The past week had it’s highs, and then there were more highs. We celebrated Xavier’s first birthday. I’ve always thought I would be the a-typical grandfather, not that doting or needing to be physically close. However, when those little arms reach for me, when he lays his head on my chest, and then gently pats my back with a tiny, velvety hand, I’m wilted to a drooling pool of emotion. Erin, my sweet dear cake master, called upon her talents once again and provided the cake, an Elmo creation for her young nephew. A grandchild is a new kind of high. Watching your child interact with his child is a high beyond belief.
Robin’s birthday followed on Monday. What do you buy a woman who needs nothing? A day shopping for flowers and any lawn chotchkies and cheese that she wants. Flowers, plants, hangars, and potting soil were the choices on ‘her’ day. After hours of hands in the dirt, she hung them neatly and ‘high’ from the front deck of the lake house, smartly accenting the place and adding colorful eye-candy that I so yearn for. (forgive my grammar inadequacies. I know ending a sentence with the word “for” is a non-sequitur, but I really don’t give a shit.
Speaking of shit, it’s permeating the olfactory senses. The smell is pungent. I’ve started riding my bicycle again this week. I’m beginning a quest to re-invent the legs of a decade ago. I have a plan to trek an amazing distance for myself and I need to get them ready. More about that later. I’m into getting high on exercise again. But it’s spring, and the Amish are finalizing the process of what I refer to as shitting their fields. Sometimes its pig, oftentimes cow, but mostly the defacacies from horses are the choices to sprinkle the farm fields with fertilizer. You could be a blind, but all you have to do is smell to know its springtime in Lancaster county. As I pedal past acres and acres of farmland, I spot horse drawn manure spreaders, adorned with straw hatted youngsters, being pulled up and down the furrows, kicking the shit out of themselves.
Friday was 420. International pot day. Tokers are scarce in these parts. I had to find another ‘high’. So we commemorated the day with another kind of pot. We worked the cafe on Friday afternoon and evening. I had to provde a “special” offering for the evening. I made a ‘pot’ of Italian wedding soup, a ‘pot’ of New England clam chowder and another ‘pot’ of chili. I “smoked” 100 Baby Backed Ribs. That took most of the day to get them done to perfection. We served them with fries, homemade slaw, and beans for our patrons. Along with the ‘pot’ of soup, it proved a hit although I wasn’t quite pleased with the outcome of the ribs. I had to purchase the meat locally as opposed to procurring it at Sam’s Club. I find Sam’s to be the best and most tender of meats to purchase. Unless I can find a small local meat market with their own in-house butcher, I always opt for Mr. Walton’s place as they still provide the best and most tender of cuts.
Levon Helm passed away this week after succumbing to complications from cancer. Who in the hell is Levon Helm you ask and what does he have to do with me? It’s another one of those 7 degrees of separation. Levon was the drummer and sometimes lead singer of “The Band”. I was introduced to them eons ago while a freshman at the University of Delaware. I was hooked the first time I heard him croon The Weight.