize how much trouble you can get into for refusing an order?”
“Yessir. I reckon I do. But like I told the corporal here, I’ll do anything else you want. Scrub garbage cans. Clean the latrines with a toothbrush. But Sir, I am NOT going to unload that truck.”
That lieutenant looked like he’d just been told that Santa Claus was not real.
“Private! Do you know that you can be Court-Martialed for refusing a direct order?”
So all I could do was sigh and tell ‘im I did. But still, I was not gonna unload that truck.
“That does it! Normally, we’d be going to the Company HQ and see the Captain about this, but he’s gone for the day. So, if you don’t get in there and start unloading that truck RIGHT NOW, we’re gonna go the Major at Battalion Headquarters. So, what’s it gonna be?”
I let out a big sigh and said “Let’s go.”
“Fall in, Private!” and off we went.
We got to Battalion HQ, and I had to stand at attention outside the major’s office while the lieutenant and corporal talked to him in his office with the door closed.
After a few minutes, the corporal opened the door and ordered me inside.
I walked up to the dude’s desk, snapped to attention and saluted. We do that in the Army, don’tcha know. So the major returned my salute, then looked me up and down, and eventually just stared at me with a kinda baffled look.
Finally, he said, “Private, I’m told that you have refused a direct order. Is this true?”
“Yessir,” I said.
“So, you were ordered to unload a truck, and you refuse to do so?”
“Yessir.”
“Do you realize you can get into LOTS of trouble for refusing a direct order? Do you know that you could even be court-martialed? Are you sure you want to do this, ‘specially since you’re due to be discharged in a few days?”
“Yessir,” I said, prob’ly sounding as sad as I felt.
The major just looked at me a bit, then turned to the lieutenant.
“Lieutenant, why does this man refuse to obey the order?”
The lieutenant looked surprised, then turned to the corporal. “Corporal, why does this man refuse to obey the order?”
Looking surprised hisownself, the corporal replied, “I dunno, Sir. I never asked him howcum he wouldn’t do what he was told….”
The lieutenant turned to the major and said, “Major, we have no idea WHY the private is refusing the order. Just that he is!”
So then the major, looking exasperated as all get-out, turned to me and asked: “So Private! Just WHY are you refusing the direct order to unload that truck?”
Well, I took a deep breath, then told him:
“Sir, I grew up on a ranch in the California Central Valley. As a farm boy, I worked hard. I worked hard on the family farm, and off the family farm. Across the road from our house was an irrigation ditch. And across that ditch was Harry Buehler’s place. Harry raised peaches.
“From the time I was in junior high school through junior college, I worked summers for ol’ Harry in his packing shed, culling and packing his Corona brand peaches. And I hated it.
“So when the corporal ordered me to unload that truck, I went willingly. But when I opened the tailgate and saw what was in that truck I just lost it.
“Sir, I joined the Army to get as far away as I can from that life and Harry Buehler’s peaches. And now a whole truck load of that man’s Gawd-damned peaches done followed me to Fort Polk, Louisiana! Nossir… I am DONE with Old Man Buehler’s peaches! One more time; I will take permanent latrine duty, permanent K P with garbage can cleaning duty, hell, I’ll even take Leavenworth. But I will NOT touch another cursed Harry Buehler Corona peach as long as I live!”
Well, I’m here to tell ya… that Major got a look of astonishment on his face. His eyebrows were up and his jaw dropped and he just stared at me.
Finally, he closed his mouth. Then he rubbed his face and eyes, then looked at me, and said “Private. Get back to K P. And I’ll see if I can expedite your orders.”
“Yessir!” I said, saluted the major and the lieutenant, did an about-face and went back to my garbage cans. Funny thing, but when I got outside, I coulda swore I heard ‘em laughing. Anyway, the next day my orders were ready and here I am! And I did not get court-martialed!
Now, let’s go get some more beer!
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Sugar Glider.
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12 minutes ago, Subdeacon Joe said:
Is that per case?
Nope.
QuoteEnjoy supporting a Scout when you enjoy your s'mores popcorn purchase. Bring the delicious chocolate, marshmallow, and graham cracker flavors of a traditional s'more home ... without the sticky fingers.
Includes one 7oz bag of s'mores popcorn.
The reality is, you donate thirty bucks and get an appreciative bag o' popcorn. Good cause... good popcorn... but the reality - again - is that Girl Scout Cookies are a better deal. I'm a BSA Scouter... and I buy GS Cookies.
Edit: I'm not allowed to eat 'em... but I still buy 'em and give 'em away. Oh, popcorn too.
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1 hour ago, Pulp, SASS#28319 said:
Gluten free is an economic term for cost more.
kinda like “plant based”. You can buy regular popcorn for X$/bag, or plant based popcorn for XX$/bag.
Must be the stuff the Boy Scouts sell ~ that stuff is EXPENSIVE!
(Girl Scout Cookies are a FAR better deal!)
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1 hour ago, Forty Rod SASS 3935 said:
JFWIW, I have a couple of copyrighted books.
This my official permission to use either of them without being subject to any legal action. Have a ball with them.
Frankly, I can use the publicity!
Legends, by Tom "Forty Rod" Taylor from Author House Publishing and Cavanaugh: The Last Bounty, same author, same publisher.
If anyone wants to buy the rights the starting bid will be $5,000,000.00
I've read those books and enjoyed them. I have my own copies, which AIN'T for sale~!
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10 minutes ago, Marshal Mo Hare, SASS #45984 said:
It goes both ways. The Jan 6 rioters were pardoned including those who assaulted police.
Actually, not a blanket pardon. Fourteen of the "rioters" (the worst of the 'attackers?') had their sentences commuted.
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One of my favorites....
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Where's Gummo...?
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2 hours ago, Injun Ryder, SASS #36201L said:
And... some with Ovaltine!
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10 hours ago, Rye Miles #13621 said:
Congress has to pass it not the feds! Since republicans have control of all 3 branches there’s a good chance this will pass! You if it does the prez will sign it.
Sadly, not likely. The R's have a razor thin majority in the House. That said, you can be sure the D's vote will be 100% in opposition. The R side is rarely that cohesive. Will the majority of R's support it? Prob'ly. In toto? Doubtful.
But I hope I'm incorrect!
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5 hours ago, Sedalia Dave said:
But...!
The plural of "octopus" is actually "octopuses."
"Octopi" is also sometimes (incorrectly) used, but "octopuses" is the preferred and more correct plural. "Octopi" is used because people assume it's formed like Latin loan words, like "fungus/fungi". However, "Octopus" is derived from the ancient Greek oktōpous, a compound form of oktō, 'eight' and pous, 'foot.'
Y'all are quite welcome!
(And I do like that pie!)
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Hunting with Hank
in SASS Wire Saloon
Posted
A Trip North
Another Hank of the KRR tale
Lessee… I think it was 1983 or -4, and I was a Free Agent. After I had spent the better part of the last week of every month on Jury Doody for a year and a half, my superiors at work somewhat wisely decided that they could save a decent chunk of money by merging my department with another. Doing so would allow ‘em to eliminate one department head position. Mine.
Now gainfully unemployed, I was enjoying a life of modified leisure. While unambitiously seeking gainful employment, I enjoyed my time off. With ample savings supplemented by “Unny-Money” and otherwise frugal spending, life was good - even after investing part of my severance pay in a new Univega bicycle and a Ruger Mark II .22 pistol (which would not be available for my possession for a couple of weeks, a time frame deemed by the State of California to be necessary to determine I was not a danger to myself or others). My time was spent fishing, taking road trips, sometimes driving to Reedley to play “farmer” and drive a tractor for Hank, and visiting folks up and down the state.
Anyway, I was home on one Wednesday afternoon, and thought I’d call up ol’ Hank. With a mug o’ coffee in hand and feet propped on the ottoman, I dialed up the lad.
Half a dozen rings, then a disconsolate “Hullo.”
“Hey, Hank! Hey – howcum you sound down?”
“Aw damn, man. I’m bummed.”
“I can tell! Howcum?”
“Well,” sez Hank, “remember how Stanley and I went up to Siskiyou County last year antelope hunting?”
Of course I did – both Hank and Stan Jantzen had entered the State lottery for antelope tags, and had miraculously been drawn. They’d had a terrific time, met some good people, and came home with typically enthralling tales of adventure. And a couple of antelope! I told him that indeed I did remember.
“Well blanket-blank it, Hardpan! Stan and I were invited back up for deer season. We were gonna leave tomorrow. But now Stan can’t go! His dad won’t let ‘im! And I don’t wanna drive all the way to the Oregon border by myownself. Just not as much fun.”
Now, before you begin to imagine Stan as a big kid being grounded by Dad, you have to understand that they were farmers, and harvest was just beginning. Stan could NOT go.
I had a flash of inspiration, and after about four seconds of mentally analyzing my calendar, blurted “Well Hell, man – I’ll go wit’cha!”
“What?” Hank came back. “You will? You can? No ‘bleep?’”
“Yup!” I replied. “Tell ya what – let’s meet up at Lurch’s place in Mo-Town. I’ll leave my car there, and we can head north. But we’ll have to stop in Sacramento at the Department of Fish and Game so I can buy deer tags. It’ll work!”
So the plan was set – we’d meet up in Modesto the next day; head to Sacramento and spend the night, then hit the DFG on Friday morning and jet on up to the ranch managed by Ryan Farnam, one of the folks Hank had met the last year.
I disconnected, and began gathering up my gear and clothes, and packed up the trunk of my li’l “Batmobile Blue” ’74 Fiat Spider roadster, ready for an early morning departure. I’d leave fairly early, stop in Livermore and let my dear Aunt Sharon cook breakfast for her favorite nephew, visit for a while, then hit Lurch’s house early afternoon.
And that’s exactly what happened. About mid-afternoon the next day - after a nice breakfast with Sharon and a pleasant visit with the Lurch family, Hank and I were on our way in Blue Dog – Hank’s baby-blue 1966 Ford pickup truck; I left Lurch the keys to the Fiat in case he had to move it. Our immediate objective was to reach Sacramento and find a cheap motel, spend the night, visit the Department of Fish and Game early then head north to Siskiyou County.
The first part worked. We found cheap lodging, dined regally on Big Macs, and hit the sack early. This let us find ourselves at the DFG’s front door at opening time the next morning. I bought my license and tags, and all was good. Um… up to that point, anyway. From then on the plan sorta went pear-shaped for a while.
You see, making our way north to Siskiyou required accessing highway Interstate 5. This highway begins at the Mexican Border, and continues north until it becomes British Columbia Highway 99. And we needed to follow this route from Sacramento to Macdoel, in Siskiyou County. Which should be simple! Except for one thing: We could not get onto Highway I-5.
We could see I-5. We drove under I-5. We drove over I-5. Multiple times. There it was – but we could not get onto the freeway. Thanks to a not-so-wonderfully typical lack of coordination between the local road department and CalTrans, every on-ramp to the northbound lanes was either closed or inaccessible. Windows down, we rambled along. We went under that freeway. We went over that freeway. We went down roads that should have gotten us there but didn’t.
Eventually, we were stuck at a red light. Second vehicle in line, behind an older, light-colored Plymouth. I was a mite bemused; Hank, on the other hand, was beyond grumpy. Beyond peeved. Like, borderline furious. I glanced at him, and was not surprised to see the steering wheel actually flexing in his hands as he struggled to maintain some shred of composure.
The light changed. But the Plymouth just sat there. After an interminable ten seconds, the driver seemed to finally notice the green and started to move forward. Slowly. Too slowly.
Something started to rumble in Hank’s chest, and the steering wheel actually squeaked a mite under his ham-fisted flexes. Finally, when a suitable gap opened between us and the car in front, Hank kicked the clutch in and his right hand slapped the shift – knocking it directly into second gear. He mashed a boot into the accelerator and that powerful V-8 responded to the demand, and the rear tires spun with puffs of smoke. Blue Dog snarled and leapt forward; Hank guided the beast around the other car. As we passed it, he let loose with a blast of profanity that was not only colorful, it surpassed the known spectrum. And he was LOUD! As we passed, I looked at the other car’s occupants – an early middle-aged “gentleman,” and a woman. I looked at ‘em as we zoomed past in that brilliantly sparkling cloud of blue language; they both looked back, with eyes locked on mine (they couldn’t see Hank); theirs were really wide and their mouths opened into astounded, equally round “O’s” as we roared past. I continued looking back until we were well ahead of them.
After a block and a half, Hank had mellowed to a relatively minor state of vocal grumbling – but he was still really, really pissed. So I looked at him, and said… “Jerry Brown.”
“Well *BLEEP* him too! Bring that sonafabitch out and I’ll tell him EXACTLY what I think about him AND his town!”
“Uh… Hank? You just did.”
Hank continued to glare through the windshield, then finally said, “Hunh?”
“Jim – that dude you just cussed out in that Plymouth? That was Jerry Brown!”
Well, he contemplated for a moment as he drove along. His features softened, then he finally asked, “Really…? That was Jerry Brown in that car?”
“Yup.”
A slight pause, then “Are ya sure?”
“Oh, HELL yeah, I’m sure! And I’ll forever remember that image of the shock on his face when you cussed him out!”
Hank’s expression continued to soften. His eyebrows crawled up on his forehead as he considered the last moment.
As I watched, his tension melted away. At last, he finally leaned back and relaxed. The fury on his face dissolved, replaced by a serendipitous and a gratified look of contentment. His lips twitched as they curled slightly, and he asked, “Really? No *bleep*? I just cussed out Jerry Brown?”
“Yep. You did indeed.”
Well, in a matter of moments the atmosphere in Blue Dog changed from being so tense you could smell ozone to downright mellow. Somehow, it seemed that ol’ Hank just didn’t hold the now former governor in deep regard. Something I knew well.
A couple of blocks later, I pointed out a gas station and suggested we pull in and ask for directions. The now good-humored driver steered the Ford into the fillin’ station. As he slowed to a stop, a fella came waking out of the shop, wiping his hands on a red rag and wearing a wide grin.
“Say, I s’pose you fellas are trying to get on the freeway, ain’tcha?”
“Well, yeah, we are,” said Hank. “How’d you know?”
The attendant chuckled and said “Easy! You’ve driven by four times so far and still ain’t got where yer goin’!”
Hank explained our plight, and added “Ya know, this same thing happened when I was a kid. Driving from Reedley to up North, Dad and I stopped for gas – but we couldn’t get back to the highway! Finally, we stopped at another gas station and the helpful guy there said ‘yeah, construction’s got stuff screwed up. So what ya gotta do is keep going another three blocks, turn right, and in twenty-three miles you can get back on the highway’”
Our helper laughed and said “I remember that mess! Well, this time it’ll be easier. Just go up two blocks, turn left, and in a couple more blocks you’ll find an on-ramp. Need any gas?”
We tanked up and hit the road.
“Let’s get the hell outta this town! We’ll find breakfast up the road a ways!”
Two and a half hours later, we spotted a Denny’s sign near the highway. Redding. Good place to stop! And after breakfast, only about two more hours to Macdoel. So we pulled in, stretched our legs, moseyed inside and found a table. A pleasant waitress a bit older than us almost immediately plopped down menus and coffee mugs, which she filled from a pot she somehow managed to juggle along. “Sweeties, I’m Millie – and I’ll be back to take your order shortly!”
We gratefully returned her smile and dived into those mugs of seriously needed coffee – hot and black. Not quite as strong as we’d like it (strong enough to float a horseshoe), not quite as hot as we’d like it (hot enough to make that horseshoe wilt), and in clean mugs (no crumbs of road apples clinging to that horseshoe for flavor). But it would do – and it actually was good and muchly appreciated.
Eventually, Millie did come back with her order pad at the ready, and plucked a pencil from behind an ear.
“Okay, Boys! What’ll it be?”
I led off. “Millie, I’d like ham and eggs and hash browns, eggs over easy, and do you have rye toast?”
“We do!”
“Oh, cool! And rye toast, then!”
Turning to Hank, “and what’ll it be for you, dearie?”
“Wellll….” Hank started off, still studying his menu. “Well, lessee. I think I’ll start off with eggs and bacon. Hash browns. Biscuits and gravy. Make that three eggs! Aaaand… okay, and can I also have a stack of hotcakes?”
“Nope. No hotcakes for you.”
I glanced up at that.
“Huh?” Hank asked. “Are ya outta hotcakes?”
I suspect that Millie had a husband at home who possibly needed and likely received a goodly bit of “wifely counseling.” Still scribbling on her pad and not looking up, she retorted, “No, we’re not outta pancakes. You do NOT need a stack of pancakes on top of eggs, bacon, hash browns, toast, and biscuits and gravy! Look at you!”
Well, Hank was a bit of a stout lad. And truly, he really did NOT “need” a stack of pancakes on top of the rest the ballast he’d ordered.
But suddenly, Millie seemed to realize that this was a customer, and not her husband. She snapped back to the reality of the moment, and her eyes widened and she gasped.
“OH! Mister! I am SO sorry! I didn’t mean that! Honest! I apologize! Sir, of COURSE you can have pancakes! NO CHARGE! Please forgive me…!”
The instantly astonished “stout lad” looked at Millie. “Ma’am, you’re right. Of course – you’re absolutely right – I dunno what I was thinking! I truly don’t need them hotcakes. Thank you for reminding me!”
Poor Millie was devastated; but after a moment of she and Hank exchanging apologies and weak smiles, she finally went off to order and fetch our breakfast. Sans “hotcakes!”
Boy, was that meal enjoyable! After our morning, it was a relaxing and much-needed break. We finally finished up, cleaned our plates, and headed out. And we left poor Millie a very generous tip.
Two hours later, we rolled in to Macdoel.
To be continued....