And There Were Flies - Dan Tompsett (large ebook reader txt) 📗

up the prevailing wind
from where I sit. Your glass,
my glass, the spent bottle
and sourdough crumbs, still
as life becomes without you.

The waitress brings the check-
I pay, deal out the tip. The surf
below grumbles and thunder-gray
gulls lift away like smoke.

***

~A History of Potato Salad~

Many of us don't know the history of potato salad. It was first concocted by Ezra Bovine in 1899. Ezra, an Idaho potato farmer and alcoholic irrigator for hire, first served potato salad at the grand opening of the Twin Falls Bar and Grill. My mother's mother was there, and recorded the event in her diary:

June 3rd:

"That drunk brother of mine showed up at the gala grand opening of the TFBG with a large bowl of mush. He called it "potato salad." Of course, everyone there knew he just boiled some spuds, tossed in mayo and some onions he stole from his neighbor's garden and brang it so's he could take advantage of the free beer pot-luck. It wasn't bad, but could have used a dollop of mustard and relish."

Ezra Bovine's daughter was only ten years-old at the time, but she made reference to his creation in a letter to the editor of the Twin Falls Gazette several years later:

"As unpopular as my stance may be at this time, I cannot vote for the current Republican candidate for mayor of this fine city with a clear conscience. He reminds me of my father's potato salad which was served at the gala grand opening of the Twin Falls Bar and Grill back in '99. The candidate is soft, mixed-up, and smells of pilfered onions. A dollop of mustard might have helped his image, but seeing it on his tie as he staggered out of a Kimberly flophouse last Saturday just before dawn leads me to believe he has little knowledge of condiments, gourmet fare, or how to steal away in the night, which in my opinion disqualifies him from aquiring my vote, and I sincerely believe my fellow citizens, all upstanding christian spud farmers, (but for the one Jew, Mr. Lettuce Iceberg), will be of the same mind."

Yours, respectfully,
Ima Bovine
Twin Falls


~Trout Face Soup~

Bob Withabee fished Rock Creek in Twin Falls, Idaho for trout. The creek, it is said, is somewhat polluted, but Bob didn't care. He liked the look on the trout's faces. They always seemed to be smiling and happy, even as they expired in his kreel.

Bob thought he had a way of leaching out the pollutants. He did this by making soup out of the fish. He left the heads on, and whenever he checked the pot, trout faces smiled up at him from simmering broth and quartered onions.

Bob snagged a crawdad in Rock Creek once, and chose to add it to his trout face soup.

The crawdad never smiled when alive, nor did it crack even the slightest grin as it cooked. Bob came to the conclusion that crawdads, at least the one he caught, have no sense of humor.

He didn't want his trout face soup tainted with the spice of sadness or curmudgeonery, so he pulled the now red crustacean from the pot and placed it in a small sauce pan and covered it with a lid so he wouldn't have to look at it. The trout face soup was all smiles again.

After dinner, Bob removed the crawdad from the sauce pan and took it outside, set it on a fence post in his back yard, then went indoors and sat in his rocking chair where he could watch through a window. Bob was confident a cranky crow would come along sooner or later to investigate, and sure enough, just a few moments later, one did.

The crow, feathered black as its disposition, cocked its head to the right, studied the creature a bit, then grabbed it in its beak and flew off with it.

"My home is happy again," Bob stated to himself, then took his shovel and an empty can to the compost area of his yard to dig for worms, and if he should happen to unearth a grub he would toss it away.

"Grubs are grumpy," believed Bob Withabee.


Imprint

Publication Date: 12-15-2009

All Rights Reserved