"So there's more to this than just the bacon."

I finally started work around one in the afternoon. I first drove up to the little shopping area that once made up the Paradise neighborhood of this town. It is still hanging on, but much changed. The store that was—since the nineteen-forties—a general grocery and beer and wine shop, is now a full-blown liquor store. I’ve been in there, and their selection is impressive. If I drank, I would go to that place; I think you can find just about anything related to booze there.

I was in the mood for a hamburger, didn’t want to prepare anything myself, so I headed up to the little lunch counter where they had a special advertised. A bacon cheeseburger and order of fries and drink would cost about six bucks. I brought the combination of lunch and breakfast home and read the paper while I ate the fries and cheeseburger. The whole thing was exceptionally good—especially the burger. I was wondering what made it so good, with each bite revealing more crunchy goodness. Must be the bacon, I thought. But the roll was good, too—a nice, puffy Kaiser roll, with seeds.
“So there’s more to this than just the bacon,” I mused.

With lunch accomplished, I walked over to the other place and cut a couple of corner braces, then installed them. I took one plank and attached it to the new section of flooring, then pretty much stopped for the day. All of this took me about an hour-and-a half. I got stymied with a board that needed a special cut to clear one of the porch supports. Normally not very good with this kind of thing, this step had me baffled. There was the potential for mangling a good deal of valuable lumber by proceeding without a clear plan, so I let it be. I went inside to look again at the bathroom. There were a few boards against the far wall that I’d not removed yet, so I put a piece of wood down as a temporary work platform, and pried the worn and splintered material away. I was better with this kind of work.

Later my helper, Big J.O. came over and took a look at the work that had stopped me in my tracks. He took some measurements and got the wood cut properly. The fit was precise. I’d not yet put my tools away, so this whole endeavor did not take much time. Later we sat at the dining room table and ate some of the chocolate-chip cookies I’d just baked—the cookie dough being left over from an exceptionally large batch I’d whipped up for the holidays. Also there was pudding—with whipped cream. I felt that—after five days of antibiotics—my restrictions regarding dairy products should be lifted. I decided to get back to it with a vengeance. I think it was actually six days. Maybe five.

At around eight o’clock I drove up to the library to return a workout book I’d never read and for which I now owed a fine. This book was written by a Navy Seal, one of those ultra-special mission people who have to be in absolutely top physical form. They do things like running forever through the surf and sand dunes, while the stragglers collapse and are required to do even more rigorous work to make up for their feebleness. I got the book home, set it on something in the hallway, then covered it so that I needn’t look at it again. This was as far as I got in my plans to get in shape—Navy Seal style. I couldn’t bear to return the paperback to someone personally, knew that they would just spontaneously burst out laughing when they saw the material I’d checked out. So I sneaked in the library just before closing, nonchalantly walked to the deserted counter, and casually slipped my Navy Seal book into the slot. I had on a Thomas Jefferson wig, dark glasses, and a trenchcoat like the kind you might see in a film noir. Atop my head was a small hat after the fashion of Laurel and Hardy. If anyone recognized me, it’s only because they’ve seen me in this getup before.

I felt that soon there should be a lot of chile in my life. I wanted it to be good, with big pieces of beef, so I went to the cookbook section, plucked a few tomes off the shelves, and flipped through the pages of a likely candidate. This one specialized in Tex-Mex cooking, had lots of recipes with a lot of ingredients—some of them pretty disgusting. As much as I enjoy bacon, I couldn’t really see myself sautéing most of the ingredients in the leftover bacon grease one recipe called for. I moved on. A recipe that Ladybird Johnson was supposed to have given out required very few ingredients, and most importantly called for the big beef I like. A chuck roast, to be exact. Why she was handing out recipes for chile is something I’m not too clear about, but she was the first lady, and could do pretty much whatever she wanted. I do know that her highway beautification project resulted in a good many wildflowers planted along the big interstates. I enjoy them every time I drive by. I think this recipe calls for about five ingredients, and the typical kidney beans that are present in so many popular recipes are absent. I bought a can of them anyway, just to see what happens. I also went to the store and bought a chuck roast and some other things, thinking that tomorrow I would assemble the meal and possibly use the slow cooker—even though it’s not called for. I like to justify having the slow cooker around. It DID cost the better part of twenty bucks, after all.

For dinner I had two baked potatoes and some corn on the cob. The corn was obviously not in season, but was surprisingly good nonetheless. As I sat at the dinner table, reading through the free classfied ads that had come in a little publication with the Thursday mail, I thought—apropos of nothing—about a visit I’d had at the farm market some time ago. A young woman had approached my bread stand, pencil and paper in hand, and maybe a recorder as well. She was a student reporter from the local college—a place that had once been an all-female institution. Could she ask me some questions? Sure—flattered at the attention, I made some time for her. She was bubbling over with enthusiasm, was simply astonished at the offerings there before her, never knew that such a thing existed in Baltimore—just a stone’s throw from the college itself. She had to know everything—simply EVERYTHING—about this wonderful place and how it came to be. Responding to her genuine interest, I answered her questions, elaborated a little, told her the history of the place. Her thanks were endless: Thank you thank you thank you—oh god thank you so much.
“You’re welcome. Call again,” I said.
She gave me a handwritten slip of paper with her name and the web site where I could view the finished article.
“It will be in the next issue—be sure to read it!” she said.
“Okay,” I replied, becoming—almost for a brief instant—as enthused as this young person in front of me.

About a week later I unfolded the slip of paper on my desk, crumpled with a few dollar bills and receipts. I logged onto the computer. I had to read through the article twice, was about to start on it a third time. There it was—the reference to the farmer’s market. It seems that, while buying a few things at the local Dollar Store, the cashier there told the young reporter about—and I quote—“…a cheap farmer’s market nearby.” That was the extent of the reporting on the market: Five words. And it didn’t sound like much of an endorsement, either. At least the young woman had bought a few things from me. There’s always that.