Lunch with Swift

Roaming southern New Hampshire's Monadnock Region and beyond — visiting unique places and tasting the local flavor..

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The Last Lunch at the Moon Dog Cafe. CHESTER, Vt.

We were on our 12th long run at Okemo in Ludlow, Vt.

The conditions were perfect for mid March. The snow was chalky. Every edge set bit into the snow so our skis were like rails. There was a promise of more snow but in our time there, it was just overcast sky. The temp was in the mid 20s and the winds were light. A perfect day for some hard charging cruising. And that was the way we skied.

About one p.m. our legs were screaming and someone mentioned lunch. The words barely wafted into the mountaintop air when David said “the Moon Dog Cafe!” He, being a knowledgeable patron, knew to call two days in advance and plead to the wonderful proprietress to make her legendary chicken pot pie.

It was a Pavlovian response when the lunch suggestion echoed out. Immediately, we raced down Chief, the best run at Okemo on the best snow of the winter to find the best pot pie in Vermont.

We stopped at the bottom by the lodge, lingered a minute to off (s.i.c.) our boots and extra coats and mittens, and loaded up the cars for a quick drive to the MDC.

The Moon Dog is one of those places that you wish was right around the corner. It has a great selection of sandwiches like a roast beef, apple and boursin sandwich on home made hearty bread, lightly toasted with a side of grilled sweet potato and some wild rice. That is one small example. What we were after was the secret special: Pot pie.

We walked up to the counter and didn’t see any mention of it on the menu board. David stepped forward. “Do you have any chicken pot pie?”

The chef said ” as a matter of fact, you called didn’t You? …Yes, I made some this morning … It was selling fast so I saved 4 pieces for you.”

We sighed, and ordered. Then we took our places in a table by a huge glass storefront facing the quaint village of Chester. As we waited, our legs still were burning from the skiing. We looked around to the eclectic arrangements of canned tomatoes, bananas, honey, and knitting. We chatted. And at one point Michael recited as poem he loved about “the work.” We shook our heas and wondered when he would have time to memorize that. But it was naturally appropriate to the moment.

It was not long before the good waitress brought out our plates

They were beautiful pot pies spilling out chicken and peas, caressed by a flakey butter crust. On the side was cranberry sauce baby lettuce and sweet potatoes.

We took a deep breath. We paused. We went silent. We slowly savored every forkfull.

Lisa had a rhubarb soda. We thought about beboparebop rhubarb pie. And wondered how Garrison Kiellor could have gone so astray. Who cares? The sun was pouring into the windows. We were feasting on these incredible pot pies

… And then we got the news.

The Moon Dog is closing here and moving to Bellows Falls. There are a few good things in this. It will soon be reopening with the same crew. And it will be a bit closer.

But, this was our last lunch at the Moon Dog in Chester with burning legs and the promise of more snow coming.



Millen Pond to Sand Pond with several losses along the way… and a fake song.

My friend John B over in Washington is all about the Washington side of the world and my friends in Lempster — Sue L and Jim B  are likewise so to the Asheulot River where the Town line meets Washington.

Hey, wouldn’t it be great to go from Millen Pond in Washington to Silver Mountain in Lempster across the Ashuelot River and then up by Sand Pond?  This little idea is how an epic day starts.  Maybe there is lunch or maybe not.

I have gotten roped into the notion because I am a sucker for enthusiastic people.  So we decided to walk what could one day be a great trail through the deepest part of the woods in what is mostly protected land.  The hike day was planned for an earlier date in the summer.   In this unusually dry year, we woke up that morning to thundershowers and strong winds.  I put out for a later date in September.

Here it is, the later date.  The crew has burgeoned from a few or several to more than a handful.  I think there are eight of us.    We meet at the top of Farnsworth Hill.  John B has delivered us to the starting point with a shiny new four-wheel drive, four seat, electric dump body Gator – a true country Cadillac.   On the way over he has been telling us about those damn kids with their four-wheelers.  I say, “yep. un-huh.”  We arrive in that four wheeler and  others are waiting. We waste no time.  John B wistfully fills us in on the deep and arcane history of Farnsworth Hill.   He knows history of the Millen Family, the Farnsworths, the McNeils and a bunch of other people who lived up in this hill over 70 years ago.  We stand learning of the history.  Then he says, “follow Swift.”  I say,  “I want to warn you,  I figured this path out on the map. and laid it down on the GPS. I haven’t walked it all per se.  I think it might be crunchy.”    Even I don’t know quite what that means, but it sound like a good truth.

Soon we are a group of 8 doing just that, crunching through raspberries and balsam fir headed in the general direction of Sand Pond.    We are walking through a featureless sea of brand new forest.  One of our hikers pipes in.  “A good trail should go by some features.”  I remind him to wait a couple of years and this will emerge from stage of being hopeless brush to being  a nice young forest.  And wait twenty and it will be a real sapling and pole forest.  Forty years  and it will be bigger trees towering overhead.   He will see features soon enough, elsewhere, today.

We proceed down the hill, our eight person mule team, with two dogs, too.  By the way, they are now over their first fight.  One has a bloody face.  I hope that is from a sharp stick and not a switch tooth.  We only stop for a minute dealing with their quarrel,  all of a sudden what surrounds us is not a hopeless brush sea, but a nice open forest with big mossy rocks.  We are nearing the Asheulot River to narrow place I have charted. We can cross, here.   On the way, I pipe up how awesome it is for groups in two separate towns to understand this new connection. Furthermore,  how if it is designed as a walking trail,  walkers will walk on it probably for years to come.  Peter understands this because he is a lead worker on the Monadnock-Sunnapee Greenway.  A connection there, too??  You bet.

Now, we are paused at the crossing of the Asheulot River.   It is a step over because it is dry.  We ponder a burma bridge, a tight wire, stepping stones or a raft bridge.  None are too much to imagine and only a minor detail to make a reality.  What the collective mind believes is easy to achieve.

We cross on rocks and march on. We are hot now. We are entering Lempster.  I sing the imaginary Lempster song and have the Lempsterites wondering how they missed the fact that their town had an ancient community appreciation song.

To the music of “If You Want To Be A Badger” — I sing to everyone as we enter Lempster–

If you want to come to Lempster,

Just come along with me,

By the Light,

By the Light

Of the Bright Shining Moon…


They  wonder aloud, “How did we miss that?”   They didn’t. I made it up.  ‘Cuz I’m a Badger.

We head through the thickest fir East of Brattleboro, West of Newmarket.  There are an easy 30,000 stems per acre.  I am convinced it is absolutely necessary to walk right through the heart of this thicket.   At some point, I realize it is a bit easier to crawl.

When we stand on a sunny rock on the other side of the thicket,  I tell everyone that there is really no Lempster Song.  I just made it up.  Everyone sighs.  Jim sighs, too.  He has lost his pack with his water in it.  Fortunately, I have recorded our path.   I say “lets go swim back through the Balsam and find it.”  He thinks it got ripped off his back.  We re-trace and don’t find it.  But the rest of us are well rested on the sunny rock. Jim and I are dripping from our three passes through the balsam thicket.

We are half way there.  I say that we have done the easy part of the hike.  We are down one pack, a lunch, and a water.  We are now headed up out of the Ashuelot Headwaters Valley on the Lempster side to the mysterious and marvelous Isthmus between the crystal clear Long Pond and Sand Pond.  Somehow, when these two lakes got put here by the hand of the great Whoever,  he/she plunked rocks down in a fabulous way by fore finger and thumb. We are headed for them.

A hiking trail should have good features…  And up we walk the hill.  Now, we are on a ledge “hog back.”   Now, we realize the hogback ends. We peel around to the left of it and all of a sudden, we are walking at the base of an incredible mossy cliff with ferns cascading.  There is that kind of grey leathery lichen with a soot colored backing,  that if you are starving, you can eat. But no one does.

The ledge is like the Vietnam memorial but in the wildest, wild and it diminishes into the hill as we climb.    Further on up, we encounter more giant rock ledges.  I take note of one where the top of a  yellow birch 24 inches at the base and 100 feet tall  is brushing the top of its neighboring cliff.  It, too, shaggy with fern at its lip.

The excitement is starting to give way to exhaustion.  And thirst.   Our fellow hikers are generous with water, but we are down and it is dry.    I do not fear this.  Soon we are on the shores of Sand Pond with little to go.   The clear water is lapping calmly on the shore while a gaggle of surface-running-spinner beetles disturb a meat-platter size area near our feet.  Someone puts their hand down near them and they disperse like black-bean-dervishes intent on being ecstatic. They leave a pimple-ripple wake where they go.

We are ecstatic, too!  Its pushing three in the afternoon and we are almost done with this hike.  I know there are many miles to go before I sleep, sorry Mr. Frost.   Everyone is ready to have some water and lunch.

The next chapter could get interesting.     We can now all imagine this becoming a path.   If it is,  it will still be a challenge even with a cut trail.    And there will be many more stories, like this.     And they may also be crunchy!

But we are not quite done yet,   I look down at the GPS to guide us back. everything is blurry. I touch the glass in my glasses.  It is not there.  Drat, another pair of glasses which are a casualty I can chalk up to an offering to the great Whoever.  I close one eye to look with with the other through the one good lens.  Easypeasy.

We get up to the cars and finish our shuttling back to the point of beginning.

I am too pressed for time to stop anywhere for a good  lunch so its the home refrigerator for a cold pizza and some water a shortstop on the way to the seacoast.

Wait, what… the Seacoast?  That story will have to wait for another time.










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Lunch with Coyotes

It’s not our  lunchtime.  It’s not at a convenience store.  It’s not even with me.  But it’s lunch – a night time lunch.

Last night the Coyotes sang like I have never heard them before.  There were so many voices. And there was such immediacy. That you couldn’t miss that something big was going on in the woods.

Whenever I hear animals out back, all I can think of is the cat getting eaten.

But, here is what may have been happening instead.  Imagine if the cat has got an ongoing  thing  with the Coyotes.   Maybe he is an honorary member of the pack?

About 9 O’clock as we were settling in to juggling on America’s Got Talent,  we let him out and he was making his way to the wild wood to meet up with his friends.   
All of that noise?  The Coyotes  were just especially glad to see him.   He was joining the hunting party and the Coyotes on this side of the valley were letting the guys on the other side that game was on with Mr Cat.   Together, they would find lunch tonight!

That is what I would like to think.

As morning came today, Mr.Cat was eager to come in and say hello to us.   He made it through another night.   It just makes me think if he isn’t getting beaten (eaten,) he must be joining ’em in their night lunching.

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New Mr. Mikes 03458

Sometimes the anticipation is great and sometimes you realize it just needs to be moderated. Such is with the new gas station they have built in Peterborough.   I know I will be a frequent customer.  But I have to wait.  The shelves are stocked with slim Jim’s and Pringle’s  chips.  There is coke and beer in the fridge and the compressors are running.  But there are barricades in front of the driveway.   There is no business.  Birds are nesting under the new gas pump canopy.  The pumps are glowing red.  The new landscaping is looking like it needs tending but it is getting none.

So I wait and hope.  The potato chips will have to hang on the rack until the convenience store folks work out their traffic calming issues with the State of NH.  

But you can bet there will be no decline in their quality by the time the doors swing open.  Be that in a week or several months.   Chips and gas just keep like that- even while business people claw and grovel.  It is a great exercise in delayed gratification all.


Vernondale Store, Sutton, NH

Hello again, my few, faithful, readers.   It has been a while.  Fingers have been a little shy, maybe.  Also, since this is a blog about great lunch places, I wouldn’t want you to think I am always eating lunch in amazing places.  First, how special would that be?  Second, I would fear your judgement and scorn to think how much of my hard-earned money gets wasted on frivolous visits at cute lunch places.  And third, how much time I waste doing this?

I can say all of these things are true, but there is one more.  With no particular need to write this, it only comes out when I really feel like it.  So my friends, there is no guilt here. And I feel like writing.

So here I am in the afterglow of a nice afternoon spent with my best friend, Beth.  It came to pass this way,  I have been telling her for weeks about an area of the state I have been working in that I did not know much about.  I have had the good fortune to be working on a project in which I have been doing a wildlife and recreation treatment on a large property just to the east of Lake Sunapee and to the west of Sutton Village and south of New London. What is amazing about this land and what we didn’t know when we started is that from it, you can see almost the whole state from the Seacoast to Mount Washington in one direction and much of it from the other.  It is in that perfect spot.    The land has had a tug on me ever since my  first day exploring, when I witnessed two moose stampeding by me last fall.    This summer, we have been doing work to reveal these vistas cutting through formerly hi-graded forest.    So, in our rare free time together,  Beth and I, went up to have a walk.  We arrived at the log landing at the far west end of the land and she said, now you are going to have to narrate.  So I explained that when we first started working on the land there was no good way in.  We then walked easterly up the new skid road up into an opening.  I said don’t turn around as we headed up the hill.  At the top, we got to the edge of a stand of white pine and I said now turn around.   And she looked west.  From our vantage point we could see over what will be future hayfield to Mount Sunapee  Ski Area, most of Lake Sunnapee across to Vermont and Mount Snow, Mount Ascutney.  Then we could see all the way up northwesterly  to the white sides of Mount Cardigan.


this is 1/4 of the vista

Sailboats big and white peeled over the water of Sunapee below us.    We could count at least three lighthouses marking the shoals.   I said “that’s cool, but let’s go see more.”

We continued to head west on a skid road for about a mile going up sharply and then for quite a while walking on a gentle path meandering along the shoulder of a hill.

In about 20 minutes of walking, the sun broke through the forest canopy and we could see the opening ahead.    This seems like mountainous land but when we got to this eastview clearing, we gazed over an expanse of land flat and gently rolling.    It has been high pasture and hayfield in the past for NH farmers.   Unfortunately, the old folks lived on a road named Poor Farm Road.  Still, the soil is suitable for great field.   But, then off in the distance the land rose up.

From here she said “wow!”   We looked to the north and could see Mount Washington tiny and a bit hazy on this summer afternoon.  Also, in the distance and a little to the south and east were some peaks off in Maine — Sunday River Mountain.  Closer, we looked to Kezar Lake over which canoes were leaving razor-thin sunlit wakes.  We could see the village of Sutton with it’s looming  Mount Kearsarge.  Then across to the southeast we looked over the tiny city of Manchester and could see all the way to the NH Seacoast.  I thought of theat poem that Frost wrote about  NH that it has a little sample of everything.

Skip over this poem as you wish, but it is Frost saying that what we have here in NH may not be the best but we have what we need.   Though he didn’t know my friend Jamie Trowbridge, (who gave me the idea to write this blog)   Frost would agree with him when he says, New Hampshire is “Perfectly Good.”



Permission to Scroll Ahead (or not)       [And it is still abridged]
I met a poet from another state,
A zealot full of fluid inspiration,
Who in the name of fluid inspiration,
But in the best style of bad salesmanship,
Angrily tried to make me write a protest
(In verse I think) against the Volstead Act.
He didn’t even offer me a drink
Until I asked for one to steady him.
This is called having an idea to sell.

It never could have happened in New Hampshire.

The only person really soiled with trade
I ever stumbled on in old New Hampshire
Was someone who had just come back ashamed
From selling things in California.

Just specimens is all New Hampshire has,
One each of everything as in a showcase,
Which naturally she doesn’t care to sell.

She had one President. (Pronounce him Purse,
And make the most of it for better or worse.
He’s your one chance to score against the state.)
She had one Daniel Webster. He was all
The Daniel Webster ever was or shall be.
She had the Dartmouth’ needed to produce him.

I call her old. She has one family
Whose claim is good to being settled here
Before the era of colonization,

As for what they were up to more than fishing—
Suppose they weren’t behaving Puritanly,
The hour bad not yet struck for being good,
Mankind had not yet gone on the Sabbatical.
It became an explorer of the deep
Not to explore too deep in others’ business.

She has a touch of gold. New Hampshire gold—
You may have heard of it. I had a farm
Offered me not long since up Berlin way
With a mine on it that was worked for gold;
But not gold in commercial quantities,
Just enough gold to make the engagement rings
And marriage rings of those who owned the farm.
What gold more innocent could one have asked for?
One of my children ranging after rocks
Lately brought home from Andover or Canaan
A specimen of beryl with a trace
Of radium. I know with radium
The trace would have to be the merest trace
To be below the threshold of commercial;
But trust New Hampshire not to have enough
Of radium or anything to sell.

A specimen of everything, I said.
She has one witch—old style. She lives in Colebrook.
(The only other witch I ever met
Was lately at a cut-glass dinner in Boston.
There were four candles and four people present.
The witch was young, and beautiful (new style),
And open-minded. She was free to question
Her gift for reading letters locked in boxes.
Why was it so much greater when the boxes
Were metal than it was when they were wooden?
It made the world seem so mysterious.

One each of everything as in a showcase.

More than enough land for a specimen
You’ll say she has, but there there enters in
Something else to protect her from herself.
There quality makes up for quantity.
Not even New Hampshire farms are much for sale.
The farm I made my home on in the mountains
1 had to take by force rather than buy.

Apples? New Hampshire has them, but unsprayed,
With no suspicion in stern end or blossom end
Of vitriol or arsenate of lead,
And so not good for anything but cider.
Her unpruned grapes are flung like lariats
Far up the birches out of reach of man.

A state producing precious metals, stones,
And—writing; none of these except perhaps
The precious literature in quantity
Or quality to worry the producer
About disposing of it. Do you know,
Considering the market, there are more
Poems produced than any other thing?
No wonder poets sometimes have to seem

If I must choose which I would elevate —
The people or the already lofty mountains
I’d elevate the already lofty mountains
The only fault I find with old New Hampshire
Is that her mountains aren’t quite high enough.
I was not always so; I’ve come to be so.
How, to my sorrow, how have I attained
A height from which to look down critical
On mountains? What has given me assurance
To say what height becomes New Hampshire mountains,
Or any mountains? Can it be some strength
I feel, as of an earthquake in my back,
To heave them higher to the morning star?
Can it be foreign travel in the Alps?
Or having seen and credited a moment
The solid molding of vast peaks of cloud

Our actual mountains given in a map
Of early times as twice the height they are—
Ten thousand feet instead of only five—
Which shows how sad an accident may be.
Five thousand is no longer high enough.
Whereas I never had a good idea
About improving people in the world,
Here I am overfertile in suggestion,
And cannot rest from planning day or night
How high I’d thrust the peaks in summer snow
To tap the upper sky and draw a flow
Of frosty night air on the vale below
Down from the stars to freeze the dew as starry.

For all her mountains fall a little short,
Her people not quite short enough for Art,
She’s still New Hampshire; a most restful state.

{editor-BUT, THEN HE SAYS:}

Well, if I have to choose one or the other,
I choose to be a plain New Hampshire farmer
With an income in cash of, say, a thousand
(From, say, a publisher in New York City).
It’s restful to arrive at a decision,
And restful just to think about New Hampshire.
At present I am living in Vermont.

-Robert Frost shortened by Swift -just because-


Oh well,  the point is from this place you can see most of it and it is not  like Colorado or the Alps but it is huge, anyway.

So we turned around and headed back to the car.  And, I had another idea.  We have lived here for 35 years and have gotten used to swimming in our favorite local ponds.    The day before, I met a new pond.    It was just up the road from the land where we were walking back to the car.  I said “hey, let me show you Pleasant Lake.  She said fine so we toodled down the road to Elkins Village by the Pleasant Lake dam and once again looked out at these great low hills south and west of New London.     We parked next to an artfully painted vacation wagon with scenes of deer, churches fishing boats, and hills.  Hanging from it was ornamentation in the lobstering motif.  We slid in tight between this truck and a van and opened the front and back doors, made a makeshift beach cabana,  and put our swimming suits on in the  public park.   From there, we wasted no time to get into the golden clear water.    Pleasant Lake is lined just off the dam with interesting boulders. We played for a while marveling at out find. Holding our breaths diving deep following fish.

Shen she said good, I said good.  Let’s have some dinner so we headed over to the Flying Goose Brew Pub for a very good hamburger and a coffee colored hoppy beer with so much body you would need to dress it up in Carharts for it to be fully dressed.

Even though dinner was nice, we were not quite done.   I said I have one more place I have to show you.  So we rumbled south from the Flying Goose toward Sutton and Kezar Lake.    We were pretty tired by now so we didn’t swim but we could have.  It met our criteria of cool, clear water and it was golden too, like Pleasant Lake.    So we drove around it and watched a tiny sailboat catch the last breaths of the evening.  We wondered if they would ever get home.

Last stop on our journey before going home was the Vernondale Store.  Everything that has preceded this article ha s been a lead-up to guiding you folks this place.     If you have the chance, go!   It is right up route 114.    There are cute stores and then there stores like this.  This place has been meticulously rehabilitated and the owner is behind the marbled counter soda fountain.     I commented on what a great job someone did fixing the place up.  He said wait a minute and he came back with some pictures of the place before they did the work.  Some of the pictures featured the bathroom.  Lets just say “gross.”    The former merchandise shelves were uninteresting peg board affairs  and the stuff was a mishmash of crummy looking junk.     Now, the walls are a white pine beadboard varnished clear showing a honey color.  And the stuff throughout is artfully arranged.

He resumed to make us our deserts.  I had a Russell Pond Sunday.  Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough, chocolate sauce, whip cream.  Beth and I headed out on the front porch and ate our sundaes on the wooden chairs.     The guy or gal in the sailboat was floating on the lake but getting no closer to the dock.  The sun was setting.     The Vernondale was closing any minute.  In the nick of time a perfectly unrestored Model A Ford pulled up with three older women who were the real life gals Katherine  Hepburn was trying to be in On Golden Pond.   But these ladies were all smiles and their salt and pepper hair was wildly tousled.  We said you will make it and they disappeared to get their ice cream.



Beth and I finished our sundaes and she drove home.    I, like a bore, slept.

Maybe I dreamed of coming back and having lunch at the Vernondale and heading off for a swim by the Follensbee Inn on the shore of Kezar lake on yet another perfect summer Saturday afternoon.










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Not the beach day I was looking for, I will tell you that right now.  And to say it’s a “lunch with Swift” is a stretch,  but come along with me into the dark depths of a dream.

The dream starts out on a sandy beach near a rundown resort.    It is all mundane.  It could be a seaside anywhere.  Stumbling along in no hurry, I see a seagull looking injured.  It does a kind of dance, like it is trying to communicate with me.   It leads me to a concrete culvert.  There is litter and some indistinct  graffiti.  In the darkness, I see what he is trying to tell me about.  There are two other gulls stapled to the concrete wall.   their wings are outspread, one is in anguish.    Then, I hear is say, “help!”

I run to look for wire clippers.  I think of electrical wire clippers but settle on something a bit more stout with a blunt nose.   I think about how the staples can be cut without damaging the birds.   And I run back to the culvert.

Carefully, I crawl into the culvert and clip the bird from the wall.  The staple is not wire, but some sort of reed.  I see the other bird is dead.   The bird that is free is covered with mites and maggots.    But it hops out into the sun, weakly and its feathers take on a dark iridescence.    Perhaps it will live.     It says: “Thank you, Thank you!!”

I wonder who could have done this horrible thing.  This poor bird is barely alive.  It needs some food.    I ask it (here it comes:) what it would like to have for lunch?   “Would it like some seeds? The injured gull says “only if it is organic.”   “You know how processed all of those cereals you humans eat.”  I search town and get a bag of organic seeds.   I deliver the seed.  “Thank you, Thank you.”

Then I wake up.  Yikes, I have still have work to do.   There is the other gull that is on the wall.   Now, I wonder if it might be not dead but or just weakly sleeping.     Trouble is,  I am awake now and out of the dream and there is nothing I can do about it.

Will someone go to sleep to help me see if the other gull is actually dead or just very weak?  And if it is alive, please cut it loose and give it some of those good organic seeds.

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White bread and blood.

Sometimes patience is the only way to go.   And when you rush there are consequences.

So it was on Wednesday.  I stopped in for a sandwich at a market somewhere west of Concord and east of Keene.   For once, I was running early and my body was crying out for liverwurst.  To some a gross meat, I know.   To me, it’s one of the great delicetessen offerings.

I strode to the uncrowded counter and pulled out one of those order slips where you circle the bread, meat, vegetables, cheese, and condiments that you wish to claim as your individual permutation of the sandwich universe.

I noticed despite the lack of any visible customers, the lady brhind the counter was a bit harried.  She made one sandwich and then another, and another .  Each one took considerable amount time to construct.  She trembeled as she rushed.  She held up her index finder and indicated nervously,  one more…”then yours, hon.”   I had been patiently standing and waiting for a while now and my earlyness was slipping away.

She darted about and opened the cold chest.  She pulled out a big hunk of roast beef.  She went over to the big gleaming stainless steel circular slicer.  And immediately, she cut her finger.  I heard her quietly exclaim, “damn it, stupid.” 

Couldn’t help it, I thought about my liverwurst.  Yes, I felt bad for her, but was there going to be an extra bloody ingredient that I hadn’t ordered. 

I gave up and walked up to the counter and grabbed my sandwich permutation ticket — deciding that my want for liverworst was less than my taste for blood.   Plus,  she if she was rushed before with two hands, she certainly would be going even a good bit slower with one-ish hand.    Even so, she appeared to be undaunted and kept working away even while holding one hand wrapped in her apron.

Just as I was turning away from the counter, a young woman appeared to be coming to help take up the slack.  She said who’s next?  Yeah! I was back in business!

The other woman quietly exited stage right muttering under her breath “stupid, stupid, stupid.”

The new woman, with my order in hand, her not bloody hand,  sliced the liverwurst: great one and a half inch slices.  This doesn’t sound like much.

Dear reader, please do this for me.  Take your right hand and extend your index finger and middle finger together.  Thank you. 

This is how thick the slices of liverworst were.  I immediately thought,  “Yow! Too much of a good thing.”

I said, “miss, could you make those a bit thinner, like by, one third.” 

She said “Oh my, yes.   I don’t know what I was thinking,  I was rattled by the sight of blood.”

And she finished making the sandwich calmly and wrapped it up and handed it to me.  $2.50.

What a deal for all that drama.   And a great one it was.

Lets all take a moment snd think good thoughts for the ones who rush.  And especiallyo
Pp the one who cut herself.  I hope she is ok.