I awoke at 4:50 a.m., with the radical thought of concluding my Tuesday walk at somewhere other than the French Pastry Shop. I shook my wife awake to ask if she planned to join me. Linda mumbled something sleepily and seemed to be going back to dreamland—until I said that today we would not be visiting the pastry shop. The shock of disbelief made her sit up immediately, sensing that something was wrong. Maybe I was broke again—but she knew that I could always ask her to fund the pastries, so that wouldn't be the reason. Cutting to the point, she asked why, and I said, "The Farmers Market will be open this morning." (They sell pastries there.) Although the market began opening on Saturdays a few weeks ago, this was its first Tuesday of the season. Linda breathed a sigh of relief, and we both got up to prepare to seize the day—and this new treat.

At 5:45 I called to check the temperature, which was 46 degrees. Just about right. Then I went outside to wait for my wife in the driveway. There my neighbor was waiting—which surprised me, because he had company visiting from Juneau, Alaska. But while they were still sleeping, he was hot to trot. At 6 o’clock on the dot Linda came out, and off we went.

Immediately my wife and neighbor started where they left off last week, giving me a hard time about my stride, my pace and various other things. I countered as best I could. It was good-natured ribbing, which got us all in great spirits for the walk. I reminded them that whatever derogatory remarks they said about me, only the three of us would hear—while I, on the other hand, could put my observations in print, for all the world to see.

We passed the Plaza and reached the north side of the Federal Building complex. My watch said 6:30. Knowing that the Farmers Market opened at 7, I figured we might arrive too early, and the coffee wouldn't be brewed yet. I told my walking partners that we would be taking a chance, and asked what they wanted to do. They threw the decision-making back to me. Not wanting to make a mistake about such a crucial matter, I decided we better play it safe, and go to the French Pastry Shop after all. One pastry in the stomach, I figured, is worth two or even more that are not ready at the Farmers Market.

The usual cast of characters was at the shop when we arrived. The owner, a small, slim Frenchman who shaves his head, was busy getting things ready for the long day ahead. But this week, in addition to the regulars, there were several other people sitting at different tables. This was a sure sign of summer heading our way.

When the waitress came for our orders, both my partners stalled, so I immediately asked for coffee and a peach pastry. When Linda ordered just coffee and my neighbor did the same, I was mildly surprised. But then I realized that they still planned to get their reward at the Farmers Market. I told them they were taking a big chance, on this first Tuesday of the season. They just shrugged. Upon the arrival of my pastry, I never looked up as my partners’ laser-beam stares watched me devour each bite.

We left the pastry shop and headed toward the Farmers Market, to see if it was open. When we arrived, thank goodness a few stands were. As my neighbor and I sampled some cheese, Linda went to the coffee/breakfast stand and purchased two breakfast burritos (eggs, potatoes and bacon wrapped in a flour tortilla). She returned and gave one of the burritos to my neighbor. Then she split the other one with me. I thought that was nice, after I had been so greedy with my pastry.

After we finished the burritos, we headed home, which was not too far away, thank goodness. They with their full happy stomachs and me with a double load—and a big Garfield-the-cat comic-page smirk—dragging along behind them.

Have a great day.

Stan