Flat

After a lovely breakfast with a long-time friend, my husband set off to do the grocery shopping, and I went on a cider run. Really wish I had my camera with me, because the rain-washed colors were striking.

Schutt’s Cider Mill has been in business for as long as I’ve lived in the Rochester area. My mother and I used to drive out for our weekly cider-and-doughnut fix every week—cider is so much healthier than soda pop, you know. Back then, they only sold apples and cider and doughnuts and, sometimes, home-made apple pies.

Now, of course, there’s lots of other stuff in their expanded store:  Christmas decorations, Web-kinz, scented candles, wine accessories, bulk pie spices, eggnog mix, kid jewelry, and things labelled “country crafts,” which look sorta like the stuff I brought home from summer camp when I was eight. But the core of the place still smells of apples, wonderful apples, many of varieties of apples, including my current targets: Northern Spy (a childhood favorite) and a relatively new variety I’m partial to, called Fortune.

After a mildly disappointing rummage through the cider refrigerators (no Russet cider until the 21st), I took my bags of apples to the register, successfully bypassing the fresh tray of hot cinnamon-sugar doughnuts without grabbing a handful. Paid for my stuff, said goodbye to Webster-the-rabbit on my way to the door, and started loading stuff into my car. My car, that was leaning away from me, so that the apples rolled down the slope to the opposite door.

This was not a good sign.

It was a busy day for the AAA tow trucks, I guess, because I waited over an hour for the truck.

The good news: my spare tire—the one I hadn’t looked at since I bought the car 12 years ago—was in good condition, so the truck guy was able to get me up and running in a few minutes. The bad news: after driving several miles to a tire store, and waiting through their futile attempts to re-inflate the tire, I now have to buy two new tires.

Yup. Two. These are radials, and apparently you can’t pair a new radial with an old, partly worn radial. That’s what they said. That’s what my regular car guys said when I called them. Two new radial tires. Sigh.

Merry Christmas.