Cribbage, Frogpond Style

    I used to think that I didn't like playing sports or games because I had an uncompetitive nature.  For years I gave myself moral Brownie points for not enjoying trying to best my fellow human beings -- my heart simply being too kind and evolved to take pleasure from this sort of juvenile one-upsmanship.  However, I now realize the real reason I don't like to compete:  I absolutely hate to lose.  I am, to put it bluntly, a really bad sport.  Therefore I only play games where I have a very good chance of winning (or, when I was much younger, had a very good chance of cheating at and not getting caught).  Anything involving throwing or catching a ball or (God forbid) running really fast has always been way down on the list of things I will do because I'm really bad at all of them.  But put certain games in front of me, and a ruthless gleam comes into my eye and I'm ready to do battle and mop up the floor with my foe.  These days, that foe is generally my own dear Bruce.  Which brings us to...



The Breakfast





 Cribbage.  Most weekends Bruce prepares a breakfast/brunch and we settle down at the table to eat and play a game of cards.  Saturday morning he made a fabulous fritatta with bacon, cheese and our own purple potatoes accompanied by toast and Frogpond blackberry jam.  Sadly, I didn't think to snap a picture until after we'd consumed two wedges of the fritatta -- it was that good.

 The game proceeded sluggishly for me; I just never could quite catch up.  My pegs are the dark ones in back of Bruce's silver ones.  OK, I don't like to speak ill of Bruce, but I think that he was inwardly gloating.

  As we rounded the last corner, he had a great hand and his pegs zipped around it.  My little pegs were left choking on their dust.  At this point I tactfully mentioned to Bruce that dark grey storm clouds were about to spill over the horizon.  He didn't care.  Not. One. Little. Bit.  

     

    And then, just like that, the tide changed.  I looked at my cards and saw that I was holding twenty-four points.  To the celestial sound of harps twanging and angels singing, my little black peg did its own bit of zipping forward. Suddenly I was in spitting distance of Bruce's lead peg.  In the exact same instant that he got a worried look on his face, I began smiling and golden sunshine was spilling through the clouds (umm...did I mention that I hate to lose?)

 Bruce had the last deal.  He shuffled.  And then dealt me a lovely hand which was all I needed to dash across the finish line ahead of him.  I think that my peg was thumbing its nose at his pegs.

Ahh, sweet and glorious victory! 

    In case you hadn't noticed, not only am I rotten loser, but I'm an insufferable winner too.  I'm incredibly fortunate to have such a kind  husband to put up with me.  And he made breakfast too  (however, just for the record, I did wash the dishes).