Gastronomical Adventures -- Friday, August. 15' 3:56pm

Max and I are in a rest area (perhaps the only one in Louisiana) near Ruston. Since we left Texas, we have been stuck on Interstate 20.  It is pretty country but interstate driving puts me to sleep, so when I finally saw a sign announcing a rest stop, I felt it was time to allow Max to stretch his leg(s) a bit and for Jim to fix a bite of lunch and perhaps a short siesta in honor of Ol' Mister Sun's hard work climbing all morning to reach the top of the heavens.

First things first, Max always considers it as his bound duty to personally inspect and water each and every tree, fence post, blade of grass, and even inorganic items like aluminum sign poles.  He outdid himself and I am most certain that the state of Arkansas will want to reward him when they harvest the bumper crop of timber that will result from Max's ministrations.

Afterwards, I cranked up the Casita's A/C system and fixed one of my glorious lunches.  Lunch to me is not a simple matter of feeding my body. It is a sacred ceremony that connects the past to the present and proclaims goodness and harmony. Traditionally this sacred sacrament consists of a slice of balcony, a slice of cheese and a couple of slices of  plain old white bread. That particular combination takes me back to my early teen years, riding in the truck with Mr. Jack Darnell as we hauled walking horses up into Tennessee.  Mr. Jack was my hero, or at least as close as I ever came to having a hero. For lunch, he would stop at some small crossroads country store and buy sliced baloney, cheese, and a loaf of white bread. Man, that was eatin'! 

To this day, Eating a baloney sandwich is a religious experience.  Now, I freely admit that very few, if any, other humans truly get that baloney and cheese can be a truly heavenly revelation. But Max does. As I eat my baloney, his eyes never leave the sandwich. And if I do happen to share a bite, his paroxysm of joy shows that he is truly in touch with a higher plane of existence.