[158] Screed City

[158]

07/02/2022 Saturday. Kitchen Microwave. Beaver Haus. Lower Granville, Vermont.

Farmers Market Week Eight:

Well, damn. July 4th weekend. I mean, I baked all day long yesterday. Cooked as many of the things as possible. Brought 54 of the things to the market. Sold out by 11:45a. I mean, that is good. I think the maximum might be 60. So there is a little more room for growth, but still. I did 4 GF Bubbys, 15 Cubby Bubbys, 15 Veggie Bubbys, 20 Breakfast Bubbys. $324 doll hairs. Not bad. I mean, I could have sold probably 20 more today. Easily. I mean, I don't know what it means moving forward. I could get another chafing dish, that would be easy enough. But unless I have two baking days, I don't know how I would make it happen. I mean, I baked from 8a to 6p yesterday. That was the limit. I had to set an alarm for midnight to take the final 20 out of the freezer, meaning, I couldn't have kept baking even if I wanted to. They would have just been ruined. I mean, I guess my new cooking day will be Sunday. That way I could maybe bake 20 more if needed. If you catch my drift. That, or I just bake like a hurricane all week this week and then have a stock build-up. I mean, I did come up with a new plan. Books. I will write "BOOKS" on the other side of the "FOOD" sign. When I sell out of Cubby Bubbys, I will just turn the sign around and start selling books. I mean, those things have a five year shelf life. I mean, maybe less. The fiction, mostly, but the other stuff, who knows? I mean, we'll see.

The day started out pissing rain. I mean, I woke up at midnight to get the things out of the freezer which fucked me up a little. When my alarm went off at 5a, I was very confused. I didn't hit snooze. I just turned the alarm off and shut my eyes again. Luckily something forced me to wake up, otherwise I would have just slept through the morning. I mean, usually I set two alarms. One for 5a and one for 5:01a just in case. But not last night. I mean, I went wild writing Roach Town [Italics.] It was a particularly zesty chapter. That I was sad to be finished writing. I mean, I was quite out of it when I hit the sack. I was surprised I even remembered to set the alarm for midnight. But I did it. It all worked out, but still, I got lucky. But it was pissing rain in the morning. I mean, also, I had the extra Bubbys to reheat, which was a logistical needle threading. I mean, the last thing came out of the oven at 6:56a. Four minutes before I needed to leave. I mean, ugh. Mo Bubbys, mo problems. Am I right?

It was raining still when I got to Waitsfield. I unloaded in the rain. Had to set my tent up early. Which was whatever. But having that extra chafing dish. I mean, I don't even know if I could do a fourth one. Now that I think about it. How would I even get it there? I couldn't, that is how. No room at the Inn as the Jesus freaks say. I mean, I guess that is something to consider. I mean, I suppose I could find a way to keep the things warm and then just transfer them out of the warming thing as I sold, but I have tried that before, and it is not ideal. I mean, one time I went to the market with 60 Cubby Bubbys. Sold 24 and came back home with 36 skunks. That's what we Boothers call a boned sale. It's an old term taken from Backgammon. No, Cribbage. I mean, that was a very dark day for Cubby Bubbys Inc. I mean, I learned a dire lesson that day. A day that still lives in infamy as the Pearl Harborist’s like to say. I mean, that is the reason that I will only increase my stock by increments of 3-5 Cubby Bubbys. I mean, however, the Gluten Free Cubby Bubby is a lasting thing. I think I can get away with at least seven of them. I'm a little nervous, but I think that the market is whet for it. I mean, the bar for them, the Gluten Free wildsters, that anything passable is worth it for them. And I am thisclose to actually having something better than edible. I mean, this last one was almost, ALMOST, inspired. I ordered some different flour that is coming in the mail. The next time, I mean, it is going to be superb. Just watch.

A couple of weidos came to my booth today to offer me a job cooking for some scheme they have brewing. I mean, like hell I am going to do it, but still, I do love a good scheme. And they are brewing up a fine one. The two ladies, one of which wants to get into my pants, I mean, what is that movie with Vince Vaughn and that other guy who do an ad-lib thing? Where they get involved with the mob or something? And Vince Vaughn is convinced that the bosses wife is "Vibing" on him, and then later we see her on his balcony? Like that. But at a Farmers Market in Vermont. Either way. The ladies didn't even know each others names. And they were looking for a "Cook" for their Summer/Winter retreat scheme. And the funny thing was that they were just throwing everything out there like they knew what they were doing, but really they were basically selling time-shares or Mary Kay products. I mean, it was quite fantastic. And the best part was that they had to make sure I was on board with making really generic food for random sucker tourists that were, I guess, coming up to ski or something? Go for hikes in the woods. That they had to make sure I wasn't a "Chef" with my own ideas. That I could do things like make bologna and cheese sandwiches. I mean, my curiosity is piqued. I mean, I am slightly turned off by the idea because it sounds like a lot of work for very little money, I mean, they didn't mention that the job paid well. In fact they seemed to avoid that conversation altogether, but still. Making cold cut sandies for 25-50 flatlanders, probably Japanese businessmen on some Vermont hot coals retreat, I mean, getting suckered by these two boobs and whoever they have pulling the strings in the pyramid scheme that they got sucked into. I mean, I won't lie, I see a Pulitzer coming down the pike. I just need to say yes and let the cards fall as they come. I mean, I won't have to actually do anything. Just wait. Wait until they can't find anyone better. They will get desperate and come looking for me. And I can't wait. It is going to be a lark of epic proportions. I mean, they didn't even buy a Cubby Bubby. The boneheads. I mean, for good reason. They obviously were strapped for cash. Otherwise they wouldn't have been lured into this pay to play nonsense. And they obviously were not going to get reimbursed for any out of pocket expenses. But still, I mean, shit, you would think that they would be a little bit curious if I could actually cook, right? I mean, they went over to the Vermont-style Tamales and gave them the same treatment as they gave me. I mean, for all I know though, they probably bought a tamale. The dicks. Everyone buys a tamale. And boy do they kind of regret it. I mean, it is the food equivalent of taking a drink from a water fountain. It is water, yes, but it barely slakes your thirst and, frankly, you wonder if it was worth bending over to do in the first place, but since there is no consequence to it, you kind of just wipe your chin and walk away. Never giving it a second thought. Butwhatever. There is no accounting for taste. I mean, I like that one. That idiom. Because it is actually true. There is no politics involved. You just can't account for taste. Try as you may, you just can't. I mean, what? There are 10 billion humans living on the planet right now? Taste is the least of our problems. I mean, consider McDonald's. I mean, at this point, that shit is just bee food for dumb asses. The masses. And, I mean, don't get me wrong, as Donkey would say, but that is where we are heading. That is how we transcend as a species. One day, very not far in the future, our food will just be sugar and salt. I mean, it is how it is. I am okay with it. I like a good Big Mac every now and again. I mean, it is like eating cardboard or whatever, but I am in no way against what it means. Not because I think we should all be eating corporate food while living in corporate housing and working at corporate jobs, but hey, go back to the fact that there are 10 billion assholes floating around all day, every day. I can rail against it all I want, I can't change the fact that most people just want to eat food that sucks. And as bad as McDonald's food is, it is very much a unique flavor. I hate to tell you. It is. It is a thing. It is not going away anytime soon. I mean, either get used to the idea, or let it go, because we lost the fight. The fight is over. Embrace it, or die. I mean, that is dramatic, but still, it's not just Americans anymore that like this shit. It is global. Which is why I will be introducing my Tex/Mex Cubby Bubby very soon indeed.

I mean, I saw a naked boob today. Two, in fact. One was a nursing boob, so it doesn't count. The other one, or two, as it were, belonged to this very vain and odd woman that wears a trucker hat and sells something I don't know what she sells. Hippy-style things. But she showed up wearing some fancy see-through dress thing that she said out loud to everyone within ear shot, "I know it is white and I don't care, even if it is pouring rain, I just wanted to wear it today!" Then I saw her naked boobs when she bent over to pick something up. I mean, I suppose that was nice. It was very Vermont-style though. I mean, I guess. Maybe I have become jaded because of the Upskirter. The stakes are too high now. Anything short of a butthole is just peanuts now. Woe is me. I can't even be scandalized by naked boobs. However, I did get a good ol' belly laugh from the Upskirter at about 9:15a. I mean, nobody was showing up. I mean, that moment when you think that things, although in your favor, they just seem off. I mean, it stopped raining. People were flooding in. Yet no one was buying shit. I said out loud, to no one in particular, I said:

"See, the trick is to stand here with your arms folded, scowling at people. That really brings them in." I mean, the Upskirter laughed very loud about that statement. Because it was true. You have to intimidate the marketeers. Those idiots don't know what is good for them. I mean, consider the tamale stand. The tamale booth. How people walk away eating the tamale, digging in, with a perplexed look on their faces. Wondering where the flavor is. Because there is no flavor. Those things just suck. I know it, everyone knows it. I feel like even the tamale lady knows it. She does it on purpose. And it isn't even like McDonald's, where you will at least be served something specific. That you are comfortable with. I mean, I don't even know how to talk more trash than I already am. I mean, even my shit-talking is becoming water fountain politics. They win. They beat me with their mediocrity. I mean, if I was smart, I would slowly degrade the Cubby Bubbys until they were truly milquetoast. Maybe get a Saltine cracker bread dough going. Remove the "Spices" and salt. Add canned corn to everything. Have a vat of green salsa that people can scoop onto the Bubbys. Sell them in paper boats. I mean, true, I am selling out every time, but still, there is no real accounting for it. I don't know. I mean, next time. This next weekend. I think I will know. I will max everything out. Bring 25 Breakfast Bubbys, 15 Cubby Bubbys, 15 Veggie Bubbys, 10 Gluten Free Bubbys. Then we will see. I have no choice. There is just no telling. Because if it is true that I am catching on, then I will know. If it true that everything is a numbers game, I will find that out also. I mean, I am running low on sacrificial Bubbys to put on display. Which stinks. I mean, I don't mean to be negative, but c'mon. If I am now making extra Bubbys just to cut them in half so the people can understand? I mean, champagne problems for sure, but what next? I actually start a business? I mean, people were wondering today if I sold the things cold or frozen so they could take some home with them. To put in the icebox for Ron. Later Ron. I mean, I won't lie. Vermont-style tamales aside, if I had my shit together, I could make this happen. The question is whether or not it is worth it. I mean, this Farmers Market is a HUGE commitment. 22 weeks of Saturdays. I mean, I could do it. I suppose. But what? $400-$500 dollar Saturdays? Two days of baking? I mean, I would need to do at least two more Farmers Markets. But then what? $200-$300 dollar other markets on like a Friday or Tuesday. Bring in like $1,000 dollars a week? I mean, it wouldn't be the worst. I would just have to commit to it all. Baking four days a week. Markets three days a week. I mean, there goes my Summers. But it is probably better than climbing scaffold or driving for seven to 10 hours every week, right? I mean, there would be travel time for sure, but it would be like going to Rutland or Montpelier. I mean, I could do it. I really could do it. I mean, let me think about it. I mean, next weekend will let me know. If I do my thing. Do the 60 Bubbys on an interstitial time frame. I mean, if I sell out next weekend, I will have my answer. If I don't. I mean, nothing will be lost.

I mean, another funny thing happened today. Stephanie showed up! From Buttz road. The cat lady from the Busy Body Society. The one that quit because of Chain Smoking Judy. I mean, she was there, in the flesh ATBMS. I wanted to talk to her, she was hanging out in the Glassblower's booth. But I didn't dare. She intimated at the very last Busy Body Society meeting that she had been stalked many times since moving to Vermont. So it seemed beyond creepy for me to go up to her and to say:

"You're Stephanie, right? From Buttz road? In Granville?" I mean, I did that same thing to the Glassblower, butwhatever, he wasn't on the committee, and he is a dude, so whatever. I mean, it kind of falls into the same untouchable gray area about asking Abbie about whether or not she had a baby. Which, WHICH, I still don't have an answer to! I mean, she did come over and buy a Breakfast Bubby today. Saying:

"I don't know the last time I bought one of these things, but I couldn't resist." I can tell you, Abbie. It was the third week of August last year. It is how I decided you were pregnant. Because not only did you buy a Breakfast Bubby that day, but you also ate a chocolate croissant. That left a chocolate stain on your lip. Now, tell me you had a baby! I just need to know! It is killing me that I don't know! Did you have a baby or not????????????

I mean, where was I? Oh, Stephanie. I mean, I should have just introduced myself. She was in a safe space. Behind the Glassblower's tables. But still. It would have been too much. Sometimes you just need to keep things to yourself. If you know what I mean? I mean, nobody wants to hear it. That is what I mean. I mean, I really doubt I would appreciate someone telling me who I was when I didn't know them. Even if there was a connection that I was not aware of. That kind of social interaction is a thing of the past. And good riddance. But still, I mean, not really, I don't really care. There is no real intrigue here. Just a mild curiosity. I already know everything. The meeting is merely a formality. And not with respect to myself. I mean, there is nothing to gain here. Aside from shit getting awkward. Right? But I did find it mildly fascinating for a moment. I mean, I was curious about how her cats were doing. But even that would have been too much. Society, man.

I mean, the Dog Collar Lady said she would drop off some horseradish root for me soon. So I could make a good sauce for the Cubby Bubbys. That she decided was missing when she ate one. I mean, I told her husband, the guy that does the Wednesday show on WMRW or is it WMRV? I need to check my shirt, I mean, I told him I was doing the learning on Friday next week. He said that was great and I should expect some root soon. I mean, I think I am finally in it! Vermont-style. The hooks are in.

[Insert Border Town]