Carly and I are both mourning Paul Newman. Last night Ken and I rented "Cool Hand Luke" in his honor and might have shed a tear or two over our Newman Salad Dressing.
Even more disturbing is the suicide death from earlier in the month of David Foster Wallace, author of "Infinite Jest," which if you'll remember from Okinawa, got me through many a long day at school and pretty much changed my standards for what a book should be. Complex. Confusing, Rewarding. RIP, DFW.
Not ones to sit around and sulk, Ken and I have made the most of our weekend. After a stint at the gym yesterday morning, we made our weekly journey to the farmer's market, stopping en route at a coffee shop/diner. Full of smokers, a short-order cook named Ann who has owned the place for 42 years, and some delicious hot cakes, it was a nice morning. The farmer's market was disappointing because the Yoders apparently aren't there any more with their chicken salad.
In a search for all of the other Yoders of the world, Ken and I drove to Shipshewana where we enjoyed a picnic lunch with Amish children playing and horses making horsey-noises. After some shopping and a stop at Yoders market, we headed home, but not before pie and coffee at some Dutch village along the way.
And the weekend isn't over. Today we're heading to Chicago for the make-up game for the White Sox. I'm not going to get into their playing the last week. It's too painful, too soon.
2 comments:
I have a friend named Yoder. Well, she used to be named Yoder before she got married.
There was a moment of silence yesterday when I was cleaning off my fridge and came upon the "good things come to those who wait" magnetic frame with Paul in it. You remember those frames, the ones Erin gave us. I believe your frame had Bryce Drew in it :P
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