Omdahl: No Day-Old Toast and Duck Eggs for Tourists
“Holy crow! Here it’s almost July and the tourists are staying in bed and breakfast places all over North Dakota except here,” Orville Jordan grumbled as the town’s 14 electors trickled into the cavernous community hall for a meeting of the Homeland Security Committee.
“I’m in favor of this town becoming the bed and breakfast capital of Ryba Township,” declared Dorsey Silovich. He just finished Norman Vincent Peale’s book on positive thinking, even though he didn’t think it would help.
“They’re opening a day-old bread place in Central City, so we could make breakfast toast on the cheap,” added Chief Security Officer Garvey Erfald. “After it’s toasted, who cares how old it is?”
“The chicken slaughter in Minnesota has driven egg prices through the roof,” noted Old Sievert. “They’re three dollars a dozen at Droshky’s convenience store.”
“We could substitute duck eggs from Hillside Colony,” Einar Stanstead suggested. “I’ll bet they’re just as cheap, and we know they’re bigger than chicken eggs need only one egg for breakfast.”
“Then there are eggs at the emu farm,” added Holger Danske. “They’d take two hours to fry and a week to boil. We could promote a special family egg breakfast.”
“Breakfast isn’t the problem, but what about beds?” Little Jimmy asked. He was working on a master’s degree in international marketing this week with some online college in Mississippi.
“Everybody with beds for tourists, raise your hands,” Chief Alert Officer Garvey Erfald ordered as he scanned the room for a quick count. Everyone pretended to look out the window.
“No hands! No beds,” he announced.
“Maybe tourists could stuff their own mattresses at straw piles like the old days,” suggested Holger. “That’s what we did at Bible camp in 1932.”
“That would make it a real frontier experience,” summarized Dorsey.
“Who’s got straw piles these days?” asked Einar.
“There are no straw piles since they put all the separators out by the highways to dazzle tourists,” Old Sievert mourned.
“We could just get a big round straw bale from a farmer and when tourists showed up we could unroll out as much straw as they needed,” imagined Little Jimmy.
“If we can’t provide beds here, we should recruit some over at Central City,” proposed Garvey.
“You mean have tourists sleep at Central and then drive six miles over here for a day-old toast and duck-egg breakfast?” wondered Dorsey.
“”Those Central folks aren’t stupid,” Josh Dvorchak noted. “They could offer day-old toast and duck egg breakfast and steal our plan.”
“We’re going to need more than breakfast and straw mattresses to get tourists into this town,” Little Jimmy observed, proud that he could use his international marketing knowledge without leaving town.
“Let’s add evening entertainment,” suggested Ork. “We have this great stage and dance floor.”
“That’s a great idea!” exclaimed Old Sievert. “A vaudeville show! I can remember when we had a whole week of vaudeville right on this stage in 1936.”
“Are George Burns and Gracie Allen doing vaudeville these days?” Orno Stravinsky wondered.
“I think they’re doing a soft shoe somewhere else,” Orville reported.
“We could put our own vaudeville together,” Dorsey agreed enthusiastically. “Rotate evenings with Olaf Roisum Polka band; Jack, the Magician; Jim, the cowboy poet, and the Haycreek Trio.”
“This sounds great! Let’s open in July,” Chairperson Ork Dorken proposed. “Who will head up the breakfast part?”
He glanced around the room. No takers. The heat slowly rose around his collar.
“Maybe next year,” he declared as he banged his gavel in disgust.
Tourists would not see vaudeville, sleep on straw, or have a day-old toast and duck-egg breakfast this year.
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