Cheesey Mac and Bacon

When left to my own devices, I rarely do the right thing. Tonight, I was on my own for dinner. It turned out well, and so I am including the recipe, in case there are any bachelors out there looking to get either one: fatter, or two: more alone. Or both.

Ingredients:


Box of mac and cheese
4 pieces of bacon
Shake cheese

Directions:

To make mac and cheese, follow directions on the box.
Cook all four slices of bacon and let cool.
Crumble 3 slices of bacon and add to mac and cheese.
Eat fourth slice of bacon separately while standing over the sink.
Add a little shake-cheese.
Stir and enjoy.

For a healthier alternative:

Eat a salad, you fat, lonely bastard.

Ball-er-ama

There aren't many venues for a person to experience night life in this green place. However, if you were in the market, White River Junction is like the Detroit of Central Vermont. You can find a mediocre Thai restaurant, a Mexican restaurant that boasts a margarita the size of your head, and the Jewel of the town: a combination bar/bowling alley/strip club. This marvel of modern engineering serves to please all walks of life. Where else is it appropriate to have a eight-year-old's birthday and a lewd bachelor party simultaneously in the same establishment? Separated by a black ply-wood construction, its enough to make you spill your lemon seabreeze. All that is left for patrons to decide is whether they want their 15 dollar fully-nude lap dance before or after a round of bowling.

Bear it

Yesterday I was introduced to my neighbor.

She was a broad, sunny woman named Michelle in a pink peasant blouse. I hate peasant blouses. She drove her crossover SUV up the driveway, got out of her car, and started to walk toward me all without any greeting. I was on my way back from the chicken coop, still in my pajamas with a water bucket in my hand, and finally, pulled by the awkwardness of the confrontation and the realization that I could never overpower anyone with a plastic water bucket, I said "hello". And she said "I just wanted to welcome you to the neighborhood." And with that, my heart filled with love. What a wonderful gesture. Followed immediately by, "Yesterday I saw a bear." And pointed to the corner of my garage, the place of the bear sighting. If there's one thing that scares me more than change, and the dark, its bears. Because bears smell fear. She looked me up and down, and held her hand out at shoulder height, "It was about this tall. Maybe 150 pounds. But when I drove toward it, it ran away." Oh, good. I was considered about its ability to run. "It was probably looking for garbage." She said as she slowly, judgmentally, scanned my yard. As if my yard was a perfect place to find garbage. I look behind me at a heaping ancient burn pile that was my back yard. Sticking out from the soot were aerosol cans, insulation, half-burned books, and other trash left behind by the previous owner.
I'm probably going to have to clean that up.



---



I was picking up feed at the local store, and there was a middle-aged man in front of me in line. On a rack hanging by the counter were pamphlets on how to best raise your live birds. Feeding and Breeding mostly. "How much for the 4 foot picket?" He asked. Erskine replied "89 cents". 89 cents, I thought. What a bargain, what can you get these days for less than a dollar? A four foot picket. As I marveled at the beauty of local business, the man proceeded to haggle. Unsuccessfully. "I'll give you 85." "It's 89." Erskine said with a tone of finality. The man grumbled something about highway robbery. My 50 pounds of chicken feed: $6.50, I didn't haggle.

Sweetness

Earlier this week I was driving home from work, and as I went over the crest of a hill I could see up ahead an old red pick-up truck, pulled off to the side of the road. Since returning to Vermont from Boston, I've have this idealize image of what it is to live here, and as I drove closer to the truck, I was thinking about how lucky I was to live in this perfect state. It was dusky, and the humidity was subsiding. There was someone in the truck, at first all I could see was this large grey beard -and I thought about how much I had missed those large beards- I could see it was an old man, and there was an old woman with him, and as I drove even closer, I could see they were making out. Right there on the side of the road.

Vermont is a cruel mistress; She lures you in with her natural beauty, and then flashes her hideous c-section scar at you. 

I immediately resented the fact that there was no one in my car to share that experience with. And so, perhaps as a form of healing, I'll record it here.

There is so much more than I resent, but healing takes time.