Yesterday afternoon Peg slogged through the door a little after five, timing her arrival to coincide with the end of my virtual workday, burdened with bags of groceries from Wegman's hanging from her arms.
Peg loves Wegman's. For those of you living below the Mason-Dixon line, think a cross between Publix and Whole Foods, with Whole Foods prices.
Every afternoon Peg finds a new culinary inspiration walking its aisles, and brings back to the apartment that portion of her paycheck that she has turned into gourmet groceries.
Last night it was to be something involving a deli roasted chicken and eggplant, among other things. My job in the kitchen, as always, is to chop and try to stay out of the way. I also manage the Spotify stream, for better or worse. Lots of John Prine.
Before we dive into cooking, we usually take a stroll around the neighborhood to look at leaves and old Victorian houses, almost all renovated to their former splendor. It is a blood pressure medication that never fails. On this evening, however, Peg suggested we walk down the hill, through the park just to our north, to the Corning Elks Lodge, No. 1071.
Peg has been an Elk for a long time; I joined when we started spending lots of time at the farm. We were and are members of the Perry Elks Lodge, No. 1851. It is the only place to buy a drink in Taylor County, so as you might expect it is the social hub of the community.
Like Perry, they had to buzz us in through the front door here. Or, more accurately, they buzzed in another couple who forgot their key card, and we rushed the door behind them. Once inside, we found a bar with a couple big screen TVs, an interesting antique bottle collection under glass behind the bar, and lots of folks in the dining room feasting on the daily special of pork tenderloin and gravy over mashed potatoes ($8!!). The crowd was older, mostly working class. They all knew each other, and there was a little ribbing around the bar.
A bartender with an earring and a bright pink t-shirt announcing his role as the "Covid police" on a large silk-screened badge shouted through a mask to a patron whose windbreaker logo suggested he was probably a retired high school coach, "Hey, if you're not sitting down, you need to put on a mask."
Peg had found her tribe.
The TVs alternated Biden and Trump ads. I wondered why Trump would bother, given that New York is solidly blue, then remembered that only a few miles down the road is Pennsylvania, still apparently in play. And although the more urban areas up here lean heavily Democrat, the surrounding hills are alive with the sound of MAGA.
Soon we found ourselves immersed in a host of new friends, and were given poker chips to cash in for a second round, on the house. After the second glass of wine served from one of those little bottles they give you on the airplane, P decided we should forget cooking and try their "famous" chicken wings, "the best in Corning." They really were pretty outstanding.
The bartender produced two lodge pins for us, bearing the image of the glass gaffer, the symbol of Corning.
The cook, Chris, came out in an apron and an Oregon Ducks t-shirt, only to explain the shirt was a gift and he was not equipped to talk Pac-12 football. This made me sad.
I noted that their "football special" on the dry erase board (chili dogs, in case you're curious or in town in two days) was on Sunday, not Saturday, because the college game isn't really a thing here. They inquired about my pro football loyalties. I told them my family had season tickets to the Falcons when I was a kid, and they breathed a sigh of relief that I would not be a combatant in their Sunday melees between fans of the Bills, the Giants, and the Jets. And the Cowboys, oddly enough. I never quite figured out how that would happen up here.
Then again, we did meet another sojourner, a retired Army sergeant major with a high-and-tight haircut, still lean and chiseled at 60. He moved here when he retired to be closer to his home in Boston, which he mourned had become unaffordable. He told us how much he made in retirement, and I mourned not staying in the military a little longer. At some point the conversation drifted into politics, and we smelled a little MAGA on his breath and shut it down quickly. Never start a conversation about Covid with Peg that suggests masks are a waste of time or that the whole thing is overblown.
The tab for the whole evening was $23 plus tip, a bargain in a place where bargains are few and far between. I'm thinking there may be a chili dog in my future on Sunday.
Cold, gray and drizzly this morning. Time to get to work.
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