In the last few weeks I have been in four different states, eaten with my hands in front of a belly dancer, discovered a culinary masterpiece, sampled soda bread from a Farmer’s Market, toured a submarine, panned for sapphires, tasted the best fudge of my life in a candy store with pink, crystal chandeliers, eavesdropped on a woman rehashing her near death experience about waiting out an earthquake on a toilet, and fell in love with running for a whole week (I know! And, can you believe it? Followed by, neither can I!)
I guess I just wanted you to know that I’m taking my blogging hiatus very seriously, and not just wasting it by watching Cash Cab in my underwear or something.
In the meantime, let me leave you with a small nugget. Drew and I were en route from one small town in Montana to another small town in Montana with some friends when we saw a massive billboard alongside the road advertising the “Testicle Festival”, where the consumption of Rocky Mountain Oysters (also known as fried bull testicles) is apparently taken very seriously. We got a chuckle out of the sign and it led to the following conversation between my son and daughter:
Drew: Hey Sam, do you know what rocky mountain oysters are?
Sam: Not really.
Drew: They’re sheep’s balls.
Sam: Okay, I did NOT want to know that.
Drew: Sam, it’s IMPORTANT for you to know. I mean, what if a hobo came up to you and said, “Hey, want some rocky mountain oysters?” and you didn’t even know what he was talking about. Wouldn’t you want to know?
Sam: How about I just NEVER TAKE FOOD FROM A HOBO!
She’s got a point. Not to mention, whatever happened to driving along secluded Montana roads being a wholesome experience? Maybe we should watch more Cash Cab.