Beef Jerky and Rioja

Day 11

I didn't deserve a break today, but I took one. Still, I'm pretty happy to see some physical changes, however slight. For instance, my waist seems to be coming back, which is a little like saying the economy is improving. When you start at a terrible deficit--or in the case of my waist "a terrible excess"--then any improvement needs to be qualified. But, I'm sore after mowing the lawn for nearly two hours yesterday and I want to give my creaky body a rest. Not muscle sore. Bone sore--my wrists and ankles feel like crunched rubber bands.

Anyway, no. I didn't get any exercise, unless you count running to the break room to grab a brownie exercise. In fact, today I ate an egg sandwich groom made for me this morning--it would have been rude to say no--then I ate some leftover yogurt peanuts out of my office drawer, a chunk of toffee, the aforementioned brownie, and beef jerky.

Oh my god, I'm disgusting.

Groom handed me the beef jerky as we were leaving work. "It's local," he said. And, in fact, he had chosen a non-local beef jerky at the Phippsburg Center Store the other day and switched it out when he noticed one made in Monroe, Maine. I was impressed, but the beef jerky wasn't very good.

The beef jerky ("there's plenty you know") got us talking about local vs artisanal, which lead me to another amendment to my rules. If it's made in small batches, it's acceptable. Because, as groom pointed out, Jerky Unlimited in Dundee, Michigan, makes some of the best jerky ever and it's made in small batches. So, even though it's available only in Michigan and it technically falls under the local rule, if it were available here in Maine, I'd have license to eat it.

I love small, local shops. I really do.

While this artisanal conversation was happening, we stopped at the New Gloucester Village Store to pick up supper--only because Sausage Kitchen "where the world's best sausage COMES FROM" isn't open after five. The New Gloucester Village Store has some good stuff and their pizza is delicious, but I've come to another conclusion. Shopping local can be very expensive and indulgent, so my smart choices have to be even smarter. No more tiny little batches of granola for five bucks a pop. Who do I think I am? Charles Koch?

Driving through the back roads of New Gloucester and Pownal, you can see tons of farmland with produce and poultry and plenty of cattle. As we crested one bank, I looked to my left to see some super cute calves wrestling in the field and, as I turned to look out the other window, I thought, "I shouldn't be so harsh about farm--" and that's when I noticed a calf taking a giant dump. Yup. It's all about poop.

"No, I don't need a cart."

We did pick up a bottle of Rioja, which is my favorite type of wine. The bottle we purchased isn't a particularly good bottle of wine, but it has that delicious...what is it...musty finish? That sounds terrible, but I don't know the right words.  It makes me think of when my sister moved home after college when I was still in high school. Our kitchen and basement had flooded and we ordered roast beef sandwiches from Land 'n' Sea (large beef, extra sauce, no cheese)--my husband contends that Maria's Roast Beef (large roast beef, pickles, tomatoes, onions, mustard, mayo, oil, hot peppers) is better, but that's like saying the Caribbean is better than Baja. They are two entirely different sandwiches.

At any rate, my sister decided we should drink the wine my father had stored in the flooded basement, so we grabbed the first bottle we could find and brought it upstairs. I recognized the word "rioja" because I took Spanish and I looked for any reason to brag about knowing that "rioja" meant "red" because I was a huge know-it-all pain in the ass.

We opened the bottle and--huzzah--it was amazing. I don't use that word lightly. It was flavorful, palatable, and left such a nice taste in my mouth. This, from a 16-year-old girl who smoked pot or drank whiskey and ginger exclusively. Red wine was--and would remain for several years--a no no for me.

But this bottle was different. We drank and ate it in our family room--what we called a "sun porch"--curled up on the couch, watching Miami Vice or something equally as ridiculous. To this day, I love the smell of wet wood (no jokes please), wet wallpaper, and barbecue sauce.

I did nothing today to further my strength, but as I sip this Rioja, I don't mind.