Journeys 3.1

Cycled downriver to Minnehaha Park for lunch. Sea Salt Eatery has a cooked-to-order menu that is quite sophisticated for a park concession. We got the usual: fish tacos, delivered to our table, washed down with a local draft IPA.

Dropped our primary ballots off at the Minneapolis early voting office. The election judges were in a great mood, and one insisted on taking my photo. I thanked them for running a system we can all trust. 

Dwight headed down to the weight room, which gave me an opportunity to cook up a surprise for dinner. For one week only, it’s Sausage Sunday (as opposed to Sausage Saturday). No surprises there: it’s a variation on a sausage and cabbage theme. Here it is, reflecting in a slow oven for about 2½ hours, hopefully undergoing a magical transformation.

Filled out primary ballots for U.S. Senator, U.S. Representative, Governor, and all the way down to school board members. In doing so, we asserted our right to choose a government that “shall seem most likely to effect [our] Safety and Happiness,” as declared in the Declaration of Independence. I’ll hand-carry these ballots to a drop-off point, especially since the Federal Government is threatening to block mail-in ballot delivery in states that don’t accede to their demands.

Cycled around looking at preparations for July 4. Our celebrations are very local, so there’s none of the partisanship of DC. Here, several blocks of downtown are being fenced off for A Taste of Minnesota, essentially a food truck corral with a bit of entertainment. The number of garbage bins impressed me. Meanwhile, down at Stone Arch Bridge, preparations were underway for celebratory events culminating in fireworks.

The loud squeak when I apply my front brake is a feature; I’m loath to fix what is probably just a minor misalignment. Today the trail to the fish shop was blocked due to light rail maintenance, forcing me to choose between a busy road and the sidewalk. I chose the sidewalk. The moment I applied the front brake, people practically leapt out of the way. Cycling on the sidewalk is legal in Minneapolis areas zoned residential, but, um… I was definitely in a commercial zone.

With angry rock pounding and the vague smell of fried chicken, I reacquainted myself with a St. Paul, Midway institution, Ax-Man Surplus. Nothing had changed over the decades from the iron lung to the snarky signs. As I walked out, empty-handed, the gnarly guy at the counter asked me if I’d ever thought of buying something I didn’t want. I said they now had mindshare, which seemed to be a sufficient response.