No to new things

I don't like trying new things. Do you want to know why I don't like trying new things? Do you really?

Since you asked, I shall tell you.

When I was last in Hessel over the Fourth of July holiday last month I strolled down to the Farmer's Market. They have it every Sunday during the summer in Hessel, from 10 until 2, and it's roughly the equivalent of about one and a half city blocks from our place in town. An easy, a very easy, Marty walk.

A baker from Rudyard was there then. She had among other things a most excellent carrot cake. It had close to an inch of marvelous buttercream frosting too and was absolutely delightful. Grudgingly sharing it with my family whom I was with (I merit sainthood for that act alone) they too agreed that it was exceptional.

So yesterday arrives, maybe five weeks after that particular Farmer's market, and I am in Hessel. I simply cannot wait for Sunday to arrive, anticipating like Pavlov's dog a slab of that carrot cake which I might delight in all to my lonesome. With hot coffee because, of course, heavenly carrot cake (with thick buttercream frosting), cannot be savored completely without hot coffee. My tongue lathered at the very thought.

Rudyard baker was not there. I may never partake of her carrot cake again, I now solemnly realize. C'est la vie, opines philosophical Marty. Such is life.

And that is why I don't like trying new things,. You may adore them then, like a tease, they are no more.

What's the wurst that could happen?

Have you ever felt like Oliver Douglas on Green Acres? In Hooterville, it was like everyone else was crazy and that he alone were sane. I've had that experience before. You might read about it here:

https://thesublimetotheridiculous.blogspot.com/2018/07/the-open-book.html

I had a similar feeling again over the weekend. While I was up north in Hessel in Michigan's glorious Upper Peninsula there happened to be a farmer's market about the equivalent of a block away from our place. My son, daughter in law and I hiked the short distance to it Sunday just to see what they had.

One woman there, a kitchen baker from nearby Rudyard, had carrot cake with buttercream frosting which was a-mazing. I tried a couple other pastries and was quite pleased with them. My kids came across a farming family which processed their own meats and were very happy with what they had bought. "They have homemade bratwurst too," my daughter-in-law informed me, knowing how much I love brats. So of course I had to check them out.

At their trailer was sign which told what types of bratwurst they had, ten varieties in fact. There were plain brats, brats with green pepper and onion, ones with jalapenos and so forth. One item listed was sweet Italian sausage. I love them too. "Oh, you have Italian sausages?" I asked in conversation.

"No," a young woman answered, to my confusion. The chalkboard plain as day said Italian sausage.

"It says Italian sausage right there," I said, pointing at the sign.

She answered, "Oh, no. We use our finest ground pork and natural casings as on all our bratwurst. We just put Italian sausage seasoning in those."

"Then they're Italian sausages," I mildly protested.

Looking at me as though I were the confused one she replied, "Oh, no, sir. They're brats flavored like Italian sausage." She wasn't condescending or anything like that. But one of us clearly didn't understand what was at issue.

Giving up the debate (because what would it really have served anyway?) I bought a package of plain brats, one with the green pepper and onion, and one with Italian sausage seasonings. They await in the freezer my next trip to Hessel, hopefully soon. But in her mind she sold me three types of bratwurst. In mine, I have two kinds of brats and an Italian sausage. And I will be shaking my head in wonder as I eat them hot off the grill next month.