August sixth and hints of fall are encroaching. I learned that the term, termination dust, means the first fresh snow on the top of a mountain. This has already happened. The two weeks of summer we had at the end of July were great.
Nelson and I are starting to prepare our hearts, minds and possessions to leave this beautiful place; so we're busy scheduling------our last two hair appointments, my last doctor's appointments, the car maintenance necessary for such a long drive. This morning we got up early to take the car in for it's oil change, etc. I decided to go along because then we could eat breakfast at a favorite restaurant.
You see, sourdough is very popular here, and sourdough pancakes are sublime. I happen to love pancakes, but I don't make them. Even though I like to cook and bake and have some facility at it, I don't "do" pancakes. They're just not as good as when someone else does them---usually. Any excuse to have pancakes, especially sourdough, I'm on it. Hence, when we drove together to the auto shop, I had pancakes on my mind.
Being the sweet, considerate husband he is, Nelson dropped me off at a little restaurant while he delivered the car. This was not the restaurant of choice with the pancakes but only a place to wait. It was near the auto shop in the, shall we say, industrial, section of Homer. I had never been there. When I entered, I saw a decor I would define as, "old dive", just shy of, "broken down". There were no customers, only a sturdy, unhappy-looking woman leaning on the counter smoking a cigarette. The name of the place was a woman's name; so I asked if she were that person. She said yes, and we struck up a conversation. Turned out we were both Pittsburgh natives; so we had lots to talk about. She brightened and kept my coffee cup filled without prompting. Of course, I was unhappy about the smoke but had the distinct feeling that I should keep that complaint to myself. After all, I had not chosen to sit in the one non-smoking booth three feet from all the other booths.
What a hoot! The restaurant owner talked about Pittsburgh and Alaska in her raspy, smoky voice. We reminisced about the Pirates in their hey day and Roberto Clementi. While we talked, several wizened older men arrived and the coffee flowed. The owner had a T-shirt on that looked like acid had been spilled on it because it had about a dozen small holes across it. The saying on the shirt warned us that she was not someone to mess with. Political discussion was front and center and highly opinionated. No Kool Aid there! No implying, couching, finessing, hinting. I got the impression that if someone didn't like the expressed opinions, the door to leave was wide open.
Time to check on the car. We walked down the road together chuckling about what we had just experienced. The car was not ready; so we waited as I'm sure most of you have had to do at an auto shop only our wait was outside in the parking lot. My "chair" was the edge of a utility trailer. Soon Nelson's phone rang. The car was ready. We strolled the 30 yards to the shop to pay.
We drove straight away to the restaurant of choice. All of the above took an hour and a half. All of the above I experienced because I was hungry for sourdough pancakes. They were delicious.
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