I had to get some lab work done this morning, nothing special, just the usual "check the oil" thing. But one must, alas, fast prior to a lipids profile, so 'long about 1100, Yours Truly was feelin' a hankerin'.
Tam had not yet been to Taste (their website does not do the place justice -- read a few of the menus and weep for joy!), so I dragged her away from the keyboard, kicking and screaming ("Food? New place? Good? I'm there.") and off we went. Taste has been around a good many years, has a devoted customer base and has never failed to exceed my expectations -- just your little hole-in-the-wall gourmet breakfast and lunch place, suitable to Valhalla.
Vast cups of java -- free refills, a half-dozen varieties -- and a moderately long wait later (we brought books) , our omlettes arrived, puffed high and filled with Swiss cheese, sun-dried tomatoes, fresh basil, eggplant, mushrooms and bacon; on the side, perfectly seasoned small russet potatoes, cubed and fried, plus a couple strips of applewood-smoked bacon. Now that's how you break a fast! (And the fact that I eat oatmeal for brekky six days a week is why I don't blink at such indulgences, even in the face of laboratory analysis).
While we were sitting on the terrace, munchin' and readin' and playin' keepaway with the Vietnamese rooster sauce, another diner pulled up on a nice old BMW "Airhead" motorcycle. Not some resto' job, either, a well-loved bike in good workin' order, makin' the nice purry-rumbly sounds. Life's good!
Habig Garden Supply (home of the giant trowel) is right across College and had some interesting-looking plants. The store cat is another generation since my last visit but remains small, friendly and tri-colored. We picked up a gardener's claw,* a trowel and some plants and bulbs -- Scotch Moss and garlic, among others. (Count on it: Tam, given a chance to garden, will grow garlic. Can hot peppers be far behind?)
Well fed, supplied with green-thumbage, we decided to hit the market (Tam's still comin' to terms with Indiana's blue laws, which sharply limit the sales of beer, wine and the real stuff on Sunday) and found our way to Preston Safeway over by Butler University. Tam had never been there, either. It's a quirky place, aisles stacked 15' high, stocking every legume known to mankind, pickled anything, and a rather vast array of this and that, including various imported goodies. 'Twas there we found, at long last, caperberries! (The beer selection, a bit small and we'd've been better served checking out the liquor store across the way; but they do stock Tam's current "fallback" IPA and thus was tragedy averted).
On the way in, we spotted another classic-looking motorcycle, a Boxer of some sort with a nifty sidecar and on the back of the sidecar, a spare tire below an odd-lookin' rack. While circling this marvel and mystery at a respectful distance ("Look, it's got a hand shifter!" "H''mm, this is one of those Russian clones...."), the owner showed up, stowed his groceries, and beamed at us and his baby. "It's a real beauty!" We asked after the sidecar and he spoke of the very different feel of a sidecar rig, adding, "...my dog can ride along; my wife and I take it camping. We can even," and here, he pointed at the rack, "carry our bicycles." And so the riddle was solved. What a wonderful arrangement! (PS: WANT). A bit like this or these or this.
Recipe for a happy morning. It takes nothing at all away from it that I came home and promptly dozed off on the livin'-room futon.
* "Not the craw, the craw." Oh, never mind, ya bedarned sassenachae.
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