My husband and I took our kids to the beach today. Mind you, this is northern California so we dress in Patagonia, down vests, and socks to explore northern Sonoma County beaches. On the way, we stopped at our most favorite coastal bakery. A real foodie-haunt on Bohemian Highway in Freestone. Wild Flour Bakery is a truly unique, hands-on, artisan bakery. With no pretensions. Incredible gardens. All brawn and yeast and gorgeous flour. Just pure love of food and product, cheerful bakers and salespeople, and beyond Great coffee.
So at 8:55am, after driving 45 minutes for our monthly Sunday treat, we happily greet Dezzy behind the till. She is a serious baking fiend in the biscotti market and a 100% lovely human being. She patiently lets our wee hellions ask about bread and then about coffee-stirrers (aka Popsicle sticks that in their mind should forever lodge frozen bananas.) Dezzy graciously takes our order of hot coffee (him), Earl Grey tea (me) wt extra Bergamot, and an assortment of the best of the North Bay’s finest sourdough loaf (for the week), Meyer lemon scone, and literally the most bomb-ass-level-One Sweet Cinnamon Bun you’ve ever, ever had. Ever.
Then the guy next to us orders a latte. And it’s served to him in a Mason Jar. He has the 2-piece lid in his right hand. We both take note appreciatively. My Dean asks him and Dezzy “is that the new way to have coffee?” Hipster-beard-flannel-dude answers quickly and says,”um, No.” At this point, perhaps we should have taken cues from our acquaintance behind the counter to shut the hell up. Alas, I chime in “what a great idea!” And Flannel Dude emphasizes, looking at my hot tea receptacle, “well I wouldn’t want to waste… Just on my coffee.” And walks away.
One of those moments, dear reader, where you look at some asshat — before 9am mind you on a SUNDAY — who is totally attempting to make a very good point but with very foolish delivery skills — and with both of us AND the lovely Wild Flour ladies kind of mentally chiming in together “he is soooo Not worth it!” — to zenfully proceeded on with our morning. To only really come back to it late tonight because I can’t sleep. And because this idiot pissed me off. And insulted my husband. My mulching, composting, cutting-lotion bottles in half for the last drop, ‘don’t waste water!’, take our 50 acres Sonoma farm and Annadel Estate Winery organic ‘if it kills us’ husband.
Because what could I have said? That this über sheen bozo has a good idea? That I have a good 20 now-empty Mason Jars waiting at home to be refilled this canning season with blackberries, carrots, apricots, onions, pestos, cherries cured in bourbon? That Wild Flour Bakery wonderfully accepts Mason mugs/jars? Or That I’ve spent my entire decade of my 20s not being a kid but rather working for nonprofits and Eco-assertive politicos? That I later left NASA to mulch, make wine, garden and cook from the land? At 30 embraced my “midlife crisis” to ditch all pretensions, live authentically, and put my sweat where my dollar has always been? And that my husband — who only asked a kindly meant question about your glassware? Spends hours each week after work prepping our soils for spring planting because I have two torn discs. And that you, Flannel Boy, with your oddly trimmed beard, now seems like a mustached ferret with your Mason Jar coffee and lame smug ego.
But I will nonetheless go home and bring one clean Mason Jar and 2 piece lid with me to Scooteria tomorrow. Not that I would ever tell you that. Flannel Boy.