Bless me or curse me. It’s been [five], no, six days since my last post.
No particular reason. Getting started was the hardest thing.
Here’s what I had to work with–miscellaneous titles, with nothing following. Wasn’t “jambs,” as in door jambs, a strange word? It rhymed with lambs. “Silence of the Jambs?” No, that was too weird.
Gravel Gertie
Kick Out the Jambs
Long Shadows
When the mental fog dissipated, how could I have forgotten an event over the holidays? As some of you may know, I crave omelets for breakfast. To the extent, that I taught myself how to make them. The highest praise came from my wife. “Your omelets were better than mine.”
That was before reality “hit the fan.” Per Dr. “Killjoy” “Your cholesterol is way too high. Don’t eat eggs every day. How about some cereal and fresh fruit?” I gave in, at the doctor’s and my wife’s insistence. Egg consumption, only on Sunday mornings. Vacations are an exception.
Recently my joy was eroded. How could the server have misinterpreted my omelet order? A traditional Western omelet consisted of ham, tomatoes, onions, Monterey Jack cheese, and green peppers.
After a difficult nine hour drive the day before, and arriving late, it was going to be great. Everyone in our party of nine chatted incessantly at the table. My omelet came out last.
Three pancakes on a separate plate came first–as expected. Then, the shocker–the omelet was covered with chopped broccoli. Chopped broccoli? Where had that idea come from? Yikes! There was even more broccoli inside.
It was too late for do-overs. Everyone else was almost finished, and I didn’t want to delay, what would be a short visit, before heading home on the last leg of our journey.
“That was a first.” I complained to our waiter. He seemed puzzled. “I’ve never seen a broccoli omelet before.” “I can have them make you another one,” He offered. “No, it’s too late,” I replied. I liked broccoli, just not in omelets.
itinerantneerdowell 