The Apocalypse Is Nigh
I am here to tell you right now that, if there is something you want to do during this lifetime, you had best "Git-R- Done" now because the end of time is unquestionably near.
You see, the CFO (otherwise known as "My Darling Bride") and I went looking for some lard yesterday in Cary, NC. For those unfamiliar with this berg, it is located about 150 miles to the east of Alleghany County and has a population of 110,000, ten times that of the entire county. The name is an acronym for "Containment Area for Relocated Yankees" and no one has ever seen a pickup truck in Cary with a 30-30 nestled in the gunrack. Come to think of it, the likelihood of seeing a Lexus 300 is considerably greater than for a Ford F-150. We are told there are even some neighborhoods that will allow you to own a pickup only if you park it out of sight in the garage!
Anyhow, a Super Harris-Teeter appeared on the horizion and we took that as a sign of devine providence. So, we parked the Jeep Cherokee (120,000+ miles and counting as well as being beautifully coated with Cary Brown Dairy Road mud) between a pristine Janguar and a spanking new BMW, and went in. I was dressed for our lard hunt in an Air Bellows Tuxedo (relatively clean underwear, nice pair of faded blue jeans, an unbuttoned flannel shirt without holes over an unstained T-shirt, wool socks, and hiking boots without mud in the treads.) Somehow I made it past the surveilance camera "provided for your safety and convience" at the front entrance.
The place was packed full of people not wearing jeans and flannel shirts over T-shirts. Many were speaking what passed as foreign tongues to my ears, but were likely English dialects spoken in the far provences of New Jersey, Michigan and New England. But, what the heck. We were there and all we wanted was some lard. So, we began our march up and down what seem miles and miles of aisles with shelves above our head on both sides, stocked with dozens of kinds of cooking oils, hundreds of kinds of wine, and more kinds of cheese than you would think possible to produce from the milk of cows, goats and sheep.
Alas, our search found no lard.
Thinking that we had overlooked the object of our desire, we spotted what appeared to be a full-time store employee of a certain age and made inquiry regarding the location of lard. Taking one quick glance at my Air Bellows Tuxedo, he replied with great sincerity, "Well, sir, grocery stores in the city don't carry lard!"
This I took as sign certain that the end of time would be coming at any moment.
Losing complete contol of my senses in what were surely to be the remaining precious few moments of my life, I sputter: "But how do the people in cities make biscuits without lard?" He could only give us one of those "How would I know?" shrugs.
I'll bet you a dime to a donut hole he eats McMuffins for breakfast.
Epilogue: A Lowe's food store just a short distance away (but within Cary city limits) proudly displayed its provisions of lard. We purchased four cartons (just in case) along with a nice bottle of wine to celebrate our find. To his credit, the cashier did not inquire as to why we were buying four packages of rendered pig fat in combination with a single bottle of Shiraz, at least as near as we could determine. He spoke a strange dialect of English that we were unable to deciper and that the bag boy kindly translated for us. My guess is that the fellow hadn't a clue as to the true nature of lard or its uses. Nor, for that matter, do I think he cared.
Be that as it may, pork fat still rules ... for a little while longer.
You see, the CFO (otherwise known as "My Darling Bride") and I went looking for some lard yesterday in Cary, NC. For those unfamiliar with this berg, it is located about 150 miles to the east of Alleghany County and has a population of 110,000, ten times that of the entire county. The name is an acronym for "Containment Area for Relocated Yankees" and no one has ever seen a pickup truck in Cary with a 30-30 nestled in the gunrack. Come to think of it, the likelihood of seeing a Lexus 300 is considerably greater than for a Ford F-150. We are told there are even some neighborhoods that will allow you to own a pickup only if you park it out of sight in the garage!
Anyhow, a Super Harris-Teeter appeared on the horizion and we took that as a sign of devine providence. So, we parked the Jeep Cherokee (120,000+ miles and counting as well as being beautifully coated with Cary Brown Dairy Road mud) between a pristine Janguar and a spanking new BMW, and went in. I was dressed for our lard hunt in an Air Bellows Tuxedo (relatively clean underwear, nice pair of faded blue jeans, an unbuttoned flannel shirt without holes over an unstained T-shirt, wool socks, and hiking boots without mud in the treads.) Somehow I made it past the surveilance camera "provided for your safety and convience" at the front entrance.
The place was packed full of people not wearing jeans and flannel shirts over T-shirts. Many were speaking what passed as foreign tongues to my ears, but were likely English dialects spoken in the far provences of New Jersey, Michigan and New England. But, what the heck. We were there and all we wanted was some lard. So, we began our march up and down what seem miles and miles of aisles with shelves above our head on both sides, stocked with dozens of kinds of cooking oils, hundreds of kinds of wine, and more kinds of cheese than you would think possible to produce from the milk of cows, goats and sheep.
Alas, our search found no lard.
Thinking that we had overlooked the object of our desire, we spotted what appeared to be a full-time store employee of a certain age and made inquiry regarding the location of lard. Taking one quick glance at my Air Bellows Tuxedo, he replied with great sincerity, "Well, sir, grocery stores in the city don't carry lard!"
This I took as sign certain that the end of time would be coming at any moment.
Losing complete contol of my senses in what were surely to be the remaining precious few moments of my life, I sputter: "But how do the people in cities make biscuits without lard?" He could only give us one of those "How would I know?" shrugs.
I'll bet you a dime to a donut hole he eats McMuffins for breakfast.
Epilogue: A Lowe's food store just a short distance away (but within Cary city limits) proudly displayed its provisions of lard. We purchased four cartons (just in case) along with a nice bottle of wine to celebrate our find. To his credit, the cashier did not inquire as to why we were buying four packages of rendered pig fat in combination with a single bottle of Shiraz, at least as near as we could determine. He spoke a strange dialect of English that we were unable to deciper and that the bag boy kindly translated for us. My guess is that the fellow hadn't a clue as to the true nature of lard or its uses. Nor, for that matter, do I think he cared.
Be that as it may, pork fat still rules ... for a little while longer.
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