dirt under my fingernails

I pulled up the dandelions and tufts of thin green grass from damp soil seeping into my jeans, the ones with a hole in the knee and paint on the thigh and a stain of dark crumbly dirt on the cuffs and flecks of seeds and fertilizer everywhere. My Working in the Garden or Landscaping with a Friend jeans.

I wipe my face with a hand that is not anywhere near clean and I can imagine the streaks of brown across my brow. And I smile.
It was a warm day in Maine. And I was outside and breathing in the salt air that reminded me of surfing after school in San Diego.
I biked home with filthy clothes and freckled skin and a vision of the islands spanning a dusty blue bay in my head.

My hands told the story of my morning.
And J suggested I get gloves.
"I mean, I don't care, but I don't want our guests to, um, think bad things while you cook them breakfast."
And I can appreciate that concern.

But I like pulling up weeds with my bare hands. Its hard to really grab them otherwise and gloves get damp and slimy or really dirty and you have to wash them or wait for them to dry.
I like my 'dirt under the fingernails' badge of outdoorsmanship.

But I also understand that guests would probably prefer their "French Toast with homemade bread and Maine made maple syrup" sprinkled with powdered sugar, not powdery loam.
Even if it is Maine's finest.