Lonely Cottage

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  “Among the few features of agricultural England which retain an appearance but little modified by the lapse of centuries, may be reckoned the high, grassy and furzy downs, coombs, or ewe-leases, as they are indifferently called, that fill a large area of certain counties in the south and south-west. If any mark of human occupation is met with hereon, it usually takes the form of the solitary cottage of some shepherd. Fifty years ago such a lonely cottage stood on such a down, and may possibly be standing there now. In spite of its loneliness, however, the spot, by actual measurement, was not more than five miles from a county-town. Yet that affected it little. Five miles of irregular upland, during the long inimical seasons, with their sleets, snows, rains, and mists, afford withdrawing space enough to isolate a Timon or a Nebuchadnezzar; much less, in fair weather, to please that less repellent tribe, the poets, philosophers, artists, and others who “conceive and meditate of ple...

The Best Part Of The Day

Some folks are morning folks. Others are "owls," the night-time folks. I'd like to think I'm a morning person because the evening comes on real fast for me nowadays. If I make it past 10:30 p.m., something's wrong. Know what I mean?

Don't get me wrong--I don't exactly bounce out of bed first thing, but the morning seems to be the best part of the day for me. As long as I have one or more of the following (I really don't care "when" during the day), I'll be fine:
  • Coffee
  • Eggs
  • Bacon and/or Sausage
  • Tortillas and/or Biscuits
  • Cheese (optional)
So for me, the best part of the day is when breakfast is served. Does that make me a morning person? Not necessarily. Just give me breakfast and everything'll be alright. 


I blame the Burrito Lady. If you don't know who the Burrito Lady is (we dubbed her "Mother Chorizo") then you ain't lived. Every day these local vendors would stop by the store selling fresh, hot, home-made burritos. Mother Chorizo was probably the best. She came to the back door of the place I worked, her grandson carrying an Igloo cooler filled with home-made breakfast burritos: scrambled eggs, sausage and bacon with potato and some jalapeno and the right sprinkling of cheese mixed in, all wrapped up in a fresh flour tortilla. Piping hot. For a buck, there was no better way to start the day. 

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