By Patti Parish-Kaminski, Publisher
Keeping a close eye on the insect invader gripping my lifeline: Diet Coke.
Mr. Kaminski offered to take me to breakfast on Saturday. We’ve both been working long hours, so it was a nice respite to not have to make a weekend breakfast. Plus, there was that nasty inconvenience of our air conditioning going out on Friday night, and the temp in the house hovering at 83 degrees. I was not blooming where I was planted that particular Saturday morning. I was hot. I do not do hot.
I jumped on the breakfast offer and tried to get myself as presentable as possible in the sweltering house. That took a minute and involved lots of submerging in cold water to keep me temperate.
I should have known something was up when we left Green Acres and did not head in either direction toward civilization. There are two, only two. After all, I do have experience with Mr. Kaminski’s wanderings and spur of the moment jaunts.
After zigging and zagging in the glorious Texas countryside for several miles, he pulled into a literal gas station. I was thinking he needed gas, so I was caught unawares when he proudly proclaimed, “We’re here!” He gets so tickled with himself.
Out in the middle of nowhere, otherwise known as the outskirts of Simonton, there sat our breakfast destination. I was now overheated, overdressed and underwhelmed.
“You need to pray that they have Diet Coke,” was my retort.
The little country store/gas station/café was a virtual cornucopia of wares. You really could get it all there: baked goods, dried flowers, jerky, cigarettes, prepared food, t-shirts, home décor, beer and blessedly, Diet Coke.
We ambled into the café portion of the emporium and selected a table. The menu offered home cooked fare, and as promised by Mr. Kaminski, I ordered breakfast. All was uneventful until the critter arrived. Dancing precariously under the fluorescent light above our heads, Mr. Kaminski couldn’t determine if it was a moth, butterfly or otherwise unknown flying insect. I was not amused.
The insect invader.
“I’m not sharing my breakfast with this unwelcome intruder,” was my take on the situation.
“You need to be sweet,” Mr. Kaminski admonished me. I continued to sip on my lifeline lest I hurt both him and the critter.
Our breakfast arrived with biscuits not quite done in the middle, which Mr. Kaminski promptly sent back. I think it must be hard to cook in a gas station, so I was giving the sweet ladies grace.
Later that afternoon, Mr. Kaminski queried: “Do you want to go out to dinner tonight?”
Not embracing another of his culinary choices that particular day, I informed him I would be going to the grocery store “warming” dinner at home whether we had a hot house or not. Fortunately, the AC guy rescued us from purgatory, as well as from another of Mr. Kaminski’s dining excursions. Never a dull moment. See y’all next week – on the porch!
Patti Parish-Kaminski
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