I Have Sinned, and Fallen Short

I have sinned…and fallen short…sort of.

On Sunday my husband John and I went exploring. We drove to the St. Joe River (which empties into Lake Coeur d’Alene at the southern end) and then followed it up into the mountains. What a gloriously beautiful part of the world. We stopped along the way to take in a particularly lovely view, or historic markers, and to chat with a fisherman. It’s because of him I sinned. By the way, I love watching fly fishermen work the river. It’s a graceful art form. Really. But back to my sin. They say confession is good for the soul. I haven’t been on the slippery slope of this particular sin in probably twenty years.

If I want to drink wine, and you know I want have my evening wine – I don’t have dessert. Not any time during a day, and never at night. Too much sugar. That includes ice cream. Couple that with a lactose intolerance, and well – I haven’t had a milkshake in fifteen to twenty years. But this fisherman happened to mention that a certain Bait and Tackle shop just happened to have the best huckleberry ice cream on the planet. John was hooked.

They say that pride goeth before a fall. I didn’t occur to me that I’d have any. I don’t DO ice cream. This was for John. It was lunchtime when we arrived, and there was a lovely picnic bench at the water’s edge. We stepped inside the bait and tackle portion, with fishing supplies, taxidermy displays (including a black bear), and winter things – like snow shoes. At the far back right of the building was a little nook with six flavors of ice cream, and a small counter to make sandwiches. We waited in line behind one couple and watched the woman make a milkshake.

It wasn’t any old milkshake. It was so thick she used a long handled spoon to help the blender ‘stir,’ and as she did huckleberries swirled invitingly. My mouth began to water.

Her husband had half a dozen sandwiches in varying forms of completion. About ten people came in behind us. Popular place for a town of 90 people. John asked which was better…their huckleberry ice cream, or the huckleberry milkshake. “Milkshake, hands down,” said the gentleman slicing tomatoes (fresh heirlooms – another mouth watering experience). His wife handed the two thick, creamy huckleberry filled milkshakes to the couple in front of us, excused herself to ring up a customer from the bait and tackle part, and hurried back to take our order.

“I’ll have a huckleberry milkshake,” I shocked myself by saying. John nearly fainted. He had never seen me do that before. “Make that two,” he said in stunned disbelief. I watched, my nose nearly touching the blender as she scooped huckleberry ice cream into the blending apparatus. “Be right back,” she said. “Need more berries.” Have you ever had huckleberries? They grow wild, are smaller than a blueberry, have deeply colored purple flesh, and an intense bright flavor with the rich depth of a blackberry or marionberry. Anyway, with our late frost, the harvest of these incredible berries was sparse and a sandwich baggie costs ten dollars. She scooted upstairs for this season’s pick. People were now lined up to the front door. Back she came carrying a gallon of berries. She cast an anxious eye at waiting customers, and began making our milkshakes with all those glorious berries.

“Order up for Pat and Chris,” said her husband, hurriedly plopping their lunch on the counter. His wife glanced wildly around for Pat and Chris. I thought, please, don’t stop making my milkshake! No one came up to retrieve the sandwiches. “They must be out on the deck,” she said, looking harried. Should she finish the milkshakes? Carry out the order? Ring up the two men who wanted fly fisherman stuff way up at the front register?

“I’ll deliver them,” I said. She looked doubtful. “Really.” I nodded briskly. How hard could that be? “Which is which?” I had ulterior motive, of course. Keep making my milkshake. The one on the right was Pat’s, Chris’ on the left. Two men? A man and a woman? And if so, whose was whose? Unisex names. I picked up the two plastic baskets brimming with homemade sandwiches. “Coming through,” I said and shouldered my way into the three-deep-to-the-front crowd, to the door leading onto the deck. Right. A door. Hmmm, both hands full, indifferent crowd…oh well. Elbows. Helpful, are elbows. The handle was one of those lever types. I bent my knees intent on keeping my torso vertical so as not to pitch food ingloriously onto the floor, and used my elbow. You’d think with thirty people standing around, one of them could open the blessed door, wouldn’t you? But, no. I pressed down and pulled (still with my elbow) until I could wedge a foot in the door – all the while balancing these two sandwiches on steroids – and managed to walk through the door. Four tables of hungry people eyed my sandwiches longingly. “I’ve an order for Pat and Chris.”

“Here,” an old, old man said, waving his arm. I smiled and walked over to their table. “Pat?” I asked. He pointed in front of himself. I delivered his sandwich. “And you must be Chris.” An equally wizened woman nodded. “There you go,” I said cheerfully. “Enjoy!” I turned to the door, thinking I really hoped my milkshake was ready.

It was. Oh, it was. I had a nearly spiritual moment tasting mine, (or maybe it was closer to orgasmic). Either way, I nearly swooned. John led me away to a picnic table, brought the cooler out, and set up our lunch. I just stood there looking at the river, when my eyes weren’t rolling back in my head with sheer pleasure, and sipped. Proof of my slip-n-slide ride straight off the cliff of will power. Damn, but it was good!

Whimsically,

Laura