Sandhill, circa June, 2008

Yes, Obama opted out of public funding for his campaign, a flip-flop that is not a flop, as he would have been crazy to have done otherwise. Yes, it is still flooding in the Midwest Yes, according to the latest Newsweek poll, Obama leads McCain by 15%. And yes, Bush waved at some guys who did not wave back. The sixth foot was a fraud, someone’s idea of a prank. Very funny. Yes, Hillary and Barack are going to campaign together next week somewhere. They are financially bound to each other. Still commenting on Saint Tim. So much for news.

I think I have now received the penultimate label. I wrote previously how it is that as you age you pass from Mr. to Sir, to Granpa, and even to Pops. Now I have made it to “cute.” You may know that I hate cute in any form. However, last night I was invited by my wife’s boss to have a free dinner in his restaurant. I think he was trying to bribe me to not become an agitator for more money for my wife, who is grossly underpaid. No, not really. He’s a nice guy who thinks about my being alone while they work nights. Anyway, it was reported to me later that the waitresses said I was cute. Now, if you have ever seen me, or even if you haven’t, I must tell you there is absolutely no way I could be described as cute – except -- in the context of something like “he’s a cute little old gray-haired man.” So where do you go after being so described? Of course I would rather be a cute little gray-haired old man than the next alternative.

Others remarked on how incredibly old I am compared to my wife. It is true, I am much older than she is. Some might think she is a “trophy” wife. She is decidedly not a trophy wife. Indeed, I think of her as a divine gift given to me directly by the Great Mystery, whoever he/she/it is. At the moment she works as a sous chef in a new restaurant here in our little town. Her primary chefly duty is making desserts. And does she ever! She also at times teaches Anthropology, Sociology, English and Linguistics. She is multi-talented and can even fix things around the house. In other words, she is as priceless as I am useless. All cute little gray-haired old men need such a wife. One minor flaw has to do with her communicative skills, like this morning, for example. She was experimenting with a couple of new cakes she had never made before. The smells were heavenly. I asked her, “when will you be ready to go get the pork belly?” She said, “I have to make these cakes.” I said, “that doesn’t answer the question.” She replied, “they have to go in the oven.” I said, “that still doesn’t answer the question.” “I have to take a shower,” she said. “But when are we going to get the pork belly?” She insisted, “I have to wash my hair.” “Fine,” I said, are we going before lunch or after?” “I have to go to the store,” she said, “I don’t have any sweet marsala.” “I know we have marsala,” I: insisted. “We only have dry marsala,” she reported, “I need sweet marsala.” “I doubt if anyone here ever even heard of sweet marsala.” I always speak with authority on subjects I know virtually nothing about.” “I’ll call Safeway,” she said. “They have Paul Masson marsala that says it has a sweet nutty flavor.” “Does it have the subtle aroma of the forest floor? “ I inquired “ Descriptions of wines are often absurd. Then she called the Liquor Store. “They have sweet marsala,” she reported, “but it’s Columbo.” “When are we going to get the pork belly?” I returned stubbornly to the original question. “Will you go to Safeway and get the Paul Masson? She asked. “Why get the Paul Masson when the Liquor Store has sweet marsala, that doesn’t make sense.” "I have to put the frosting on this cake,” she announced. “Everyone is going to love it.” Please understand this is an abridged version of the actual conversation. Recognizing defeat when it has defeated me, I dutifully went to the Liquor Store and bought the marsala. The cake was delicious even though I usually only eat chocolate cakes. What, you may wonder, does all of this have to do with pork bellies?
Having decided to make my own bacon we had ordered a pork belly from a local supplier and it had been promised for today. Like most anything here, if you want it you usually have to drive twenty miles or more to get it. We managed to get it and return before she had to go to work. I made a rub and started the bacon. Such is life here at Sandhill in the year of our lord, 2008.

Followers of this blog (there are a few) know that Sandpile is a more accurate description of where we live than Sandhill. But Sandpile, you will agree, lacks dignity. I want to pretend I live somewhere on an “estate,” like Kissinghurst, Yasna Polanya, Fairhaven, Sandhurst, or someplace like that. Humor me, cute little old gray-haired men need love, too. As the weather has been fine for three days now it appears that things might actually begin to grow. Of course by now it will be touch and go to see if anything matures before the first frost. Sigh.

LKBIQ:
“I don’t even butter my bread. I consider that cooking.”
Katherine Cebrian