Banjo Man hauled me out of bed early Saturday morning to go to town.  He wanted goat cheese.  He wanted goat cheese bad.

You might recognize the woman in the pink apron as one of our mandolin players in the band.  Her daughter owns and operates www.wheywardcheese.com , so on Saturdays Ann aka Emmy Lou dons her apron and sells the finest goat cheese in Idaho.  Seriously, there was a line, as there usually is.

Cheeses in hand, we strolled through the rest of the market.  We didn’t have an “Old Geezer” sandwich, though it was tempting.  Sort of.

But we bought a pie, basil, basil plants, an apricot scone, fresh spinach and a loaf of gluten-free bread.

Then we went to the Hell That Is Walmart On A Holiday Weekend, but we finished up the trip to town with ice cream from the Conoco gas station, where there was a bit of gridlock at the gas pumps and some shouting  (not from us–we were on the sidelines and not getting gas) but the long-haired guy in the 1950’s motor home hauling an old boat looked pretty mellow despite his parking issues.   Peace, bro.

Banjo-joke-of-the-day:

Why is a banjo like an artillery shell?

Because by the time you hear either of them it’s too late to run.