A long weekend at the Broad Ripple Art Fair in Indianapolis. So long I came close to falling asleep in my supper after we tore down Sunday night. Later Linda yelled in from the porch several times to be sure I didn't drown in the shower.
It was a good show, even better for being over for another year, and for my more than cursory examination of the menu of the brew pub we went to a second year for Friday lunch.
It was hot and humid, we were sweaty, dirty and tired. I guess that’s a rather royal we, as my contribution was not being under foot as Linda directed and her wonderful volunteer cousin Bruce worked.
I was first at the table with clean hands, then Bruce, who quizzed the waitress about the current brews and he and I selected a port. Linda’s pale ale came with a lemon wedge in the bottom.?
Scotch Eggs in the starters caught my eye. “Ever tried Scotch Eggs?” I casually asked Bruce.
Turns out Bruce once “lived on them.” Now, he’s in excess of six feet, athletic, fifty two years old. Not the picture of a man who regularly downed those cholesterol bullets made legendary by our friend John Grey. I know what a Scotch Egg is. I looked them up once.
“What do you mean ‘lived on them’?”
When his bicycle buddies and he stopped for a cold one on the way home, he’d have the brew of the day with a Scotch Egg chaser.
“Why did you quit them?”
Tucking into a Scotch Egg pizza one night, it came to him he actually led a healthy life, except the Scotch Eggs. I was laughing too hard to see through tears. Scotch Egg pizza………..a pizza entirely covered by circles of the little darlin’s. And him with a wife and son at home.
I had to have an order to see the attraction. Bruce and Linda split an order, him for old time’s sake. Scotch Eggs are good little devils; I almost neglected the picture.
But, if I were down to my last three eggs, John, I’d make a cheesecake.