THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1994, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Friday, December 23, 1994 TAG: 9412230473
SECTION: LOCAL PAGE: B1 EDITION: FINAL
SOURCE: GUY FRIDDELL
LENGTH: Medium: 68 lines
A trip by air to Lexington, Ky., was not without incident.
For one thing, stewardesses distributed muffins big as George Foreman's fist.
Time was, airlines served breakfasts. No more. But that's all right. They've slashed fares. So it's only fair to cut the fare.
And the muffins are tasty.
But it is impossible, no matter how careful you are, to keep from spreading crumbs on you, the seat, the person sitting by you, people in the aisle, and wayfarers wandering around 30,000 feet below.
``Look!'' they shout. ``Muffins from heaven!''
The cookie that crumbles is nothing to the muffin that disintegrates. Nibble at a muffin and half of it shatters and falls in your lap.
As passengers were debarking, I thought to leave a suggestion with the stunning young Amazon, her hair a helmet of gold, bidding us goodbye at the hatch.
``You know, ma'am, those muffins are good, but they spill crumbs all over the place,'' I began.
She smiled as if at a 5-year-old.
``Don't worry,'' she said. ``I won't tell anybody. I spill crumbs myself!''
At that flip rebuff, I had to grab the rail for support. ``What I was hoping you'd do,'' I said, ``is tell the management, and it might choose to favor us with something that wouldn't explode in our faces.''
``And what might that be?''
``A biscuit wouldn't be bad.''
``A biscuit won't crumble?''
``A biscuit pulls apart. But the integral mass is cohesive. A muffin blows up at the first touch.''
``Aren't biscuits dry?''
``Some are. To moisten a biscuit, pass out tiny paper cups of red-eye gravy. An ounce or two will do.''
``Wouldn't the gravy spill?''
``The biscuit would soak it up. For many of us, it would be a meal. You could call it the Sopper.
``To make gravy, fry country ham, stir water and a little coffee in the delectable leavings in the pan.''
She didn't seem impressed.
Another contretemps developed in riding a light-rail train to change planes in the terminal. It glided swiftly and silently as a black snake on the track of a rat.
When it stopped, and I started to get off, my shoe wedged in the door that was closing.
A voice boomed from nowhere: ``CLOSE THE DOORS. DO NOT GET ON THE TRAIN. YOU ARE DELAYING THE TRAIN. STOP!''
Irked beyond measure that the train was fussing at me for merely trying to depart, I bellowed: ``I AM TRYING TO GET OFF THE CONFOUNDED TRAIN. YOU STOP!''
The blue-green grass of Kentucky seems as glowing and fresh-wet as a just-done watercolor.
No wonder they sing about it.
White rail fences lace the billowing land. On vast spreads, no sooner do they finish painting fences, they must begin again, an unending task.
Tom Sawyer would make a fortune. More soon of that lovely land and my guide. by CNB