Meat Delivery


To the beefeaters in Bordeaux. It makes us happy and proud to reach out and beef someone.

Z and I took the frigo rental on the road on an uneventful road trip that safely delivered the goods. It’s nice to meet friendly faces at your destination.

A brain gets a tingle to see road signs that lead to Paris ( someday, Paris! ). We could go there, like, now. Even when on the I-road to Yakima, there’s a feeling of clasping hands and seeing how far this tank will go. If only my frigo had some extra boxes. With Z’s brown eyes and curls and my ability to make change, there’s no stopping us.

We headed back as dusk commenced. As we worked our hour down the 130 kilos per hour payway, struggling to keep the frigo cube from trembling at 117, we enjoyed seeing the Peugeots pass and the Chateaus in desperate need of relocation. Once we hit the hour through country French villages after eight, it feels like an implicit curfew has been agreed upon. People are not working. They seem to be home or eating or at the pub. Evening groceries are resting patiently to be rung up tomorrow. The baguettes are rising.

Back at the farm, the cows are some finishing there evening munch, while the rest rest. Z crashed in Nerac. Other kids are somewhere between shower and bed. The meat we tasted today was great.

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