Yogurt

Nancy pushes her retro John Lennon granny glasses to the top of her curly head and reaches for the wide brimmed tortoise shell readers to inspect up-close the expiration dates stamped near the bottom of the yogurt tubs. “August 3rd,” she says methodically, putting another one down on the counter. Though this expiration date inspection is a relatively new behavior, Karl has seen it before in the bathroom over the medicine drawer while searching for an ointment to battle the new patch of psoriasis developing over his right knee cap. It’s a little hard to take this old age behavior when it seems like just yesterday they were going through a gallon of milk a day keeping the boys alive.

Nancy has six perfectly expired yogurt tubs stacked up on the kitchen island. “Who buys these things and then doesn’t eat them?” Karl shakes his head. Nancy puts down the yogurt tub she’s looking at, and stares over the tops of her reading glasses at Karl. “It’s probably your health nut niece, Lynette. She’s the only one I know who would bring in this much yogurt and not eat it.” Nancy goes back to the job at hand of finding a fresh yogurt to add to their meager breakfast. So far, they have four slices of oat bran bread browning in the toaster, and just enough I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter and blackberry jam to cover the tops of them thinly. Karl waits with knife in hand, as Nancy continues her inspections.

They love the mornings most of all. With the windows open and the sounds of the waves hitting the beach, they can sleep until 8:00 A.M. Karl, the early riser, clicks on the coffee, noodles around, and waits for Nancy’s loud wake-up groan. Nancy refers to their bed in the cabin as “The Cloud.” Back in Grafton they sleep in separate beds, in separate bedrooms. Niece Lynette says they’ve broken up.

In the mornings at the cabin they sit on the deck, in the sun porch, in front of the bay window, or down on the beach. They drink their coffee, thumb the Pulse, or a People magazine. Karl wears his red plaid pajamas and looks at guitar magazines, makes lists in his pocket sized notebook. Nancy is in her black wrap around robe with her Blackberry in the pocket. By 9:30 A.M. they are looking for something to eat. They’ve perfected eggs benedict and buckwheat pancakes – but these are for guests. When it’s just them, they eat toast and cereal – or, as on a morning such as this, a yogurt – if Nancy can find one that hasn’t expired.

Karl rubs a damp rag over the two chairs and the corner of the metal deck table where they will sit. The gossamer filaments pull and snap to the rag, and a few tiny spiders scramble for a new place to hide. The August morning sun shafts clean and clear over the escarpment and down through the cedars burning off the mist and morning dew. The waves are small rollers into the rock strewn beach. There is an energetic red squirrel nipping the cedar berries down from the canopy. He stops only to trill his high pitched warning, and then it’s back to work. The sound of a small boat motor comes to a stop out in the bay, and a man clangs in his boat to hunt along with the seagulls for fish.

Nancy stacks the uneaten edges of her toast on the corner of her plate. Karl will eat one, or maybe all of them. She opens the yogurt and then gets up from her chair to pour the water off the top of it into the flower bed. Karl watches this and thinks he wouldn’t have done that. He would simply swirl the top water into the mix. He almost says something, but catches his tongue. They nibble on their meager breakfast, flip the pages of magazines, and Nancy checks her Blackberry for messages and the weather report. Karl finishes his toast and Nancy’s edge pieces – then pushes back to get up from the table. He is on a mission this morning.

Nancy looks up from the glow of the tiny screen. “Here, aren’t you going to have any of this yogurt?” She shoves the little blue tub on the carrying tray towards him.

He looks up at it, then back at his wife. “Is it expired?”

With a heavy sigh, she leans over to pick it back up, pushes her glasses to the top of her head and tries to read it. She shakes her head, and passes it over to him. “I don’t have my readers. See if you can make it out.”

Karl picks up the yogurt and spins it quickly around an inch from his fluttering eyes – robot like. “Ahhh, nope,” he says. He gets up from the table – gathering his notepad, magazine, and mug. He stops before heading back into the cabin. “Let’s maybe take a scooter ride into town later and pick up something to grill for dinner. Maybe restock the fridge with some fresh yogurts.” Nancy chortles going back to her emails, “the scooter ride sounds good.”

Mark Hunt is a craftsman and a wordsmith. He lives in Grafton, WI during the week, and works on a log cabin in Door County on most weekends.