Yesterday, Father’s Day, Rayman and I played a golf course named Grizzly Ranch. OMG. what a course. It is so difficult but at the same time so beautiful. We were lucky enough to be able to play alone and as usual, engaged in our match play tourney with each other.
Everything was just dandy until we made the turn (that means going from the front 9 to the back 9).
Four guys slipped in between us and the twosome in front of us. Generally speaking, four is slower than two while play golf. So, I drove up to them and they talked with us. Finally, the leader of the group, a tall drink of water, asked if we would like to go ahead. We eagerly said, yes. And that’s when I really screwed up.
The path was very narrow and I tried to slip by their cart on the right. That did not work out well. But before I get to the punchline, I must confess that while playing the front nine, my friend Glam Girl Nancy, texted me to report that our mutual friend, MaryKay and her husband Jay, hit a deer between Susanville and Mt. Shasta. She also texted me to tell me that the headlights were okay but the grill was toast. That’s when I texted her back and said, “Yum, grilled venison”. Not quite gallows humor but humor nonetheless. Then I texted MaryKay and said, “I herd you hit Bambi”. So many ways to play off the subject matter. I could not contain myself.
So, fast forward to the narrow cart path and me at the wheel. In an effort to squeeze by, I somehow got our carts locked together. The thing is, everyone had an opinion about how I could get out of the mess I created. So, after some consideration, I tried to move forward. That did not work. So then I tried to move back. That did not work as evidenced by the twisted fiberglass I saw. Finally, the guys decided that they needed to lift their cart up while I backed up. That worked. Sort of. The two entangled carts were separated but so was part of the cart’s parts. A rail running along the cart floorboard came disengaged and stuck out.
I was getting more than a bit flustered at this point while, all the while, trying to act nonchalant. In doing so, I neglected to see what kind of damage I delivered to their buggy. “Well, I promise we will play fast”, I said after offering profuse apologies. And off we went.
Rayman was extremely upset. He imagined all types of varying scenarios of how it was going to end. Thousands of dollars? Blot on the driving record? What about their cart? His mood turned to snark. I was completely guilt-ridden and mortified. So, I parred the next hole. That just made matters worse as Rayman got a double bogey.
When our game concluded on the 18th green, we immediately went to the pro shop and I fell on my somewhat overused sword. I confessed to everything. The great big Irish looking redhead behind the counter was sympathetic and appreciated my honesty. However, he would have to call people re: same. And he came out and took a picture. This is one of the few times on my trip that I did not take a picture. I didn’t want the reminder. I left my name and number and he said, “We’ll be in touch.”. Ouch.
So, karma is real. That was a definite case of karma. Making fun puns out of my friend’s predicament only to create my own misery. Geez.
When we arrived back at The Dog House, I made Rayman a delicious dinner using our fresh salmon to help create ceviche. Boy was it good. Here’s the recipe.
http://www.saveur.com/article/Recipes/Baja-Ceviche-Tostadas//http://www.saveur.com/article/Recipes/Baja-Ceviche-Tostadas
I did not do the tostadas. Here’s my rendition:
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