l'oeuf

We crossed the border last night for a big birthday dinner. We do it every summer and have done the last two years at Hen of the Wood in Burlington - a fantastic place that makes a mushroom toast you dream of. This year there was a request to find a French place somewhere nearby (Quebec, as it turns out) for the festivities. X sleuth-ed out L'Oeuf in Mystic, Quebec, a short 25-minute drive from our summer locale. (As an aside, we ended up crossing into Quebec via the the same border patrol agent who'd seen the boys earlier in the week.). Southern Quebec is very Midwestern in layout: corn, soy beans, flat, barns. Mystic is a very small village hidden in the trees and made up of 30-40 fabulously maintained Quebecoise homes; and. L'Oeuf. The shop, inn, and restaurant are run by a couple who've somehow put together the best little place in the World. The shop is full of chocolate (that they make), mustards (some of which they make), marmalades, and assorted French stuff that sucks me in like me wandering into a high-end NYC papier. Before dinner we were three digits of money into our stash of chocolate, mustard, chestnut paste, and Opinel knives.

Dinner on a lovely screened in porch near the garden was a chef's selection for two of us and some a la carte on the other half. Everything was perfectly done with the beaujolais, confit de canard, terrine, and desserts. The terrine gave us insight into the handmade mustard half Canadian, half French seeds) that was a perfect piquant. On the way out we grabbed yet another jar that the waiter told us came with the terrine, but we were stopped short by the owner/mustardeer who directed to his unlabel home cache of jars - of which he gave us one free. It's gold. You'll never taste it because it's too precious. There was nothing in the entire event that wasn't perfect. Seriously. One of the best meals, ever. If you're up that way, and you never know, get a reservation.

Maybe we need a cross-border home.

halt, who goes there?

We are spending the week on the shores of Lake Champlain, very near (.5 miles) to the Canada border on the Vermont side. There is I-87 exit 22*, where we're staying, immediately followed by the border. If you happen to miss the exit you are rewarded by sitting in line to cross into Canada. If you are two young lads on their way back to the lake house from a day/dinner in Burlington, Vermont, sans passports, and slip by the exit you get a free hour long 'mini-vacation' having a long, interesting discussion with Canadian border guards: Where do you live? Where are you staying? Where were you born? What is your business? Hand me your passports. Answers to these questions were along the lines of America, on the lake in a house, I think Vermont, no idea, we don't have any. They had their car searched by the great northerners and then told to take the quick u-turn, no doubt in place for just these more-than-often events, and pointed back to the US border shack on the southbound side. Whatever the procedure at the border, and I'm sure it's well worn for accidental tourists, the Americans weren't so much interested as they watch them come down the "lane of shame" heading back to their homeland. We are thinking that if they go out alone again we'll pin a big note on each of them with their names, place of birth, lake cabin address, and their mother's phone number.

*Vermont must be the only state in the Union where the interstate highways don't have exits numbered by mile marker. You might come into Vermont from the south thinking, "We are getting off at exit 10 which is in about ten miles." Funny that. Exit 10 could be 112, or 5, miles away - there is no math or knowledge that can help you.

it's really nothing

X flew out to the great Northwest over the weekend to visit a dear friend and family. From what I gathered at the pick-up this morning (and our hookey playing for a long breakfast), everything went swimmingly.

I manned the fort for four days and no one seemed worse for wear. I did finally finish painting the living room ceiling - though I'd prefer a platfrom to lie down upon, like Michalangelo - but you can't have everything. The finished ceiling is also courtesy of Green Day, who kept me going through three full rounds of Uno!. You wouldn't imagine Billie Joe painting ceilings, but he's not a bad sidekick.

I decided on Saturday morning to make a big pot of Brunswick Stew for dinner - who doesn't want to shop for smoked ham hocks? If you don't know of The Stew, here's the background:

1. Came from Virginia
2. Or, came from South Carolina
3. Has a bunch of southern ingredents in it

You're welcome, I saved you this step.

Ham hocks, whole chicken, onions, corn, tomato sauce, tomatoes, okra, potatoes, chicken stock, Worchestshire, hot sauce, seasonings, and cooking.

What I really needed was a huge cast iron kettle/pot that I could hang from some sort of tripod over a fire in the front yard. As it was, I managed with soup pots on the stove. I should have done some cornbread, but we made due with fresh dinner rolls from Wegman's. The kids ate. They are ate-n again tonight as the adults (one very tired one) expose themselves to the (normal) failure of Quiz Night.

On Saturday I visited a therapeutic massage school near the house. They have a four-month, full-time program that my vet benefits will pay for (much like my culinary training). I think I might give it a go in September. I don't want to do it as a career, but X can get unlimited massages. What a deal, right?

I have nothing more to give...

t

ExtraExtra!!!!

The drive down to Warm Springs on Saturday afternoon was scenic. It was also long and convoluted. The GPS (“Eddie”) was programmed to the Warm Springs city center but instead dumped us out in the wilds of Bath county about 20 miles north of the town. I had my suspicions when Eddie routed us straight west after passing Harrisionburg – therefore bypassing Staunton, VA, which had been a landmark – and sending the new Donner party up and over Highland county. At said dumping point, the Eleven quickly decided to access the World and determine our best route to our vacation getaway. What’s that you say? No 3G coverage out here? Fine, pull up the Google/live traffic enabled GPS and we’ll be gold. No reception out here? Fine, get the map. What? No. Map.

(AP) Harrisonburg, VA – Virginia State Police report they have located two lost Northern Virginia liberal voters in the area surrounding the lower Allegheny Mountains in northwest Virginia. After reports that they hadn’t e-mailed or texted anyone for over two hours, the State Police dispatched a search team that included one vehicle, one trooper, a map, a sandwich, and large WaWa coffee. Sgt. Deke Slaton described the search as simple, “We were told they were heading down toward Warm Springs for two nights at some posh inn that apparently delivers breakfast to your room in a picnic basket. I don’t know how that works, but warm scones and coffee in bed doesn’t sound half bad.” Sgt. Slaton decided that the best search pattern was to head due south along State Highway 220 from his office in Monterey, VA, “The way I figured it, “ said Slaton, “the cell service is dead between Monterey and Hot Springs so the natural place to hunt for these yahoos was along 622 where outdoor types tend to fish and hunt.” After about six miles Slaton located the 2001 Gold Mercedes E320 parked on the side of the road. The vacationers were shaken, but safe, having just finished the last of their carrot and yoghurt meze, simits, and a split sparkling lemon soda. “They were in the process of figuring out what they were going to do next when I came upon them,” Slaton reported. “Frankly, it was a little embarrassing. They seemed to be walking around holding their iPhones in the air. The woman was picking flowers and complaining how there was no way that the 1.9Ghz towers weren’t able to hit the phone. There was some other blather about backhaul. The guy was rambling on about how high-speed rail should be built in the area and something about timetables and poor planning by the localities. Anyhow, I gave them half of my sandwich and told them to drive five more miles and they’d be at the Inn. They had ¾ of tank of gas so I’m not really certain why they were concerned.” The couple was reported to have checked into their hotel about 15 minutes later. They were napping five minutes later.

The weekend went swimmingly. We spent two nights out yonder so the driving was well space out over the three days. We did accidentally stumble into an artist/co-op/studio on Sunday morning that hit X over the head and took her wallet. I, as the strong boyfriend, defended her by carrying all the loot to the car.

We are back home; all the kids are gone. The peace of two adults and one mewling cat…

let it sit a bit

I spent about 2 ½ hours last evening at a talk on food fermentation with Sandor Katz. You might wonder how a person finds himself in that position, but it was by choice. Katz has been a leading light in the fermentation revival as a response to what he calls the clearly failed experiment of the factory food industry. He’s one of those people you rarely (unfortunately) come across who gives you the feeling that a type of life or society is better than others. X once pointed out while we were driving through Vermont with its open spaces, friendly people, and good ideas that it's all “total bullshit. Who’d want to live like this…” She’s funny. After spending the evening with Katz that joke ran through my mind: living like that would be so horrible, wouldn’t it?

The auction for L.’s school last weekend went well. I think the Parents’ Association made about $25k from the event, so that’s a lot of activities to promote. We managed to get all the food done over 10 hours spread across Thursday night, Friday night, and Saturday morning/afternoon. From what I could tell by the number of trips made for new platters of food everyone ate and drank well. By the time I got home Saturday night I was beat; X kept everyone away as I partook of a four hour Sunday nap. I’m just about back to normal.

The kids are vacating the area over the next few days for spring breaks across North America. The Eleven is once again heading down to the Jefferson Pools in Warm Springs for a long weekend; we’re actually stealing Monday off in order to make it a two-night deal.

I was trying to relay this morning how I find this lottery craze being a bit mispresented by the mathletes. I understand the 1-in-175,000,000 data that is based on tickets sold, etc. What I find strange is that there is no caveat to the number, something along the lines of how every person has an equal chance. A long shot chance, but equal nonetheless. Normally we are bombarded by percentages, probabilities, and statistics that are relative to some other input: 1-in-123,000 high school basketball players make it to the NBA; only 1.5% of children from single-parent families on the south side of Chicago will earn a 4-year college degree. These are numbers that are referential to some other variable. They sort of make sense because we can manipulate them in our minds and build a picture. The lottery? Even Steven. Same odds for everyone. My point is, if you want to drop $5 on the lottery have at it because the odds aren’t for or against you in relation to anyone else. There isn’t much in life where that applies. If you’re kid plays high school basketball you don’t tell him, “Listen, Preach, you has just as good a chance as Jimmy of making it to the NBA. The odds are 1-in-123,000 – every kid is equal and has the same chance. In fact, no need to practice or work hard from here on in. Equal is equal.” That would be insane. The lottery? It’s a flyer, have fun.

I have nothing else to say.

where's my dough? and, where's my dough?

Jesus loves Wikileaks

That is the most interesting bumper sticker I saw on the road during vacation. I have no idea how to interpret it, but there you go.

For the most part (more on that later), we had a gas in Maine. Old Orchard Beach is a “kitztchy” (L’s word) throw back to the 1950s; updated to a more tattoo’d and rebellious teen and family crowd for the 2010s. It was an easy place to let the kids wander whilst eating ice cream, exploring, crowd watching, and (for G., especially) diving endlessly into breaking ocean waves. As for the adults, we relaxed endlessly while taking turns making sure kids didn’t get washed out to sea. We did most of our cooking at home, but did go out opening night for some fried clams and fish. Friday night included an adult outing for a ‘fancy’ dinner at Fore St. in Portland. If I could design a restaurant room and style – this is it. Big open room, lots of windows, 33 tables, cooking area right in the dining area…most excellent. They need to work on their non-meat (or fish) options, that would mean including some since they really had what might be classified as zero, but the preparation and dining was a solid A.

One the way home on Saturday (it was only the 51 in the car; X flew back and the boys were dropped off at camp), I discovered that my local bank, who I really like, had cut off my debit card due to suspicious activity. That suspicious activity was…me. In Maine. About 600 miles away. They did process three or four transactions on Friday, and then, bam…shutdown. We didn’t find this out until Saturday around 2p while attempting to buy lunch at Rein’s Deli in Connecticut. Being a local, they all close at noon on Saturday and there is no 800 number or 24-hour line to confirm the charge and get the card turned back on, and they don’t open again until Monday at 9a. Not good. Luckily, L. is a money hound and had $62 in her wallet (I had nothing) so we were able to get one more tank of gas and blast all 630 miles to the house. (We had a pre-paid hotel via Expedia for that night but food and whatnot would have been an issue.) Needless to say, the bank got a call, we straighten out the suspicious charge, and I asked them to always have my cell as contact before leaving me stranding somewhere in central New York state.

I introduced L. to Micucci’s in Portland, but more importantly to Stephen Lanzalotta who bakes bread and pizza in a corner of the store/warehouse. Even though X claims to have had bread this good somewhere in Italy, he makes the best bread I’ve ever had and if you don’t like that – fight’s on! We must have stopped in three times to stock up with luna bread, a few slices of pizza (un-fucking-believable), and focaccia.

I also had a lovely hour or so in an actual music shop in Portland, which is sort of like 7 hours in dog years, or Todd years. I miss CD store so much; I get it where I can. Speaking of hauls, I suggest some Tourista by Josh Rouse if you’re looking for some Spanish and Spanish-infused pop to relax with on a summer day with the windows open.

New job this week. Getting all the administration settled and will get to it full-time next week.

nothing much of much

One more bit on Fermor, from Hitchens. There is one potent literary combo.

We're all settled and sitting about Maine for the week - weather a I can deal with on the heat scale.

Very interesting to be unemployed for a week.

T

just duckie

In preparation for Duckgatta 2011, "The Maine Campaign", we present the newly acquired entry from Nut Enterprises: Nut II.

Nut II is a model 2029 duck produced in Taiwan and purchased from his previous owner on November 14th, 2010 in Washington D.C.

Nut II will spend this winter and spring in training in both open and closed water environments under the technical guidance of retired champion, Nut I. Training will be accomplished at Nut Enterprise's Northern Virginia headquarters.

Training will be closed to the public and Enterprise affairs will be updated aperiodically.

hey snakeface! you the devil.

My blog-cation is over. Even though it wasn’t planned, nor announced, for some reason I didn’t have much to pass along during the blast of mid-August weather. Everything’s been quite well here, I’m through my mid-terms, and the final weekend of summer is on the horizon.

Let’s see if I can summarize my positions on the political events of our day.

Build a mosque wherever you please. It’s private ground, it’s a house of worship (a community center with a mosque in it, really) and that right is protected. Any further engagement is folly. If you really want to know why there’s nothing more to say on the matter I refer you to this educational video (please forward to the seven-minute mark): you don’t engage them.



Freedom of speech means you can say whatever you please without government interference. It doesn’t mean you can say whatever you please and not expect backlash from the market, your bosses, and people who don’t like you. A very simple concept.

I think that covers most of it. We can all relax now.

As August wraps up, and a three-day weekend is on the horizon, I’ll spend a portion of the week gathering up all my canning needs and getting ready to do tomatoes next weekend. Last year I ended up with about 25 quart jars from 50 lbs of tomatoes and that didn’t even get us close to riding out the winter. Then again, that took about 12 hours and I’m not sure I’m up for two full days of canning. If nothing else, I’ll manage at least as many as last summer. We’re also awaiting some fig bonanza that one of X’s coworkers has promised from his tree. We may need to drive down with a pile of egg cartons and pluck them ourselves: a fig jamboree on the horizon.

L. may have crossed into Canada by now for a month-long, get settled, and sort out living and school vacation. I believe they’ll make one more round-trip to Omaha in October to gather up remaining items. I’ll talk with her tonight and sort out status and location.

I’ll have some more updates after pizza night…

t

summer-y

We ran our two-day drive back from Vermont and rolled into the area about 2 pm yesterday afternoon. The day’s start from Middletown, NY was early enough that we beat the evening Holiday traffic and got home with little interference. Of course, we were greeted by the lovely 100°, swamp-like atmosphere of the greater DC Metro area. Hey, at least it’s only supposed to be this unbearable for four days, or so.

Stowe was fantastic for the week: we had a little rain early, cool days mid-week (highs in the mid-60s to mid-70s), and a bit of heat to finish. We covered plenty of swimming (including the boys in the nearby, crystal clear river), plenty of great food, some family visits, the day trip to Burlington, a bit of shopping, lots of visits (L.) to the new handmade chocolate shop, the annual golf in miniature championship, the first annual river Duck-gatta race, an evening of Pitch Penny, and numerous crossword puzzles. The only portion of the week that wasn’t perfect was X having to do quite a bit of telecommuting work. Of course, the highlight was clearly on Friday when my duck entry, Nut1, successfully navigated the river to win the inaugural race and I then doubled up by winning my first golf in miniature title. It’s not often that one sees success at that level.

The boys were left in western Mass with their grandmother and will return tonight via the airplane invention, X leaves for England tomorrow to attend a wedding, and I’ll hold down the fort until her return. She gets back on Sunday and the boys then depart for England on Tuesday for the summer with their father. It’s going to get real quiet, real fast around The Hilltop (L. leaves on the 23rd).

Both cats have returned home since our arrival – as if Pumpkin would go far. He bounded in about 8pm last night and had quite a bit to say once he saw our shiny faces. Lemon pounced on our bed at about 2am last night to announce her presence with authority and pass along her distaste for our vacation.

All of X’s gardens have survived our absence with the help of watering family members. We even have a full-sized squash that’s ready to be plucked.

That’s the down-and-dirty for now.

t

away and about

It's been awhile.

Stowe is great this time of year, 60 to about 75 degrees, so I'm quite happy. We're off to Burlington for the day so I'll try to get back in the groove tomorrow.

Those are the ducks aligned in acceptance and testing in preparation for tomorrow's 1st annual river duck race. Result and trophy presentation to be posted.

t

i get one fucking vacation a year and i'm not going to fucking wisconsin

This gentle quip passed my darling's lips the other night. I have nothing more to say.

blowing in the wind

Over the weekend I was cornered, or called over to the coffee table, to answer for my opinion on Global Warming. I was apparently next-in-line after X had addressed this same query; I attempted a deft escape by replying that we basically believe the same thing and, well, essentially…ditto. That didn’t seem to bat away my inquisitor so I decided to simply break out my big gun-theory created for just this moment: us. What I find most potent about this ideal is that is anchors itself in common sense and simply reaches out and touches our lives. Instead of interpreting and analyzing scientific data, and in place of the skewing of numbers to our own needs or yelling at each other (or using phrases like “Drill, baby, drill!”) why not just look at our house and our life and contemplate behaviors. If you think about your daily life and its influence on what’s immediately around you then you’ll know there are simple changes available. Let’s say you’re at the market and you load all your groceries in shitty little plastic bags. Why? First of all, they are horrible for carrying anything. Second, do you like the idea, or vision, of all those bags floating about your neighborhood and hanging in trees and shrubbery? Probably not. We can go out and buy reusable bags for next to nothing and eliminate that problem. What about when you leave the house and turn the heat (or A/C) off for the day; what’s crazy about that? You save some money and don’t burn up fuel. Maybe you decide to ride a bus, ride the Metro, or walk from here to there. Maybe you decide to buy a smaller car because you’re tired of paying $120 to fill up your truck or van. Who knows? There are loads of things that sit within your own circle that will do all of us some good without even contemplating the larger circle beyond your neighborhood or city. If you think about spending less money, cleaning up your life and home, and trying – even just a bit – to cut back on the obvious stuff then we’re halfway home.

We import about 30% of our oil from countries we seem to label, somewhat blindly, as “terrorists”; most of our imported oil actually comes from Canada and Mexico. If instead of fighting a huge tapestry of ‘eliminating oil usage at all costs’, we started in the backyard and worked toward a 15, 20, or 25% reduction then we’d be well on our way. A small piece in our house, where we cut back by 20%, isn’t at all painful and if we all make a similar decision it’d be better all about the place.

Maybe in ten years we’ll won’t be debating reduction in petroleum usage but celebrating new and renewable sources. What’s weird about global warming is that it’s not actually an argument, is it? It’s not a battle between armies massed against each other, really. Just the common sense around your life and home is a good enough start.

Granted, my answer while sitting on the coffee table wasn’t quite as detail but the gist was the same.

At that point, I excused myself and made a cup of tea.

crafty vegetables

The Eleven got up early-ish yesterday and spent Black Friday doing something much more interesting than even contemplating stores and malls: we drove about southern Vermont visiting artist studios around the Putney area. We'd done the tour over Thanksgiving weekend in 2005 and it was high on my list this year. Putney, and the surrounding woods, is surrounded by what must be hundreds of beautiful studios and artists who create every type of art you can imagine. Yesterday we narrowed down our list to six or seven that included pottery, tiles, quilting, Japanese woodworking, bookbinding and prints, and a spinnery. With a loads of rain in the morning the studios weren't overly crowded so we were able to stay warm by diving into studios warmed by wood-burning stoves.

This morning I headed into Brattleboro to gather some root vegetables at the Winter Farmers Market. The holy grail was a Gilfeather turnip that I was clued in on at Thanksgiving dinner at Ellen's. She made an unbelievable turnip soup and discussion rounded back to exactly what type of turnip was the genesis of the dish. This led to some ooh-ing and aah-ing by the locals as they spoke in hushed tones of the heirloom Gilfeather turnips. I have no way of knowing whether it was Ellen or the turnip (that would be a great book name: Ellen or the Turnip) but I'll have some idea when I make soup next week from the five-pound Gilfeather that's safely ensconced in the car. I also grabbed loads of massive parsnips for roasting, what appears to be a five-to-seven-pound bag of organic hardstem garlic, red and golden beets, and three pounds of beautiful Jerusalem artichokes. All will travel well back to Northern Virginia and end their service in soups, gratins, and myriad roasting pans.

There's a short story about Laurel, a small goat, and I from a visit to Vermont a few years back. Maybe I'll jot it down, have Laurel add to and edit it, and then pass it along. Either way, the above is another Vermont picture; it's the barn next door that plays a central role in the Laurel and the Goat tale.

We're loading up the car this afternoon and will drive halfway home this afternoon. We'll be back on The Hilltop pretty early Sunday afternoon.

t

double true

After the Eleven got home last evening – she’d been at work and I’d been at the USO – we were lying on the couch, possibly taking a nap, and I said to her, “You smell a bit different today. Are you wearing something new?” Her first response was a no but after a minute or so she did say, “Well, I am wearing some carrot-patchouli oil on my arms and feet.” As if wearing carrot-patchouli oil was normal. I never cease to be amazed. This morning there another new scent wafting through the door and she told me it was merely a Tahitian monoi spray. Ah, monoi.

A bit more on the summer’s trip. On our drive back from Quebec we (the Eleven and three children) stopped in at the Montshire Museum of Science for a few hours. This was L.’s and my second visit – probably a half-dozen visits or more for the others – and it couldn’t have been planned better, being a summer Friday afternoon and all.

Our first visit was a few summers back when L. was staying with us as we lazed our summer days away (or, a week in my case) on the East Dummerston hilltop in Vermont. X suggested we head up to the museum being that it was, under her declaration, the best science museum ever. “Well, well, little lady,” I told her, “I’ve been to the Museum of Science and Industry in Chicago, the Science Museum of Minnesota, and the Museum of Science and Technology in Barcelona. I know from science museums.” I’m not sure just how she expected some mini-museum in Vermont to compete with the grand exhibits of the World; I decided, and assuredly relayed to her, that she was nuts. Her calm response, something akin to a wink-and-a-nod, made me nervous. Could she know something I don’t know? Do they have a nuclear fission apparatus that they’ll let me play with? Nevermind, I thought, she just doesn’t know how experienced I am at the sciencer museums. Does she know that I’m a member of the SMM? Does she know that in Barcelona they don’t even give you experiment instruction in English yet it’s still fantastic? Probably not. What a dear, dear girl. We drove up one afternoon and ended spending two or three hours at the Montshire; that was longer than the ten minutes I needed to decide it was the best science museum, ever. After I was done knocking smaller kids out of my way, watching cutter ants, memorizing bees, playing with the fog machine and myriad other stuff any kid would love, I cornered her and declared the Montshire as “Todd’s Best Science Musuem”. If I remember correctly I think she rolled her eyes and let me continue to trumpet my very own genius.

Our visit this summer was probably even better. The kids spent a few hours inside while we walked the beautiful outdoor nature trail before all ended up out in the water-dam-ball-sprinkler contraption yard. The museum had very few people visiting on that Friday afternoon and it was perfect for viewing and playing with all the experiments. At some point X disappeared and I ended up finding her asleep under a tree on the grassy knoll of the water damming area. In my surprise I immediately joined her, followed by Laurel, and we three then spent nearly an hour watching beautiful clouds roll by, pointing skyward, and calling out things like: lobster, crab, monkey, alligator on a jetski, crab, lobster, dragon, rat, dog, crab, lobster. (You’d be surprised just how many clouds look like shellfish or crustaceans.) That hour was the most peaceful and perfect time.

When we finished we were all ready for lunch (having gotten directions to three or four sandwich shops from the New England Sandwich King) and headed just across the Connecticut River to Hanover, New Hampshire. Hanover is home to Dartmouth College and even though I’m not going to prattle on too much I will say this: Dartmouth and Hanover are what people have in mind when they think of college and a small town. It’s a beautiful place and if it weren’t so perfect I’d think it a cartoon.

I’ll add some cloud pictures when I get home.

re-foiled, again

Canada. Our week in Quebec was excellent but I think everyone, based upon my own study, has suddenly found themselves back in their offices or cubicles stunned by normalcy. My early portion of this week will include having two fillings redone tomorrow and a concert tomorrow night at the Birchmere; those two are clearly differing poles on a very long stick. I suspect the remainder of this first week back will be filled with catching up around the house, finding my cat (who’s not put in an appearance since our return), and getting back into the workday groove.

All three children were installed on a Midwest Express flight back to Omaha last night so the house is once again stunningly quiet and mostly clean. The boys come back in a few weeks but turn around immediately for a trip to WMass and will be gone for another week. The four of us will then drive to Ohio over the long Labor Day weekend before the schools in NoVa fire up the classrooms and torture kids with maths and literature.

Our place outside of Magog, QC (and within viewing distance of Lake Memphremagog) was plenty of strange house for everyone. We had five bedrooms over three floors, a big kitchen (with only two burners on the stove working), a great room with a beautiful fireplace (actually used twice in the evenings), no internet, a lovely pool in the estate, and neighbors that decided upon 4am for an absolute scream-fest fight on their back porch. Being that this community has large homes with loads of space and trees between the high-end properties it was surprising that I could hear the set-to so clearly on that Sunday morning. Of course, they were yelling in French so I’m not exactly sure what they were saying but I have some good guesses based on the staccato delivery.

A quick summary would give the following details: sailing, horseback riding, swimming, eating, a one-day trip to Montreal (me and L.), wall climbing, shopping, strolling, crosswords, *Pitch Penny©, learning or reacquainting ourselves with French, lazing about, reading, coffee, and sunshine. (I must point out that up yonder in Canada the days might get to 80º on a bad day but mostly hover in the mid-70s. On our first full day back in the swamp yesterday the temperature was mid-90s and it’s pushing 100º today.)

I would put forth the highlight for some as being the two sailing outings on the lake. They’d been looking and hoping for sailing over the last few years in Stowe but never managed to get a solid opportunity. This year the rubric was solved and they got out for two sails on a small three-person boat; the first with L. the second with G. From what I gathered – as if I’d get on a sailboat after some stories I’d heard – they were first given a refresher by a young French Canadian boy who gave them a grade of C+ before literally diving from the boat and swimming to shore. Nothing says confidence more than a horribly average grade given by a fleeing, teenaged instructor.

I’ve got a few other follow-ups but they’ll have to wait.

t

emigre

We are back in the Vermont - for one night - after our week in Quebec. Everyone is doing well and we'll be back in NoVa tomorrow night. More to follow.

Love to all.

t

splish splash

We managed to complete our jaunt to east central Virginia with little problem. The drive is about 3 ½ - 4 hours without stops and once you get far enough east the scenery turns quite lovely as you skirt and then climb into the Alleghenies.

The Jefferson Pools in Warm Springs, Virginia are one of those rare finds you encounter when traveling the world. As I was floating in the waters I was trying to sort out why they haven’t become one of those hateful, overrun, over managed and overpopulated venues. As I was thinking so deeply, and floating about on the floaty noodles, I ended up taking a little nap; that’s how hard I was thinking. Even though they’re owned by the Homestead resort just up the road in Hot Springs you’d never know ownership falls under that massive, and apparently highly overrated, golf and resort club. Maybe in the spring, summer, and fall it’s more crowded than on a nice, clear, cold weekend in late January but we may never know since I’d rather be there when it’s cold. After checking in at our Inn (The Inn at Grist Mill) on Saturday afternoon we popped over for an hour’s soak before they lock up that sheds at 5pm. The layout is made up of two octagonal wooden shacks that provide cover over the men’s and women’s baths – both baths are simply pools of hot springs (a perfect 98°) over and the creek bed. The sheds include dressing rooms and a platform that encircles (enoctagons?) the waters. There are no luxuries beyond the amazing waters and provided towels: no heat, no curtains, and no nice robes. You come in wearing your duds, strip down to what God gave you, pop in the water, soak, hop out, dry off (quickly), get dressed and move along – an hour seems to fly by. In January, when it’s about 25 degrees outside, the drying and dressing is the final revitalization; there’s nothing quite as shocking as drying, shivering, and trying to get the warm clothes on as quickly as possible. On Sundays from noon to 1pm they allow the guys and dolls to intermingle…with swimsuits. We learned on Sunday that the women’s bath is only 4’10” deep and the men’s is 6’8” (of course, we each knew our own shack depths from the previous day; we just didn’t know the other’s). The Eleven, as expected of tall people worldwide, chose the men’s bath and subsequently had the place to ourselves for the whole hour before driving back to the NoVa. Once you get over your initial trepidation upon entering the shacks o’er the magma for the first time, they’re unbelievably relaxing.

Our room at the Inn was perfectly designed for our needs. The queen bed was outfitted with very nice cotton sheets, the fireplace was stocked with wood, and they deliver a breakfast basket in the morning. The basket idea is ingenious: you give them a ring to let them know you’re up, choose coffee or tea, and they pop over in five minutes flat with the goods. The basket includes a thermos of coffee, scones, butter and jams, cups, cream, sugar, and orange juice. All you do is sit around watching the TLC network and nibbling at your breakfast and sipping coffee. We had dinner on Saturday night the Inn’s restaurant which was all of 50 feet from our building – makes the arrival timing for dinner pretty simple. The food was probably about a B- on my grading scale but we were limited to either trout or salmon; they seem to have a much broader selection of meat and poultry. Considering that the restaurant’s greatest attraction is proximity it fulfilled its task. Of course, if you don’t eat at the restaurant you’re limited to a choice of no other place that we came across in the small village. I’d imagine you could drive some country roads to the nearest towns and find grub but who’s really interested in that?

Our one misadventure occurred as we pulled off I-81 for a quick stop for coffee in Harrisonburg, VA. As we were pulling into a parking place and disembarking at the Starbucks (hey, we were only looking for convenience!) we noticed we were going to end up behind a group of about 15 high-schoolers who’d just piled out of a tour van of some ilk. The last think you want in your life – ever – is to be behind 15 high-schoolers in any situation that requires decision making, let alone in a Starbucks. As they stood in a sort of line nattering at each other about coffee I realized I’d need to take evasive action to keep my sanity. All I wanted was a short cappuccino and a venti misto. As I sidestepped the amoeba-like coffee horde and swooped toward an open register I heard this conversation between the barista attempting to be helpful and the first high-schooler in line:

Barista: So, what kind of flavors to you like?
Confused Kid: Uh, I don’t know.
Barista: Do you like coffee?
Confused Kid: Uh, I don’t know.

This was not going to go smoothly at all. In my defense, it seemed the kind-hearted barista had taken on the mission of handling all orders from the vanload of youths so I didn’t feel too bad. As we escaped moments later with our coffee in hand the entire situation had deteriorated to the sound of…

Barista: Well, what do you like?
Confused Kid: I like lunch.

Love to all.

t

come on in, the water's fine

The Eleven is off to Bath County, Virginia come early Saturday morning. (At some point in the next few days the boys are off to Omaha for a four-day weekend.) X was looking for somewhere to go for a little getaway and has latched onto Warm Springs, Virginia. Apparently, there are warm springs there – not hot springs, that would be TOO warm – but nice, tepid waters. We’ll drive about four hours across Virginia, something I didn’t know could be done, and stop just short of needing our passports to enter West Virginia. Our soaks will at the famous Jefferson Pools (so named after George Jefferson of Manhattan), not hot springs, and buildings that look surprisingly like this:


That’s right. It’s a woodshed built over the warm pools – one for guys, one for gals. I’ve checked the Saturday and Sunday weather predicts and it looks like 15 for the low and 31 the high. I'm packing some whale blubber to rub all over myself and some birch branchs in case a horde of Finns show up. Of course, I’ll probably just drip dry when we hit those high temps; maybe my new friends, Mika and Heikki, and I can just stroll back to the Inn in flip-flops and Speedos® while taking in the crisp, cool mountain breezes.

We’re booked at the Inn at Gristmill. The room looks very nice and includes a fireplace, though what one might need a fireplace for is beyond me.


The Inn also has an on-site pub which will hopefully have a number of whiskeys and bourbons available upon my return from our warm soak.

We'll send word as the weekend progresses.

booked

Even if you haven’t heard from me for awhile everything here is going very well. We’ve swapped children in the house: two boys out, one girl in.

We had a very nice Holiday with folks coming and going. Wondertwin #2 and family came over Christmas Eve for something resembling a big English roast: roast of Sirloin, roasted veg, sweet potatoes, Yorkshire pudding, gravy, dessert, etc. Gift opening was after dinner and the kids did stockings on Christmas morning. The cats evacuated the house while the screaming, paper, and pile of activities were in full swing.

Yesterday afternoon L. and I headed into the Library of Congress to meet and chat with the Librarian of the Children’s Literature Center. I found out during my volunteer training session at the LOC that she enjoys, and welcomes, having kids come back and visit even if the library’s rules are fairly strict on the 16 year-old age limit to get into the reading rooms. I called her in the morning and she graciously invited us in for the afternoon. She’s been there for twenty-five years and absolutely loves the job – I love the job. The reading room is beautiful designed and she gets to spend her days doing what she truly loves. She’ll be the first to tell anyone that she has the greatest job in the World and couldn’t imagine doing anything else. She’s an absolutely joyful person. (Here’s a blog entry from someone in Minnesota that perfectly describes not only Sybille Jagusch, but the library as a whole. We, too, saw the paper globe.) Toward the end of our personal visit she looked at me and mildly chastised me for not planning ahead with her. She let it be known that when L. comes back this summer we need to send her a list of books we’d like to see and she’ll gather them up for another get together.

After our lovely visit we grabbed some coffee and hot chocolate and walked north to Union Station for a little browse. The beautiful station has been remodeled in the last five years or so and reminds one of a European station: nice shops, restaurants, cafes, and the perfectly large and glamorous arrival/departures board. We strolled around talking about taking a train to NYC this summer – I picked up some magazines since RR stations are the best places for periodicals – and we then headed over to K St. to meet X for a dinner date. She recommended The Iron Gate and we enjoyed a fab meal in a restaurant quiet on a Monday night during the Holidays (no congressional staffers around these days). X did a few appetizers, I had a tagine, and L, as expected, had salmon and gratin. A shared date pudding with rum sauce finished the meal. It was a nice end to a lovely day.

This afternoon we 're heading back to the city one more time to grab lunch at the café in the Museum of the American Indian and to visit the newly reopened American History Museum. L. will be toted to the airport at the break of dawn tomorrow and flown back to Omaha – school begins anew on Monday. I’ll work through Saturday to cover my time off over the last week and then we’ll begin a New Year.

Love to all.