Indigestion in a jar
All summer long we had almost no tomatoes on the vines in the garden, but finally in September, they decided to set fruit. That is why I was dressed up in a heavy coat, hoodie, and gloves picking tomatoes and peppers in November just prior to the first hard freeze. The tomatoes finished ripening in the house and I canned Gramps and myself some indigestion in a jar. Assuming all the jalapeño peppers were as mild as some I put in the chili last week was a serious mistake. The concoction above–heavy with unseeded peppers–will light your fire and almost make smoke come out your nose. I fear for our aging–and probably paper-thin–digestive tracts, but we’re thankful to finally have enough tomatoes and peppers to help us live dangerously.
Speaking of indigestion
Those of you who live in urban areas might be used to a burger joint or restaurant on every street corner, but out here in the sticks, not so much. One night last week, Gramps and I got caught needing supper in a town twelve miles away where the streets roll up at 8:00. Below were our choices at 7:45 pm:
- Hurry into the good, independently owned hamburger joint as they are closing the doors, order from the cheesed-off girl at the counter, and then eat our food in the car as we drive home–very unsafe at our age.
- Hurry into the gas station/Subway and order sandwiches from the cheesed-off girl who is trying to roll up the Subway counter.
- (We scratched the drive-up off our list of places we can eat except in dire emergency.)
- Or, meander into the Pizza Hovel, which we promise ourselves every time we will never EVER do again. However, we are too tired by 7:45 to hurry, so we choose meandering.
We sit at a sticky table and order from a sticky menu, but are still cautiously optimistic–the mouse traps have disappeared from the floor around the salad bar and no rodents are taking advantage of all that free food down there. (Sort of like the rat Templeton of Charlotte’s Web did at the county fair.)
The salad bar has a few problems–moldy tomatoes, pasta and bean salads that have possibly never been touched by suspicious diners since the 1980’s, and the plastic tray over the ice is broken. The lettuce bowl keeps trying to slink apologetically away beneath the crumbling lip of the tray, but a vigilant, no-nonsense, Pizza Hovel girl comes and nabs it, hauling it back before it can escape the reach of our salad tongs. Gramps and the young cowboy circling the salad bar looking for meat and dairy products snicker and make wise-cracks to the young lady, but she ignores them, which I think is best. (She is taller and beefier than either one of them and has some tattoos.)
While we eat, we visit with one of our long-time neighbors–a former firefighter and all around nice guy–and his large family at the next table. They finish before we do and when Gramps heads for the cash register, he finds the neighbors have already paid our bill.
Thankful For The Pizza Hovel
Our visit to the Pizza Hovel made us thankful for several things.
- We’re thankful Gramps has still got his
nitwit goin’ on after all these years.
- We’re thankful our digestive tracts are still healthy enough to tolerate some abuse.
- We’re thankful we had a place to eat that night which would have been the envy of many in the world who are forced to dig around in garbage dumps like Templeton the rat, just trying to survive.
- And we’re really, really thankful we live in a place where we know our neighbors for miles around and they’re good folks. (Thank you so much, Paul and Dana, for your kindness. We appreciate it very much indeed, especially considering all those mouths y’all need to feed at your house.)
So, until next time, God bless all y’all and enjoy David Wesley doing a beautiful job on Wonderful Merciful Savior.
*This artist doesn’t necessarily endorse my blog, I just like him.