Home. Egg sandwich.

Eastside Road, April 11, 2010—

THIS KIND OF TRAVEL day is still a bit unsettling. Breakfast: a cup of bad coffee in the motel, two cups of good coffee (Stumptown lattes) and a pain aux raisins from Ken's Artisan Bakery, in the car, driving south from Ashland.

Lunch: Some fine raisin-pecan bread, again from Ken's, and an apple, again in the car in a parking lot at the California Welcome Center in an outlet mall in Anderson. That's a place worth thinking about, maybe even writing about: not today.

Dinner at home, hooray: a Fried-egg sandwich, a green salad. I remember the fried-egg sandwiches I carried to school in the sixth and seventh grades, the eggs soaking through Mom's home-made bread, the funny leathery, lardy, eggy taste of those sandwiches, simultaneously faintly repulsive and thoroughly wholesome. They were a lot better than the peanut-butter-and-honey sandwich they were usually wrapped with. But Lindsey's sandwich was better yet.

Cheap Nero d'Avila