So we’re cruising down the road. The moment is straight and flat and middlin’ scenic. I know what they’re thinking: Boring. I turn onto a neighborhood road of unremarkable suburban conformity. I can almost hear them: “Why did we let this chump lead? Oh, that’s right, he’s a born scapegoat.”

But the residential road soon transforms into a winding country lane fairly dripping with terroir and adorned with natural wonders like cows, horses and even wild turkey (the bird). Our path terminates at the southern gateway to downtown Sykesville, whose greatest charm is that its old-town quaintness doesn’t stretch on for more than two or three blocks.

I park, boldly, in front of E.W. Becks, as if to say: “I’m eating here. Don’t care what the rest of all y’all do.”

I consider Becks a convenient place to get a decent burger and would not be a semi-regular but for its wings, which are “the best” … most of the time. Having explored its menu over the years, I do not recommend the educated palate stray from the aforementioned two items. Beyond them, there be disappointment … most of the time.

So I cringed when my pack ordered everything but. A couple even foolishly went for the Thai tuna salad – perilously exotic for Becks. Last time they let me pick the restaurant. I smirked knowingly.

Well, it’s what I get for harboring evil thoughts. They praised the Thai tuna, loved the sandwiches (I don’t recall what they were because I didn’t know they would figure in a review), and generally awarded Becks more stars than the Great Andromeda Nebula. I sat there out-ordered with a bowl full of wing bones and four wadded-up napkins.

Later that day I would be chastised for zipping too quickly through a Catoctin Mountain pass, all memory of my exacting culinary judgment forgotten. The price of leadership … most of the time.

Photo of future vegetables, week 2)