i’m not crazy, part III
September 22, 2008
I went with the family down to Moab this last weekend for some riding, hiking and goofing. In all, we had a great weekend, rode Slickrock with the guys, rode Amasa Back with Kim, rode an old BMX track with Holden, and hiked to Delicate Arch with the whole gang. Awesome.
Check it out.
We’re at the Moab Brewery, after a long day of riding, like 5 hours in the saddle. Of course, we’re very hungry. I order a big Jack Daniels burger (how normal is that?), Brandon orders a burrito that turns out to be as big as my leg, Sam gets the Carne Asada, Jason gets a big plate of pasta. Very normal foods (mine especially).
Eric, who in most other ways is a wonderful person, a great guy, a terrific bike rider, orders soup and a salad. Okay, sometimes I just want soup and a salad (although not after 5 hours in the saddle). Nothing wrong with soup and a salad. But when the server asks “what dressing on that?” Eric says “none thanks.” “Not even on the side?” “No thanks.”
Is that where, if this were a TV show, the editors would do a double take, and make one of those scratchy record sounds? Or chirping crickets?
Hi, I’m super hungry, just rode my bike for 5 hours, I’d like a head of lettuce please. And some soup. Can I have my soup with nothing but water?
(Okay, he ordered normal soup. But still. NO DRESSING ON HIS SALAD. JUST LETTUCE.)
The next day, Karee got a salad with no dressing. Little Sam ate all the meat out of his sandwich, THEN ate the bun. Kembree had a side of turkey, no bread. Brayden had a sandwich with nothing but turkey and black olives.
These people are a fine cross section of American life, as normal as normal can be. I will no longer brook people talking about MY food prep. I am NOT AN ANIMAL.
I just like it how I like it.
Here’s the rub (yeah, we haven’t gotten to the rub yet).
At dinner, we also ordered a huge plate of nachos with chicken. When our waitress brought that out, she also brought out a big bowl of salsa. And a big bowl of queso dip. Which Eric mistook for his soup.
As in, “is this my soup?” “I don’t think so, I think it’s the dip.” “I think it’s my soup.” The “soup” was soon just a few spots of queso dip on Eric’s spoon. Which was about when Eric’s actual soup arrived. Which means he effectively ate a big block of Velveeta cheese. I guess I would be going without dressing too.