I was getting a little worried about World O’ Crap Spiritual Advisor J. Grant Swank, since he hasn’t been posting much lately on RenewAmerica, but it seems he was just looking for a change, and has now moved his base of operations to MichNews, and become a food critic. Today’s main course?
Portland Maine’s Munchiest Morning Bun
Memo to Salivary Glands: Stand By for Action!
What a delight to wake up for the new day, climb into the wheels and make the journey inside Portland’s innards. Not only are there the wharfs with all their ambience—boats, fishermen, smell of the ocean and tourist shops galore—but there is my fav bakery.
Sadly, Portland’s innards are a bit too far for me to join the Pastor at his fav bakery. But I do live in a very dense urban area, so I don’t even have to climb into wheels to reach a munchy morning bun; often I can just ride on the legs.
The morning bun is laden with syrup and walnuts spilling over its freshly baked self.
I’m a carnivore, but even I blanch at the thought of eating baked goods that have evolved and become self-aware.
If it is a gorgeous day, step outside to the waiting iron tables with matching light-weight chairs. Watch the birdies come to your toes, chipping away at any crumbs dropped from your festivity.
This may be the most adorable and light-hearted thing Pastor Swank has ever composed. It’s like a greeting card written by Daphne Du Maurier after she was smacked in the head with an Indian club.
You might even spy the owner, Matt. He is an exceptionally cordial fellow. Over the years, we have become so-so friends.
And thus, an unusually tepid bromance was born.
Having moved to Maine in 1991, I have concluded that the morning bun is near the top of the list of the state’s highlight options.
Much tastier than a Yellow Sharpie®.
If you are ever in Portland, be sure to order the bun so as to test my suggestion. I don’t think you will be disappointed.
Pastor, I don’t think you’ve ever disappointed me. But then, I’m not, say, your wife, and you haven’t, say, just handed me a sack of second-hand earrings that belonged to a crazy old woman…
AMERICA’S PRIME RETAIL: THE YARD SALE
I got a small bag full of freebie earrings. Obviously, the woman meandering around her yard wanted to get rid of them and I thought my wife would like to have them.
“I don’t wear earrings that belonged to other people for I don’t trust the earrings for health reasons,” my wife exclaimed as I walked smilingly through the Maine cottage door.
“Just soak them in alcohol,” daughter Heidi cried out as she was leaving with baby to visit a friend in Portland.
So there! I won.
“I’ve browbeat my wife until she’ll gladly risk hepatitis C just to make me shut up! I am the KING!”
But then, in the middle of his end zone dance, the Pastor gets a sad:
Spending a Saturday morning going around yard sales alongside Sebago Lake is tops. It’s the best America can offer when it comes to home grown yard sale retail. And then each time I think that, I wonder when DC is going to levy a sales tax on yard sales. Could happen these days. True, sadly.
Hm…That would almost make a good name for a website.
But in the meantime, till DC catching on, I thoroughly get a kick out of yard sailing. And it’s not just in buying things for nothing or cheap. It’s visiting the strangers-become-quick-friends-of-sorts along the way.
Once we came upon a Baptist Church having a “Free Yard Sale.” It was in September. We had a ball going through this item and that, walking off with a lot of pre-Christmas presents that were actually brand new, at least brand new looking. When it comes to the little grandchildren, those stuffed animals were a giant hit.
And each stuffed animal was like ten thousand presents in one, thanks to all the bedbugs. But between Swank’s so-so friends, and his strangers-become-quick-friends-of-sorts, I’m reminded of Clarence’s flyleaf dedication at the end of It’s a Wonderful Life, “Remember, no man is a failure who has friends,” and suddenly realize why the Pastor spends so much time cadging free crap off card tables.
Now this morning I drove off into some angst unknown to me.
Oh oh — Swank has climbed inside his wheels and driven into unknown angst! And you’ll never guess what angst it is. Turns out, the Pastor is a bit of a coke whore
“You had better get home as soon as you can,” the head librarian exclaimed when catching my eye.
“Your wife has been calling. She’s frantic because you have the car seat in your van. It seems Heidi needs it to put Grant Michael Wray in that seat so that the two of them can visit a friend in the city!”
I said: “I’ll see you in divorce court. At 71, I’m not used to having a child’s car seat in my life. It’s like having cocaine.”
Here’s hoping Swank and Lindsay Lohan wind up sharing a room at Hazelton.
Needless to say, I split down the center of town for the cottage. Bottom line: no divorce court, just a scolding that has still left a few blisters.
And the we hope the pedestrians and cyclists who were knocked into the gutter by a coked-up preacher barreling through the center of town also escaped with minor injuries.
But I think before nightfall all will be well within the family. It usually is. Time does heal.
But back to the main point: yard sales are America’s prime retail. You can bank on it.
So the lesson of today’s sermon is, if you’re suffering from blisters administered by your wife’s tongue, pull into a stranger’s driveway and buy a broken egg timer and some used stuffed animals. It’s better than lancing.
I’m not used to having a child’s car seat in my life. It’s like having cocaine.
Funny. I’ve never snorted a child’s car seat off a hooker.
Left by Jay B. on August 2nd, 2010