Biscuits

"...you don't even want to see how I make gravy!"

I came rolling up while the grocery clerk and Mr. Semifreddi chatted about camping, which turned into campground cooking and then to biscuits and gravy.

"Please don't tell me it involves tearing open a packet or punching a can."

"Oh, you know it does." We jockeyed for space in the narrow aisle, his stack and my stack, blessedly customer-free at this hour. "I just don't have the knack."

Why go to the bother of making a fresh batch of biscuits only to dump canned gravy on them? Good god! Dude, it's so easy. "You eat bacon? Save the fat or pour off the extra, add your flour and salt and pepper—"

The clerk piped up. "Whisk it!"

"—or just use a spoon and get the flour smooth, then add the milk. I like a low, medium-low heat so it doesn't scorch or get too thick. But you gotta watch it."

"Whisk it smooth!"

I guess. Maybe that clerk also uses a biscuit-cutter instead of a glass to cut the biscuits out of the dough.

"Do you use buttermilk?" I look him up and down, but it's a fair question. Some white chick with tattoos sounding like she just exited I-5 North after a seven-hour drive, what would I know about buttermilk? I could be making whole-wheat and soy-milk biscuits for all he knows.

"Always."

He looks at me now. "But you don't use a whisk."

"Naw, just a spoon."

"How much do you use?" I have his full attention now. This is serious stuff.

"Dude, I never measure. Just eyeball it. If it's watery cook it a little longer, but watch it because once it gets too thick that's it. Just practice; you'll get the hang of it. And you know how to cook; it'll be easy."

"Awright." We chat a bit more about the savoriness of biscuits and gravy. "But if it doesn't turn out right I'm gonna hunt you down." We laugh, then he and I get our signatures and roll our separate ways.

I made me some biscuits this morning, hot and golden brown, slightly smoky from the bacon fat I used instead of shortening, and covered with peppery cream gravy. If we hadn't finished the beer last night I would have had one with breakfast, it was that decadent.

Easy Come, Easy Go

It wasn't a particuarly grueling day at work, didn't have to clock in super early, the drivers personality quirks neatly stowed away. Didn't have a lot of stops or particularly far to drive. So there's no explaining why I left my clothes on top of my bike rack instead of strapped to the rack with a bungee cord. Just wasn't paying attention: I folded 'em up to take home and when I got home they weren't there.

As tragedies go it's pretty minor. I lost a 15? 17?-year-old REI fleece vest and a grey cotton hoodie I pulled out of a Berkeley free box. Oh, and the Starbucks card I found at the natural gas filling station. I think it had two or three dollars on it. It was in the pocket. And a card for a complimentary small Peets coffee my boss gave me. The drawstring on the hoodie was always getting caught in my metal route book, or floating in my tea, and it had a rip on one sleeve I inexpertly sewed up. The fleece was tissue-paper thin and was fitted at the waist with a couple of rusty safety pins.

But I really liked that hoodie. It was a good color on me. And I felt so snuggly in the mornings, fleece collar poking up through the hoodie's neckhole, hood bunched up around the back of my neck and ears, wet string dangling.

We drove Little Jumbo to the bakery, following my bike route where we could, looking for it. Gone.

Some Drivers

I'm weak. I admit it. And I know I shouldn't have caffeine, but when I've got 200 miles to drive before most people's first cigarette of the day and I'm already tired because I stayed up late because it was league championship night down at the Bowl, I caved. I always cave. I just drive a bread van, no union, no Class A or anything. What can I say?

So I'm at the deli, the one on Valencia across from that little breakfast place that black lady, the singer, always goes to, and I'm talking to Jimmy. He's telling me Hey, didja hear? The boss was in here last week delivering bread. Whaddya know about that he says. And I say Well, why do you think I'm here today instead of your regular guy? He hurt his back and he's out for a week. You know how it is with those young guys, they're always screwing up their backs. They don't know how to lift right.

Jimmy says, It's not just the young guys, though. Tall guys never last either. You need to find you some short guys, they're the ones who last, they know how to handle themselves. Yeah, I say. Jimmy's slicing rolls, a big wall of rolls behind him on what used to be a wine rack. We had this one guy, he says. Maybe five-six, five-seven. Built like a fireplug. He's waving the bread knife around as he talks. He delivered flour, lasted a long time. The flour was in 100-lb bags, and he'd carry them in and put 'em in the back. If he was in a hurry he'd bring in two at a time. Anyways, so this one day he's down at Third and Mariposa making a delivery—Oh, I know where this is going, I say—You know it, so he gets out of his truck and these three guys jump him.

Well, he clocks the first guy and he goes down. Knocked him unconscious. He turns toward the second guy, and the third starts stabbing him. Jimmy shows me and the rolls how it's done. He hits the second guy, who goes down but starts to get back up, so he kicks him in the head. And kills him. Kills him.

The third guy, now, he's looking around and suddenly he doesn't feel very confident, 'cause his two buddies are out and this guy he's stabbing won't go down, so he drops his knife and gets the heck out of there. The flour guy misses Christmas 'cause he spends three days in the hospital. Jimmy shakes his head. Those guys were stupid. They wanted to rob a delivery driver they should've picked on the potato-chip guy.

He signs my invoice. Okay, Susan, go to your next stop.

Okay, Jimmy, see you tomorrow.

See you tomorrow. Drive safe.

The New English

savory rosted sparagus shrimp

spacy pesto

[That's off the specials board at a restaurant I delivered to today.]

I'm pencilling in another skill on my character sheet: Mangle L1 10%. Because while driving to Target and trying to remember the word participle, I explained, "You know, to bring: brang, brung. Brung is the...?"

"The ebonics? It's the past participle, and it's brought."

"Are you sure? Really? I'll have to look it up in the Big Book of Words when we get home." Heh, they weren't in there. Just bring and brought. What do you know?