It was a little past noon when we turned off state highway 209 in search of lunch before we continued our hunt for light houses.

Exactly one block on the left was a sign that said “Homemade Soups and Sandwiches.’

We turned around and pulled into the front yard of what looked like a small, quaint country home. North Creek Farm the sign above the screened in door said. Next to the main building was a barn that had been turned in to an artist gallery. By design we never made it there.

Maybe the chickens and roosters in the yard should have been a red flag, but in our bliss we found them charming.

In the main room was an eclectic collection of items for sale. There were toys, seeds for plants and vegetables, purses, some odd looking jewelry, a stuffed monkey sock and beer. Several types of beer. Hot or cold.

The next room was two dining tables and a small counter that held a chalk board with that day’s menu.

We, Rachel Kremer and myself, were not in full sync. I said, “If you don’t see anything you like we can find another place.’ I meant, let’s run for it.

Did I mention the only people in the place were two elderly ladies, drinking coffee, who were talking about their black fly bites and how they were not infected _ yet.

“The smoked turkey sounds good,’ Rachel said, instead of let’s run for it.

After we ordered Rachel excused herself and when she came back she was fighting back gut-busting laughter.

Seems the restroom was a real outhouse. With a sign that said Maine did not require food establishments to have a rest room, and tips were welcomed.

There was no running water but more signs warning about what to do and not do while visiting the outhouse and a reminder to lock the door from the outside when you left.

Rachel had never seen an outhouse and visiting one was something that had never occurred to her.

Her idea of roughing it is a hotel that doesn’t have room service after midnight.

Yet, she made it through the “roughing it,’ experience with a laugh and when our food came she liked her sandwich.

As I started to pick up my tuna sandwich a dog wandered in and sat down on my feet. A filthy, hairy dog who stared longingly at my sandwich which was like half-a-teaspoon of tuna with a pound of pickled artichoke and some dark berries that were more sour than sweet. Run for it ran through my mind again.

I ate half, the dog watching intently, like he knew no one had ever eaten all of that particular sandwich.

We left quickly, sending the chickens and roosters flying, but we didn’t tip. Not in the outhouse or the inhouse.

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