Boofa has the DNA of a hunting dog. We approached a beautiful brown Albrecht Durer rabbit still as stone (or as Roy Blount, Jr. would suggest in elevating a traditional southern fruit) still as a
watermelon. There are squirrels too, scampering everywhere, but we move on. Today I notice that there is a funeral home, complete with six gleaming white heares, just beside the bicycle store with the backs of the buildings facing the trail. I don't know if it has sprung up overnight like a poison mushroom or if it was always there. The bicycle store has a walking and riding ramp built out the back and onto the trail for people to come and go. Fortunately, the funeral home does not.
It is already 80 degrees at 8:00 am when we leave to go to the farmer's market. A string band is moving from the sun into the shade. Vendors are selling vegetables, fruits, baked goods and essential oil soaps under canopies. There is even a huge man in a stetson with his son from a ranch selling hormone and antibiotic free beef and pork. I buy better boy tomatoes and a bar of mint lavender soap.
And when I get home I make an old fashioned tomato sandwich out of a better boy tomato, white bread and mayonaise. Oh yes, and salt, that's all. It is so good. It is the food of my childhood.
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