Yesterday we did what is becoming a family tradition with some of us, a scooter ride in the country. My better half Karen, and her sister Diane, brother in law Roger, and me went rambling about the Maryland farm country on our Vespa's. Just before we left, I had been putting Karen's personalized plate on her scoot, and I had been using the screwdriver on my trusty Wenger SI.
Karen and I mount up and go over to Olney to join up with Di and Roger. For the next few hours we explore little asphalt roads that we're not sure where they go, in a big circut north to Sykesville, over to Eldersburg, and end up in Lisbon to get some of the delicious BBQ the guy has there. Beef brisket, ribs, chicken, and nice shady dinning area to enjoy the feast. Besides, being a Citco station it's handy to top off the tanks there. We'd covered many miles of rolling green countryside alternating farms and woodlands.
Karen and I get some ribs to share, Di gets some chicken, and Roger goes for the sliced beef brisket. We sit down to eat and I reach into my pocket for my Wenger. Karen wants me to break down the rack of ribs we have, and make it easier to share. I grope around and its not there. I feel about carefully to make sure, then I remember the licence plate. My Wenger is many miles away to the south sitting on the back step bumper of my Tacoma, right where I set it after putting Karen's new plate on her scooter.
Meantime Karen is looking at me, waiting, and I go for my watch pocket. There is my bone stag true sharp peanut. I take it out and get to work on the ribs, the sharp little blade going through the well cooked meat like it was jello. I get a little of the dry rub spices in the joint, but I know it will clean out. I glace over at Roger, and he's slicing up his beef brisket with his sak classic. Now I know Roger has a larger sak around someplace, and I ask him about it. A bit sheepish like me, he tells me it's home, forgotten. But the little classic is on his keyring with his house key, so its along for the ride.
So there we are, many miles from home, and both of us, for varying reasons have forgotten our regular pocket knife, so we have our little ones to do the job. I wonder at the good fortune of being a knife knut, and always having a second knife around someplace. I'd have hated to make a mess out of things trying to slice up the rack of ribs with the dull plastic knife to share with Roger in trade for some of his brisket.
Another good thing about smaller knives; it's easy to have a couple of them spaced about in different pockets.
Well fed on delicious BBQ, the rest of our country lane meanderings was uneventfull the rest of the afternoon.
Karen and I mount up and go over to Olney to join up with Di and Roger. For the next few hours we explore little asphalt roads that we're not sure where they go, in a big circut north to Sykesville, over to Eldersburg, and end up in Lisbon to get some of the delicious BBQ the guy has there. Beef brisket, ribs, chicken, and nice shady dinning area to enjoy the feast. Besides, being a Citco station it's handy to top off the tanks there. We'd covered many miles of rolling green countryside alternating farms and woodlands.
Karen and I get some ribs to share, Di gets some chicken, and Roger goes for the sliced beef brisket. We sit down to eat and I reach into my pocket for my Wenger. Karen wants me to break down the rack of ribs we have, and make it easier to share. I grope around and its not there. I feel about carefully to make sure, then I remember the licence plate. My Wenger is many miles away to the south sitting on the back step bumper of my Tacoma, right where I set it after putting Karen's new plate on her scooter.
Meantime Karen is looking at me, waiting, and I go for my watch pocket. There is my bone stag true sharp peanut. I take it out and get to work on the ribs, the sharp little blade going through the well cooked meat like it was jello. I get a little of the dry rub spices in the joint, but I know it will clean out. I glace over at Roger, and he's slicing up his beef brisket with his sak classic. Now I know Roger has a larger sak around someplace, and I ask him about it. A bit sheepish like me, he tells me it's home, forgotten. But the little classic is on his keyring with his house key, so its along for the ride.
So there we are, many miles from home, and both of us, for varying reasons have forgotten our regular pocket knife, so we have our little ones to do the job. I wonder at the good fortune of being a knife knut, and always having a second knife around someplace. I'd have hated to make a mess out of things trying to slice up the rack of ribs with the dull plastic knife to share with Roger in trade for some of his brisket.
Another good thing about smaller knives; it's easy to have a couple of them spaced about in different pockets.
Well fed on delicious BBQ, the rest of our country lane meanderings was uneventfull the rest of the afternoon.
Well, at least you knew where it was. Could have been worse.
