Cheap Cheeseburger In Paradise...

That great American convenience, the drive-thru, is one place you'll not see much of me. Whether it be bank, restaurant, pharmacy, or even beer distributor, the drive-thru has always made me twitchy.

The reason is about as simple as it gets; way too often, they don't work, they don't do what they're supposed to do, they save you no time at all.

Who among us hasn't had the feeling that you caught the burger joint crew by great surprise when you pulled up and had the temerity to order food? I knew the drive-thru had abundant weaknesses that first time I was asked to pull ahead and someone would bring my order to me.

"Huh? Why don't I just park here and come in and help you make it?" says me to the young lady hurrying to slide the window shut before I could warm up and get my brilliant sarcasm firing like a Lamborghini piston.

And so it has been that I avoided the drive-thru as a matter of routine for more years than I feel like counting.

I've come back. All is forgiven.

Enter the dollar double-cheeseburger.

Whatever name or guise it takes, it's a buck for a burger, and a mighty good little burger at that.

It's an amazing piece of American marketing.

It works. It works too well. I've bought into it.

While standing at a counter to spend a buck and six might make one look a champion tightwad, the anonymity of my truck offers enough protection from the accusation.

Therein the dilemma faced several times a week, those times when hunger falls on you from nowhere, leaving you empty, hollow, with a maddening pang for something carby, unhealthy, fast, and nearby. Oh, it need be a bit greasy, too. And now, sweet matriarch of all that nourishes and fattens, it's cheap!

You know the chains, the franchises. No need here for me to name names. Just about all of the big corporate joints have something right around a buck now. The temptation is frightening.

Not to be outdone, one non-burger place can offer you five sandwiches for about six bucks. A sack of sandwiches with condiments, paper napkins, all awaiting an arm's length away, right there at that little window, the one that might as well be a tollbooth along the Tubby Turnpike.

Negligibly priced and good, satisfying, filling the comfort-food hole in your soul, this is truly a good deal. We all know that there are moments, and yes they do pass, that the hole needs to filled, the monster demands to be fed.

Well, by God, there I was, sitting no more than seventy feet from the far too conveniently located drive-thru one day last week, eyeballing the signs in the window telling what taste of our cultural gastronomy is now available for one dollar and six cents. A pair of discreet binoculars, maybe opera-glasses, might have been helpful. That way I'd not miss an item before succumbing to this devilish temptation.

Please know that there are those times I do not cave, I embrace denial successfully and drive off hungry. Who's keeping score?

I'm not a cheap man, not one to pinch pennies, to nickel and dime any situation. If anything, the opposite be true. Spendthrift is a good word, it fits me well at times.

It's not about the money, but the money plays an evil role in it all. Those ugly twins of greed and avarice are at work. Satiation for a buck, a belly fuller still for two bucks. This is temptation not easily ignored.

If that double baby was regular price, pffffffttt, no thanks. At a buck, irresistible, fetching, and appealing aren't strong enough words.

The bigger mountain to climb is that those offering dollar menus seem committed to their continuance.

I'm in trouble...and I doubt alone.

All Talk, No Train...

I've gotten grumpier and grumpier about this topic with every year's turn of the calendar.

By my accounting, it's been roughly twenty-five years since the train to NYC has been a done-deal, and today it's no more done than it was in 1985. My recollection is that the in-earnest talk began the day Steamtown announced it was relocating to Scranton. It was almost a joint announcement, making it a given that NYC/Scranton rail passenger service was maybe a couple years away. That was 1984.

How many follies, fads, and delusions have come and gone while we wait?

When you get right down to cases, all we've ever had have been hopes and dreams, and even those flimsy traces are vanishing right before us. The pain lies in having those hopes and dreams perpetuated by some really important and powerful people. What I've found enormously fascinating is that, should you gauge optimism for the return of rail passenger service over in New Jersey, you'll find that there really isn't any. On the other side of the Delaware, they know better, they think it's kind of comical that we keep on waiting for some train that's never coming.

Isn't the time for that over? Doesn't someone need to step up and admit that, if this ever does happen, we are now looking at another twenty-five years before it does? A child born today might set foot on Mars before a steel-wheel turns.

Each time a feeble and wobbly step forward is made, five enormous shoves backward immediately follow.

For those at all interested, I wrote about this some time ago, then explaining the situation.

The latest news is not good. In fact, the latest news is dreadful.

With eight billion federal dollars up for grabs, neither PennDOT, nor our senators, nor any other interests involved, managed to come up with eight dollars in furtherance of this project. Nothing, zero, bupkus, not a nickel out of eight billion dollars. Did I say dreadful? Add pitiful and jaw-dropping as well.

Failing so miserably when there is that kind of money available is enough to justify finger-pointing. Even that might be a waste of time.

For all the assurances that this project has been alive since Cagney&Lacey lit up our TV screens on Monday nights, I've believed that to be less and less true with each passing year. Waiting since 1984, I sort of figured it to be largely meaningless talk about eight years ago. My skepticism has now turned to a granite-solid certainty that there will no passenger rail service between Scranton and NYC for decades to come, and that there may never be any such service; a claim I've made before.

Never is indeed a long time. So is twenty-five years.

There are those who've already begun spinning this as a setback. One congressman has called it a "...bump in the road." Yes, and the Grand Canyon is just some old hole in the ground.

Maybe all involved should come clean and recognize the project for the trainwreck it's long been.

We Survived YTK and Its Infant Decade To Date...

I wrote the following on the last day of 2009, before the Haiti earthquake. Does it change my mind? No, not at all. Please forgive the wagging finger, but although I firmly believe we should help the Haitian cause, for the love of all humanity, make sure who you're giving your money to in this tragic time.

___________________________________________________________________


New Year's Eve 1999. The world waited, watched, and held its breath, expecting all computer systems around the planet to crash, and take civilization along with them into some black silicon hole from which there was no escape.

Never happened.

The only survival kit I needed January 1st, 2000, was a long winter's nap to sleep off the beer of our partying at home with neighbors the night before. We can't ignore the fact that the new century really didn't get underway until a year later. Yeah, alarmists tended to overlook that.

Even my GW2K G2 did nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing. I sat nearby while the ball dropped. Nothing. The 1999 technology, then sitting in a corner of our kitchen, is about what you can now slip on your belt, as most of us do. The machine is still in the basement waiting to be reborn as a big doorstop or a small anchor.

Ten years later and some are looking to 2012 as a pivotal year. Nostradamus alleges to have singled out 2012 in one of his quatrains as the year that the world now known will end. It's unclear, in my view, whether or not a new world will emerge, only that the one we're now calling home is finished in 2012.

Why, even the Mayans, that mysterious and brilliant tribe that once ruled the Yucatan and Meso-American culture, are said to have nailed 2012 as doomsday, or is that doomsyear?

Mathematical and astronomical systems, art and architecture, were all in full and practiced use by the Mayans. A bit beyond twenty years ago, I had the great good fortune to see Tulum and stand on the very sand of that breathtaking beach you see right here.

Somewhere, there's a photo of my then fiancee and me, arm in arm in the brilliant Caribbean sunshine of a January day. All smiles for the camera, I couldn't take my eyes off of her, yet the ruins and the "it-can't-be real-but-is" blue of the water, and the significance of where we stood was not lost on me.

We had a tour guide that day, a gentleman of Mayan descent, who walked us through the ruins. The one thing that forever stuck in my mind is his saying the Mayans, despite their advanced state, had yet to discover and/or invent the wheel. Even today, that sounds suspicious to me.

Sitting here on New Year's day 2010, it seems to me he never mentioned that our world was in its final decades, either.

Despite many swearing that the Mayans predicted 2012 as at least the beginning of the end, factual information argues strongly to the contrary. Put another way, they never said any such thing.

The Mayan calendar apparently ends with 2012, does that mean it's over? For good measure, it's now also said that the Mayans set the date, that would be December 21st, 2012, which means we'll miss Thanksgiving by one day, while many will have finished up Christmas shopping before Earth goes spinning out of its orbit and tumbles off into the cosmos. December 21st is also the Winter Solstice, so will winter have begun, not begun, or be just beginning at the very second the world comes to an end?

See, I love a good conspiracy theory, so much so that my belief is that one day, some theory will turn out to be true. What then will happen is that no one will believe it's true, because there are so many conspiracy theories to choose from that the very one that proves true will be dismissed as just another crock.

Will the world end in 2012? Given the ignored fact that the Mayans observed several different calendars, all of which appear to reset and recycle upon expiration, and that what they observed changed frequently, odds favor a big disappointment for all local chapters of The End-Is-Near Club.

Also ignored is that pesky little fact that no Mayan calendar matches up with the calendar we use, the Gregorian Calendar.

Had enough? One more bothersome fact. There is ample proof suggesting that the Mayan 2012 matches up with the Gregorian 2007, meaning that it already happened, we're still here, and not to worry.

Will it all end in 2012? Betting huge money against it would be pretty safe. If our world is still here in 2013, you could win, win big. If it's not here, you can't collect, you can't pay. A genuine win-win.

Happy New Year!

The Center of The Universe and the GPS...

Did you ever hear the one that Scranton is the center of our universe?

The sense in the nonsense on this claim is grounded in the allegation that most everyone in at least the USA has some connection to Scranton. Many would take it beyond our borders.

Personally, I've found it to hold some water, plenty of leaks, mind you, but some water. For example, try the following on for size:

My first adventure far west took me to Idaho. It was a long day.

My memory's a little fuzzy on the details. What I do know is that it began at AVP, took three airlines, four flights, nearly nine hours before landing in Idaho. If you don't know Idaho, first get comfortable with the fact that Iowa and Idaho are not the same place. Then let me say that Idaho is one of the most beautiful states in our union, maybe not so much as Utah, but really close. Gorgeous, lightly populated, and simply spectacular. Wide open spaces? A four-hour round trip just to have dinner is not uncommon among Idahoans.

Within an hour of landing in Idaho, at Pocatello Airport, I'd met a guy who was born and raised in Edwardsville, which would be the Edwardsville right next to Larksville. I mean Kingston, Edwardsville, Larksville. True story.

Several years ago, the "Scranton" bubble burst.

It was Announced that Olyphant, Pennsylvania, very close to Scranton for those unfamiliar, was really the center of the universe. Start here and join the enlightened.

If that doesn't shove your oars in the water nice and deep, do this one.

There's more, but that's an ample start. Once you get good, then we can talk the Carbondale UFO controversy.

Let's not achieve overload here.

For now, the matter at hand is a recent drive to Olyphant.

An easy trip for most in these parts, especially for those who've been through Olyphant uncountable times, like me.

I've known Olyphant since family trips to Eynon Drug/Sugarman's in dad's '54 Packard.

When 12 or 13, I used to ride my bicycle up the Boulevard, take a right at Dickson City Corners, and pedal on out to Olyphant and come on back home in under an hour.

Then there were high school events at "d'urn," alternately known as The Urn.

The Urn was right down Olyphant's Lackawanna Avenue from "d'anker," which also has an alternate name, that being The Anchor, a vets and war monument from WWII that sits at Blakely Corners. Got any or all of that?

Olyphant is home to Bosak's, Blakely is the same to Kutsop's, both said to have wonderful kielbasi, smoked of course. I will attest to such.

There was positively no need for me to use my GPS to get to Olyphant and Bosak's. But, really, why have a toy if you can't play with it? I punched in Bosak's address before pulling out of the driveway at home, then ignored the voice - I use the female - until forty minutes or so later when I pulled into Olyphant, whereupon things got strange in a hurry.

Any GPS can be wrong, as indicated in a previous post. Given the enormity of what that little box stuck to your windshield can do, it's not surprising that mistakes happen.

What I had here, though, was mistake after mistake after mistake. Once in Olyphant, my GPS couldn't get a street right. Just for squats and chuckles, I kept turning the opposite of where it told me to turn. It would then recalculate quickly.

Each time, it was wrong.

Each time, I kept hearing to "Turn right at..." Invariably, there was no such street.

Knowing full well where Bosak's is, on the Burke By-Pass, my earth to satellite communications were severely confused. Should I be circling Mars looking for a landing, I'd be screwed.

Streets that were nowhere to be seen, 500 feet to a non-existent intersection, turn left where there is no left, and several times the directions took me away from my destination, not towards it. I loved every second of it.

And I loved the kielbasi, both Kutsop's and Bosak's. The delightful young lady at Kutsop's was right about the horseradish and red beets (known by serious old country adherents as "hreen." You'll need to roll the h and the r to pronounce properly.). It was hotter than the hinges of Hades. I loved every spoonful.

Away from kielbasi and back to Olyphant, is this a town with some mystical powers? Is this a borough placed upon the planet by beings beyond ourselves?

Heck if I know.

My GPS seems not to know, either.

Go for the kielbasi, anything else is a bonus.

The Litter Box - 2010's First Stinkies...

I Like the Lawrence Welk Show...Working up the nerve to make that admission takes time. Visiting my grandparents as a kid, they'd sit and watch and smile as the show wound its way through one piece of corn after another, with a couple of Geritol commercials thrown in by Mr. Welk himself. All the while I squirmed and itched on their couch. Going out in the yard and running face first into an iron hinge on their garage door would have been more fun for me. Today, the show reminds me of simpler and uncomplicated times, times when a couple of smiling dufuses dancing across a sound stage floor could excite the imagination. I've been thinking about how old my grandparents were when I sat there on their couch...I don't want to talk about it right now.

Are you ready for Christmas?...You hear that a lot each year. Each year, I'm not ready. Each year, Christmas happens anyway.

Are you ready for New Year's?...Why, is there some approved list I should be checking?

Any New Year's Resolutions?...No, I'm quite fine the way I am, except for that one time I made a negligible mistake, which was driven solely by my desire to relate better to, to Joe Sixpack, or Frank Frontporch, or Mr. and Mrs. Anytown, USA. American futility at it's best; the New Year's Resolution. Make 'em to break 'em. Honestly? I want a great year for our SPCA.

Tiger Woods...Can we all leave this one alone? To say that I couldn't care less is the very definition of understatement. If his "stock" falls, it means that the leeches who were sucking his financial blood are thirsty, maybe drying up. Tough tees. Mr. Woods, I am certain, is fine. Go forth, sir, and do what you do like no other; golf.

Luzerne County's Newest Commissioner...I don't know Mr. Cooney. My assumption would be that he is a man of honesty, integrity, decency, and that he has no intention of trying to run for the seat next time around. That being true and said, could not this court en banc have selected someone, anyone, who has absolutely, positively, undeniably no connection whatsoever to Luzerne County and its recent administrations? Apparently not. For the record, no, I had no interest in the job under any conceivable circumstance.

Jumping Into Ice Cold Water on New Year's Day...Oh, that I had the nerve. I do not. Good cause or not, has anyone ever died doing this? The shock to some human systems has to be deadly. They call him "Crazy" Chris Concert. Chris, you've now earned the title.

Kathy Griffin Drops the F-Bomb Again...That's what she does, get it? Stop paying attention, she'll stop doing it. While we're practicing an ounce of common sense, something show biz isn't real good at, how about CNN and others deny her the venue to let it fly? Oh, some have called it a "curse" word, even wire services and major news outlets have called it a curse word. It's not. A curse word involves asking a deity to hurt someone. The F-Bomb is about as human as it gets. Remember, we made up the word. No one ever came down from any mountain with chiseled stone telling us not to arrange those four letters in that order. Griffin is an obnoxious clod. She does make me laugh a times. At others, I really wonder how she can do that routine non-stop. If I were her, I'd get on my own nerves.

Everyone Wanted 2009 Done and Gone...Just why is the question. Most all folks I've bumped into over the last couple weeks were looking forward to getting this first decade of the new century behind them. Splitting hairs about the new decade not really starting until 2011 notwithstanding, it seems that the last nine years have been unkind to many. A free admission; my lows since 2000 have been the lowest. I don't blame an arbitrary calendar. The only villain is life itself. It's one hell of a journey.

First Night Celebrations are "Dry" Events...Yes they are, and no they are not. Any First Night sponsored event, indoors or out, is dry. At the very same time, every saloon and restaurant in town is open for business, just waiting for you to pop in for a couple pops. This might be filed under clever packaging.

"...side effects may include strange dreams."...Have you ever had a dream that wasn't strange? Aren't dreams by their very nature strange? I keep hearing more and more prescription pharmaceuticals listing longer and longer disclaimers, often being lengthier than the part of the commercial pitching the drug.

Stranded By A GPS...Over the holidays, a Nevada family found itself stranded for three days because their GPS sent them down a remote forest road. A short cut, obviously, a quicker way to grandma's - literally over the river and through the woods instead of using the interstate. About a week before these people got in this jam, my GPS tried sending me up a steep dirt road, one covered with snow, while I was out just poking around over in Wayne County. One glance and I thought, "Kathy Griffin that!" and dismissed making the turn immediately. Brillliant? No. Again, it's that thing called common sense? Try it, it works.

Diocesan School Super Takes Leave...A personal or personnel matter? I suppose both, but since no one's talking as to why the man is gone, I'll speculate. The diocese is clearing the way for a new bishop, who could be announced as early as this weekend. In an effort to make clear the path of that new bishop, many will fall. It's all about that new broom sweeping clean. Bigger by far is the need to get all of the former bishop's allies and accomplices off of the new guy's landscape, that's to further dissociate then from now.

Judge Muroski...A little patience would have prevented a lot of grief.

And so I end for now.

So, Who's It Gonna Be?

There's plenty of talk out there about just who the next bishop of the Diocese of Scranton will be.

Yes, I am opinionated, long a believer that an unexamined life is not worth the living, so I've been thinking, and all thoughts and speculation, at least for my money, lead strongly to one conclusion.

I know who it's going to be.

If you have any connection to the Diocese of Scranton or any of its parishes, you've probably heard the name recently, meaning you, too, know who it will be.

Out of my obvious respect for all parties involved, mentioning a name would be indelicate and irresponsible. Even the photo is generic, I didn't want to take any chances.

That said, his name could be posted right here, right now, and with little doubt...that's the little doubt in my head, not necessarily in the head of he who'll ultimately make the decision.

So, who makes the decision? Well, officially and by Canon Law, Rome, the Pope himself, decides.

Surely Rome will stamp its hearty approval, maybe even seal in wax, the choice of the next ordinary of this Roman Catholic See, but Pope Benedict XVI runs a big outfit, and doesn't have time to micromanage. Recent estimates say a billion worldwide are Catholic. A staggering number.

Time for the usual disclaimer, the short version; born and raised Roman Catholic, I have not practiced as such in many, many years. That doesn't mean my Catholic strings are all cut, gone, and forgotten. Not at all.

I'm an avid and consistent observer of the Church and its many twists, turns, and missteps. The recently resigned bishop would be among the missteps, with now being the time to correct it with an appropriate choice for the episcopacy of NE PA.

So, if not Rome, the Pope himself, or even the curia, just who does make the decision? It's not exactly a secret that the metropolitan of the archdiocese in which any diocese is situated gets to make the call. That doesn't for a second mean it's an uneducated decision. Hardly.

It's easy to believe that a lot of thought, prayer, input, homework, reflection and introspection goes into choosing a bishop. With plenty of damage here to be repaired, it's an extremely important decision, likely the most important one Cardinal Justin Rigali will make during his tenure.

Scranton, being a suffragan see of the Archdiocese of Philadelphia, Cardinal Rigali alone will decide, if he hasn't already, who'll lead and heal this diocese for a good many years to come. His decision, subject to Rome's almost guaranteed agreement, will be respected without question.

I've been convinced which priest would be the choice since the very second I heard of Bishop Martino's resignation. I think the same today. A handful of friends I have within the diocese confirm that my long-held guess is indeed the most solid rumor out there. Rumors, while possessing the potential to be nasty, are often based in truth. So it is that we shall see.

It might be worth noting that I also guessed that Cardinal Rigali would bring the new bishop-designate home with him as he celebrated Mass on Christmas Day at St. Peter's Cathedral. He did not, disappointing, from what I've been told, more than a few people. Do great minds think alike? Perhaps it's more accurate to say that idle minds think alike.

Somewhere in the near future St. Peter's will be the site of an episcopal ordination, the making of a new bishop. What a great day that will be. I wonder what the chances are that a "lapsee" like myself could somehow wrangle an invitation?

If my guess is wrong, and right now I doubt that will be the case, look for an immediate admission of my inaccuracy right here. And do remember, you can expect full disclosure from a former altar boy and Boy Scout.

1/03/10 - P.S. I did fail to mention that there is an age-old process that must be followed for the selection of a bishop, one involving a number of people and formalities before a decision is announced. That being true, my statement about Cardinal Rigali appointing his choice still stands.

A Failed Mission - Kielbasi Unfindable...

Someday we'll have solidarity. Someday we'll come to the same table and agree just how we spell, and of weightier import, how we pronounce that particular Polish sausage, smoked or fresh, commonly called kielbasi. It'll be tough getting all parties to any such table. It'll be sort of like the Paris Peace Talks.

One matter for very serious dialogue will be the actual national origin of this sausage. While we think of it as being Polish, it would appear that all Eastern European cultures and tribes have, as a staple, a ground and stuffed casing meat product that sure looks like kielbasi. And, yes, kil-BAH-see is indeed my favored pronunciation, so going with kielbasi as a favored spelling only makes sense. I know no one, and remember the bride is Ukrainian, who calls it kil-BAH-suh, yet many insist on the spelling of kielbasa. It's America, a free country...so far.

Even The Plymouth "Kielbasa" Festival, three days of devoted celebration of the sausage, spells it with an "a" and not an "i." Yet I'd wager a half dozen rings of Bosak's finest smoked that, if you could find three people at the festival who call it anything other than kil-BAH-see , that's pushing things.

And while we're at it, how about a Lackawanna County kielbasi maker winning this competition again? Bosak's is in Olyphant.

Luzerne Countians, mostly Wyoming Valley-ites, are pretty confident about having the best when it comes to ethnic dishes, and rightly so, yet a northerner takes home the prize again. Born and raised in Lackawanna County, now making my home in Luzerne County, I am not about to take a side here.

There is likewise the bologna versus baloney controversy, a discussion for another time. For now, though, do remember that bologna, or baloney, is also a smoked sausage, as is the beloved hot dog.

It wasn't baloney or hot dog I was after, it was kielbasi. I needed smoked kielbasi. The yearning was kielbasi, and the palate wants what it wants. Smoked kielbasi, nothing else could fill the void.

Two times a year, the taste for kielbasi is irresistible. My guess is that you can figure when those two times might be. One of them just passed, and with it, the urge diminished some but not altogether. Come Christmas, come Easter, I just want some good smoked kielbasi. See those dangling beauties over there? That's what it should look like, needs to look like.

There is nothing fancy about kielbasi, it couldn't be more peasant if it were made of barn sweepings mixed with moat water. Kielbasi is the essence of peasant, using cuts of meat those privileged in ages past wouldn't touch. What's in the sausage? Right. Don't ask. With genuine kielbasi, it has to be pork. Those serfs who somehow created this thing we love, created it with pork. Again, don't ask what's in that sausage.

Contest winners aside, it was too far a drive to Olyphant. My timing was bad. Should timing have a face, it would now be giving me the stink-eye. If timing is indeed everything, I was again with nothing. Mid-afternoon, on a Sunday nonetheless, is not the time make a kielbasi run in any direction.

Just so we'll all be in the same culinary pew, the kielbasi of which I speak is not what often passes for the same in large chain supermarkets, vacuum-packed and mass-produced and all. Although that "Smoked Polish Sausage" ain't half bad, it's not kielbasi to me. While not necessarily homemade, real kielbasi is undeniably handmade, then smoked with real wood in a real smokehouse. It's not born of extrusion from a machine, then soaked in some smoke-flavored brine and pronounced the real deal.

Without time to go north, I turned south.

Nanticoke sounds like a reasonable place to start, and with any luck, find what I need. The Park Market's kielbasi is a legend unto itself. Whether award-winning or not, it has a solid and vociferously defended reputation. Sounds good to me.

Closed.

I missed Park's early shut-down on Sundays at 1:00 PM by little more than an hour. If it were by five minutes, could be I would have tried the door, knocked on the window, been the kind of annoying clod I myself so dislike. Kielbasi deprivation is nasty. The store was dark. Me, too.

I remembered another family-owned Nanticoke store famous for kielbasi. That would be Swantko's. Great! Where is it? I didn't know.

It was there this past weekend, right on the north side of Patriot Park in Nanticoke, that old world Europe met late 2009 technology. I wanted that kielbasi. Googling Swantko's on my BB was easy, so was punching its address into my GPS. Swantko's was but a five or six minute ride.

Closed.

Sadly, closed for good. A sign in the window of Swantko's narrow white wood frame building, sitting in a residential neighborhood in the Hanover Section of Nanticoke, thanked loyal customers for their years of patronage. Good-bye. Swantko's is no more, apparently having turned out the lights for the last time not long ago. Did they survive through Christmas?

What's a kielbasi-loving Celt to do? Duryea! Komensky's on Main! Turn north, make the run.

Closed.

My own fault, again timing is the key, a couple hours earlier and it could have been kielbasi for dinner.

What I won't mention by name are the family-owned markets I did check that didn't have anything that even looked like a ring of kielbasi. One market almost always has it, Thomas' Family Market on Rt. 309, it's their own and very good, but they were sold out by the time I came manically panting in the door. My problem, certainly not theirs. If you can't sell out kielbasi at Christmas, just when can you?

Maybe this coming weekend.

Smoked kielbasi - not exactly the Breakfast of Champions, but worth whatever drive it takes.