Catching up, Volume Two: Thursday

I get up a little earlier than Gram to chat with Sheri for a bit before she has to head to work, and we prepare to head south toward upstate New York. Seems unfair to leave on Oliver's birthday, too.

It's sunny, which doesn't match my rainy mood at having to leave, but will sure make driving less of a pain in the you-know-what. It takes a blue moon to get the car all packed up again, considering that we've added wine and more spoils from Vermont to the mix. Eventually, we're in and headed to The Mix. Again.

Did I mention that while we were out yesterday, Gram looked at me and asked if the restaurant was on our way out of town? I just about jump up and down like a five year old when I realize she's thinking the same thing I was -- let's have an instant replay. This time, I order the breakfast flat bread and she gets the lox and bagel. We also order some ham, a pancake, and a muffin. And some French toast to go.

This is getting out of hand, but is such a delicious way!

We follow the GPS directions back past Jess and Sheri's (yeah, not on the way), arriving in Burlington in no time. At the ferry. Which the GPS wants us to get on. Which is closed. Seething a little, I turn around and make my way toward the second mapping option on my cursed iPhone.

FYI -- Google Maps sucks, too.

The diversion turns out to be divine intervention. My tires just about screech when we are rerouting along Route 7 and I spot Fiddlehead Brewing Company, that beer the waiter at NECI on Main turned me on to yesterday. I just about skip inside. This beer is only sold in Vermont, and I very seriously consider leaving all our luggage on the side of the road and filling the trunk with growlers. I don't. Instead, I play it demure with a 32 ounce bottle, which is the only thing there is space for in my cooler given the copious amounts of cheese.

We pass a lot of interesting stuff on the drive, but perhaps most eye-catching is a camel. Yeah, a camel. It's just penned up with some sheep on the side of the road. Aside from Napoleon Dynamite, who the hell has a pet camel?

Ok, fine -- that one was a llama. How else was I going to sneak in that dance scene? Sweet moon boots.

I don't know anyone with a camel. And it makes Gram do a double take, so it's worth mentioning.

The camel isn't the only thing. There are these massive dogs made out of hay bales -- kind of like this, but these are cuter. Of course, there are beautiful views of the mountains and Lake Champlain for quite a while, a storm and rain on one side of the road, with beautiful skies surrounding -- and then we are in New York and back on the highway.

It is dusk when we near Germantown, so our eyes are peeled for deer. There's one or two, and then we are seeing them all over the place. I mean like dozens of deer. We are talking to my Mom when we see a larger herd and I suggest we get off the phone and concentrate.

It's just about dark when we arrive at the next place we will stay, greeted by a loudly mewing cat outside. I realize I haven't told our hostess that I am allergic. Ugh. The terrain is a little rough and we've decided to just leave the bags and head out in search of sustenance.

More tomorrow.
    

Catching Up, Volume One: Wednesday

After the cemetery in Barre, we head into Montpelier for lunch and a little shopping. I love the place we eat: NECI, otherwise known as the New England Culinary Institute. The restaurant is actually a classroom, where the bachelor degree candidates learn everything from how to set and serve a table, to preparing it with a focus on farm-to-table. We dine at NECI on Main, and although Gram doesn't rave about her soup, the bun to my burger is almost too hard to actually bite into, and the creme brulee we share is a bit more pudding than custard -- the experience overall is very pleasant. As is the thick caramelized sugar crust on top of the brulee, and the IPA from Fiddlehead Brewing Company the waiter turns me on to.

We stroll around town for all of five minutes, popping into a bead store and cool vintage clothing slash record store, before deciding that the rain sucks and we will tuck our tails in retreat to Jess and Sheri's place. I'm making a big meal tonight -- my grand finale for the week, taken from the table of Laurie Annya from Stonington, Connecticut. It's called Beggar's Linguine, and it is quite literally to die for -- especially with the fresh fig tweak she incorporated before passing off the lovely recipe to me. It may go down in history as one of the best things I bring home from this trip. I've already ordered the cookbook this comes from, Around My French Table.

Between this and my recent discovery that I actually like pasta -- I'm gonna get really fat.

The food is luscious, and the companionship still doesn't disappoint. We are truly sad to be leaving tomorrow. In honor of the occasion, we unpack all of the teacups from the trip, each selecting a favorite from the array gathered on the counter. They are all so beautiful. Some plain, the color alone making them stand out. Others gilded with gold and silver, more with intricate lacy patterns or lovely floral designs.

Grandma picks up her grandmother's, real bone china, so thin you can see right through it. It has a big rose pattern, and stress fractures evident on the inside. Jess selects another floral, with gold rim accenting the hot pink flowers. Sheri's is simple, solid powdery blue with a melon color on the inside. Mine is delicate, but fancy -- just silver flowers that have always reminded me of icy snowflakes.

     

Because Jess will leave so early, we say our goodbyes to her before heading off to bed. My heart swells watching her give Gram such a big hug. I am so lucky to have her, and feel blessed to be able to share her as well. Especially with these new, but old friends. They are such wonderful women, and have made this part of our trip absolutely wonderful in every way.

That reminds me of something funny. Gram keeps calling "Jess" ... "Jeff". The first time I didn't say anything, thinking it was just a slip of the tongue, but she did it again yesterday. When I corrected her, laughing, I began to wonder if she needed to sort out the girl's relationship in these terms: girl and boy. She has mentioned "the strong one", maybe a sort of attempt to determine who plays that part. Gram is very religious. Her idea of marriage is somewhat archaic, only in that it simply is defined with a man at the head of the family. "Jeff" is apparently in that role. I explain that it doesn't necessarily work that way in same-sex partnerships. Just like in all others, there is give and there is take. Each person has their own strengths. Both Sheri and Jeff, I mean Jess, are strong for each other in different ways.

And I can tell you one thing for sure, I've never seen two people more devoted to one another -- and their kids, which just happen to be two completely adorable 100+ pound boxers.

As I crawl into bed, I feel happy ... and a bit sad. There's not much time left, and what remains won't be the same without them to end the evenings laughing with.

Okay, I know -- I'm going on and on. They really are that terrific.

Oh No! Not Again!

Sorry, intrepid readers, but the internet continues to elude us. Not to worry... The Mermaids will be back in civilization soon and will update you on their adventures!

A Deer Stole My Internet!

The Mermaids are in Upstate New York and are again without internet ... dodging herds of deer as they travel to their next destination (apparently no internets in the Boondocks!)....

Don't despair! Tune in tomorrow for an update...

Soccer Balls Go To Heaven

There's not too much to say about today. It seems as we get closer to heading home, the days get shorter. I feel relaxed, happy to be where I am at this moment and wishing the clock weren't ticking so damn loudly in my ear.

But we have today, right? And a few more adventures on the way. Leaving Sheri and Jess (and Oliver and Petunia) will totally suck -- don't get me wrong -- but I have a feeling we'll be back to see them soon.

We visited with Sheri until about ten before setting off toward Montpelier, Vermont's capitol. We stopped in Barre first to see the place that our friend, Judy, from the Nantucket ferry recommended: Hope Cemetery. It was an absolute riot.

As stone masons flocked to the area, drawn by the granite industry, this became their final resting place ... and a gallery of sorts to showcase their talent. Many were Italian, evident in the intricately carved names on the stones, some in beautiful script that I've seen nowhere but here. You get the sense, without even looking at the dates, from looking at the art deco style that quite a few of those buried here were interred in the 1920s. And in many cases, the sculptors actually carver their own tombstones.

Since we enjoyed it so much, and there are way more pics that you actually need to see rather than hear about, I'm treating you to a photographic tour.

This one gets to be first, because I love sailing, and you need some good background music to listen to while looking at the rest of these pics.







For that eternal love of sports. Let him take his passion with him to the grave. But really, it's the quote on the ball: "There is no room for second place. There is only one place and that's first place."














This one must have been done by  the sculptor in advance of his death. As you'll note, a woman is depicted coming in to find a man slumped over, eyes closed. She cradles him in her arms, clearly impacted by this great loss. See close up for more detail. My proposed title for this piece: "How My Wife Will React When She Finds My Lifeless Body."

And in case your music ran out, this musical selection is aimed at the next stone.

I find this one just plain creepy. I can't help it. They look like they are laying in bed, and this is above their final resting place. Pun not amusing.

Dale Earnhardt? Ok, fine ... maybe that wasn't funny.

More music, while you look at this and ponder the chains forged in life, which cannot be broken in death. Which, of course, makes me think of this.

Below, just because anytime you go to a cemetery, you never really get to know what the guy buried there looks like. Or how nice his 'stache was.

Biplanes are just cool.

Because having an oil tanker on your tombstone is sweet.


Finally, the piece de resistance, ruled best in show by both Gram and I due to the inherent practicality: The Old Arm Chair.

Mom, that one's for you. It's the song Great-Grandma Inch used to sing. Gram just about fell off her chair when I found it.

Holy Cannoli

We try and get out the door early today for our big trip over the mountain to Stowe, and a stop for breakfast in nearby Jeffersonville for breakfast. We are ready and downstairs by 8:30. We leave at 9:45.

I just don't get it.

There's another delay on the way. We stop at an interesting looking store touting maple-related products. I'm thrilled to be able to say that I now have completed my holiday shopping. Sadly (or happily, depending on how you look at it), I have not purchased much for myself ... with the exception of cheese. I bought two lovely wedges in New Hampshire, carting it (possibly illegally) into Canada, from, refrigerator to refrigerator, before we consumed it here in Vermont. Yesterday, I added a soft cow cheese to the mix from that weird dairy farm with nobody around. I picked up cheese curds today, for Gram. Okay, for me, too ...  in addition, two Cabot varieties -- a "limited edition" sage and a garlic and herb -- as well as a brie from this darling farm store. Yes, a brie.

France doesn't own rights to the stuff, you know.

All of this highlights a distinct problem I have: cheese addiction. I even brought some back when I went to Italy last year, having a serious internal struggle with how I might smuggle boar meat back into America in my bra without getting arrested.

I love food, and cheese makes my top ten list.

Clearly, Jess and Sheri knew exactly the place to get a fix for that sort of problem: The Mix. I'm not much of a breakfast person, not because I don't like breakfast, I'm just not that into breakfast food. If I need to do brunch at home, my standby is Domku for scones. I like scones, and admit freely that not even a 12-step program could break my addiction there. I've even brought some cardamom and cranberry mix with me to make them for the girls. The Mix? This place could change my mind. As if the breakfast flatbread wasn't enough, there was the most unbelievable French toast -- creme brule french toast, to be exact -- loaded with tiny, luscious blueberries.

It. Was. So. Damn. Good.

The drive to Stowe was incredible. It felt like driving through a paint tube. Stunning, with the road narrowing to one lane as it wove around house-sized boulders and hairpin turns that created blind corners you can't even imagine. Fun, scary ... awesome.

We stop at one little stretch of stores in Stowe long enough to see the price of a bracelet: $895. Yeah. This is a drive through sort of place. We enjoy seeing the ski resorts and even made it up to the Trapp Family Lodge for a stunning view. Sadly, I expected something different. Maybe singing and dancing?

Next, it's the cider mill for awesome cider doughnuts and hot apple cider. We even watch them press for a while, too, which is pretty cool since the last place I remember seeing that was in Michigan, about two decades ago, at Uncle John's Cider Mill. The process then was a bit more antiquated. We take our cider and sit down to play a game of checkers. Just when I think I've got Grandma surrounded, she comes up from behind and whips my behind.

Take that, young 'un.

Actually, after one of her more impressive moves, in which she jumps two of my defenseless pieces, she proclaims, "I think that was fun." So simple and sweet ... it's hard to be a sore loser with this ultimate display of grace. I just can't stop smiling at her. 

Then, it's on to a Mecca of sorts ... for the ice cream connoisseur: Ben & Jerry's. We have to wait a bit before we can get tickets for a tour, so we spend the time reading about the company. It is amazing how socially responsible and Vermont-focused they are. The girls say you wouldn't even know Ben, a gazillionare, who lives near Burlington, walks around in a flannel, and drives a plain old car co-piloted by his Labrador (everyone has a dog in Vermont -- I think it may actually be a requirement.) I'm very impressed, and it inspires me to think more deeply about our mission for We The Eaters.

The tour is actually really interesting. The guides are funny, telling people to keep "moo-ving" along, and making other udderly ridiculous bovine-related jokes. Seeing the factory floor is pretty impressive, with all the worker bees waving at us while they put out today's flavor: Milk & Cookies. At peak production, the plant churns out 250,000 pints a day. We help do our part by sampling some on the way out. I discover that my favorite flavor -- New York Super Fudge Chunk -- is actually Number 6 on the top ten flavors list, followed by my second fave, Phish Food at Number 7.

Thank goodness. I'd hate to be visiting either in the flavor cemetery up the hill, complete with gravestones emblazoned with poems commemorating those flavors that just didn't make it, like "Sugar Plum" and "Economic Crunch."

Poor Gram. As if her pre-existing waddle were not bad enough, we're both waddling a little after all the food we've had today.

It's a lot to pack in to one day, and with a few stops in search for farm fresh eggs, we're finally on our way home, where I plan to make breakfast for dinner: frittata, roasted rosemary and garlic baby potatoes ... and scones.

If you can't beat 'em ... eat 'em.

After another lovely conversation at dinner, where we talk about relationships gone wrong, love and loss, we Skype Adam so the girls can meet him and the dogs, and then finish the night with a marathon session of Chopped watching.

Thankfully, the dessert basket with the cocktail weenies does not make me hungry again.    
  

Oliver, Don't Lick Grandma

Saturday night, we went out to Sonoma Station for dinner, a place the girls love. It's situated so close to the railroad tracks that you can feel vibrations from the trains through the floorboards when they pass. It is lovely. I am particularly smitten with the Potato-Chive & Parmesan Croquettes, served with aioli and white truffle oil. You can smell the truffle oil from a mile away. And the polenta fries? Oh, yum. Everything is lovely, right down to my elderberry cocktail.  

In the morning, we wake pretty leisurely, having stayed up late chatting. Sunday is Grandma's 89th birthday. After some lovely coffee (siphoned, OMG ... so good) and pastries, we celebrate it by going to The Giant Pumpkin Regatta in Burlington.  That means getting ready pretty quickly, considering it is a 45 minute drive, it starts at Noon, and it is 10:45 when we sit down to eat. Gram scolds me for not waking her up earlier.

What is a pumpkin regatta, you might ask? Teams of people hollow out giant pumpkins, some weighing in excess of 1000 pounds, then proceed to board these gourds, and paddle the grand tip-happy raft around a course in Lake Champlain. Some go bottom up, spilling their captains into the icy water. Others are bailed out, only to race again. It's hysterical, and Gram seems to get a huge kick out of it. I get burs up my ass. Down by the water, taking pictures, I inadvertently sat in a picker bush. I can confidently say there is no real way to pull pickers stuck in the very depths of your bunghole out in a polite way. I only hope someone got a picture.

On the way into town, Gram is raving about the "little one" -- Jess -- and how she seems to just run things around the house. The boss, she says, raving about how much she likes her. We leave Gram with Sheri while Jess takes me to my car.

The boxers, Oliver and Petunia, plan to drive, clearly. 

When I pick Gram up, Sheri hops into the car with Jess and they are heading to walk some dogs (that's the focus of Sheri's amazing company). Gram begins raving about how sweet Sheri is -- a real "go-getter", she says, and says that the two of us are a lot alike. 

Damn, she is so cute, that little white hair.

We are off on our own to explore Church Street, which she thinks is a "hoot" because that's her last name. She's noticed that just about every town we are in has one, but Burlington's is special, lined with fun shops and cafes, tons of people coming from the Regatta mill around with street performers two to a block. It is fabulous. 

We mosey back to the house a few hours later, where Gram proceeds to fall asleep on the couch, while Sheri tries to keep Oliver from licking her. Apparently, little old ladies taste as good as babies, which is like crack to my dog, Sake. 

Jess makes the most amazing dinner: golden beet and pear slaw on top of salad greens with toasted almonds, followed by a rosemary polenta with Gorgonzola cheese sauce, braised garlicky greens and white beans. It is so damn good, honestly better than 95% of the food we've eaten on this whole trip.  


We all relax in front of a toasty fire in the wood stove, chatting while I work on the blog. Then Sheri comes out of the bedroom with a surprise birthday cake, the first actual cake Gram says she's had in a long time. I've done some covert detective work, eschewing the carrot cake she says she hates to discover her true passion: chocolate cake with chocolate buttercream. I sent the text to Sheri a few days ago so she and Jess could fulfill their evil plans. 

Ok, chocolate isn't nefarious in any way. However ... give a grandma coffee and a giant slice of chocolate cake after 10 pm and you never know WHAT will happen.

Apparently, she will fall into a deep cake-induced coma. 
 
We're all leisurely again on Monday, waking late and eventually heading out toward St. Anne's Shrine. It's about an hour drive, which is beautiful, given the bloody sun has decided to make an appearance and stay today. The spot is an outdoor church nestled along the banks of Lake Champlain, overlooking the Adirondack Mountains. It is absolutely breathtaking. And closed up tighter than a drum, save the bathrooms, which Gram appreciates.   

We drive back toward Sheri and Jess' place along Route 2, which takes us through North and South Hero, an amazing drive. We stop at Hero's Welcome for lunch, where Gram and I have the most amazing sandwiches. We'd passed it at first, doubling back when the lady at the Catholic Church turned craft bazaar down the road hailed the food. Mine was called the "Thomas Jefferson," featuring turkey, cheese and cranberry mayo on a homemade roll. Seriously, it is one of the best sandwiches I have ever had.

I stop at the old log cabin building on the side of the road, touted to be the oldest in New England. When we pull up in front, Gram takes one look at the sign, revealing the $3 entry fee and proclaims she's not interested. I look at her and ask why. She says she saw all the log cabins she wanted to see growing up in Illinois. Exasperated, I begin to pull away. She says I can go. I explain to her that it's not as much fun alone, to which she tells me I'm being difficult.

Really. I'm being difficult? It's $3. I just spent more than $50 on gas, and this would be infinitely more entertaining. 

We decide to head to a cheese maker in Milton, hoping to tour the factory. The "factory" is a clear glass window showcasing empty machines and a table full of leaking plastic containers with what might be cheese, bur we're not sure. There is nobody around, perhaps for miles, and an honor system check out. The cheese is reasonably priced, and the fresh cheese I am interested in will last 5 to 6 weeks. And it was made in the middle of August.

I dig through the small stack of cheese in the fridge, finding one made in mid-September, only to find I have $5, not the $7 needed. The cashier in Hero needed ones and I gave her all I had in exchange for a fiver. I ask Gram for a few. She has one. I make up the difference with a Canadian Dollar, feeling slightly justified that my cheese must be consumed this week.    

Like that will be a problem.

I'm flying back toward the house to head out for a hike with the girls while Gram takes a nap. We go to this gorgeous area owned by Smuggler's Notch resort. It is just stunning, and nice to see the dogs, body-wagging, and digging in the dirt. They clearly like this place.  

We head back home, stopping off at a lovely covered bridge on the way. I get out to snap a few pics. The girls point out snow on the top of the mountain, something Gram and I will likely see more of tomorrow when we drive to Stowe.
 

I get busy in the kitchen, listening to the conversation the girls have with Gram. They are talking about Mom's boyfriend and his guns. Gram says something about how she doesn't like handguns. She likes single-shot rifles. 

I nearly pee my pants.

I am making truffle risotto for dinner, which is delicious, but tastes nothing like truffles. Something wrong with the batch I brought back from Italy, which is a huge disappointment. The wine, however, is amazing. A chardonnay from Argentina. Fruity and delicious. I drink the bottle, pretty much unassisted. 

We have such a great time chatting about life, lessons learned and family, laughing hysterically around the table. I can't remember having such lovely conversation in a long time. The dynamic is so interesting, accented by the range of ages around the table. It's real, and that is so welcome in an age focused on keeping up appearances.
I can't think of anywhere I'd rather be.



 

The Best Friend I Never Met

We are on our way out of town after a steaming cup of Montreal (or should I say, cold and dreary?) Despite the one way streets, and my having mapped the drive backwards on Mapquest this morning, meaning from Burlington, Vermont, instead of to -- we find the highway and are on our way by about noon. 

Sadly, one minute we are on the highway, the next, driving through farmland. I'm not sure how it happened. I never really saw an exit sign. My gut tells me to keep driving in the direction we are heading, as I cling to the hope that "sud" in fact means south. As it turns out, the compass up my tookus is still working fine. 

Gram sees apple trees that look like the branches were grafted to grow toward the ground. It makes her think about my Aunt Victoria, who is responsible for about a third of the torment I experienced as a child. She scared the crap out of me, second only to her sister, Aunt Marie.

My mom was sick a lot, and in the hospital, so they would watch us. Both were extremely strict. I remember a time where Aunt Marie just about skinned me alive for sliding a glass of milk across the table. It spilled, she spanked.

Gram tells me about a story that involves my teeny tiny little brother, Ryan. It is one so embarrassing, I can't resist but repeat it here. Apparently, on one occasion where my mother was in the hospital, Aunt Victoria was watching us. I was in preschool, which puts my baby brother at about two or three. He refused to "go" when she put him on the potty in the morning. Aunt Tori, as my mom and uncle called her, got him washed up and dressed for the day.

Ryan proceeded to go downstairs and hide behind the curtains, and as Gram so eloquently puts it, "filled his pants."

(She pauses for dramatic effect.)

Apparently, this absolutely incensed Aunt Victoria. She called Gram, telling her that a child of his age should be able to go on the toilet. The next day, she sat him on the throne, and told him that she didn't care if he sat there until he was 16 -- he would not be getting up until he went. 

She went out and sat in the hallway. It took and hour, but apparently, the crotchety old woman scared the shit out of him. He did his business, and never had an accident in his pants again.

Gram says Mom, on the other hand, could not stand to have a messy diaper. Before she could even walk, she would crawl into the bathroom and bang on the toilet seat until someone would come and put her on it to go.

In all fairness, Grandma is scolding me for putting any of this on the blog. She says these are family secrets. 

What I remember about Aunt Tori is my last visit to see her, living with my grandparents, shortly before she passed. She was dying of cancer. She had three large tumors in her lungs, but they had her undergoing intense chemotherapy. Grandma convinced them to let her take her home. When I saw her, she pulled the wig off the top of her hear to expose the smooth crown of her bald scalp, laughing maniacally. Decidedly, still not endearing. She lived just a few short weeks after that, in terrible pain. Even the morphine didn't  help. My grandmother said she had one request: no grey casket. She hated that color. Gram got her a lovely pink casket with flowers. 

It's kind of a weird thing to remember, and maybe a weird thing to include here -- but these snippets are what tell the stories of our lives. I explain to Grandma that they aren't really secrets. They are the pieces of ourselves that make us human. The stories that, unless I record them now, won't be told again once she isn't here to tell them. 

And I, for one, love her stories -- poop and caskets included.

On the way into Canada, there was nobody in line going through the checkpoint. It took all of ten minutes, including getting some basic directions. The line back into the U.S., however, takes about 45 minutes. Grandma goes on and on about wanting to kiss the ground ... that there's no place like the United States. I find this ironic, since she's only been to Canada and Mexico. What does she have to compare it to? Plus, we were only gone for three damn days. It's not like she was in a POW camp while there, for cryeye (as she would say.)

Today we are headed to meet the woman I refer to as, "The Best Friend I Never Met." 

Sheri was an investor-owner in the condo in the building where I bought in Washington, D.C., in 2006. Things didn't seem right, and we first started communicating to discuss our concerns, staging a coup to take over management of the building in 2007. For the next year, we both cried to each other over what had happened, and the general state of the building. Not good is an understatement.

Over the years, we got to know one another ... learning about our lives, me in D.C., and her in Vermont. We supported each other at times when neither of us felt like we could deal with that horrible situation anymore. The predicament, and slowly digging out of it, lay the foundation for a very strong bond, which blossomed into a friendship. I feel like I've known Sheri, and now her partner, Jess, forever. Though I wouldn't say this of many people, I trust them implicitly. 

They must trust me, too, given that they have invited me and the white-haired axe murderer in my passenger seat to stay for a week at their lovely house near Burlington.

Since they aren't at home when we start getting close, Gram and I decide on a few detours. Two places promise crafts, hawking junk. Then, it's off to the winery down the road for a tasting ... and a casing (we leave with three bottles each, and Gram actually outspends me!) 

Then it's down this little rocky road that goes down to the riverfront and a gorgeous waterfall -- Fairfax Falls. It looks safe. It says it's access for day fishing, only closed from sunset to sunrise. I start down, confident, but as my tires are skidding and bumping along on the slick, sharp rocks, I begin to worry. The problem is, it is at a steep incline and backing up would be a treacherous option. We plow forward, get a great pic, and timidly make our way back up. 

I hate to think what my undercarriage looks like.

So then it's time. We head back to Sheri and Jess' place, and when I see my friend, whose face I know only from pictures, I squeal and give her a huge hug. When we get inside, Jess gets a turn, too. They are just darling, and instead of it feeling weird -- like it could, like you'd think it might be -- it's like we've known each other forever. 

Mad As A Grandma

Grandma is pissed. Really pissed.

I couldn't sleep again last night, tossing and turning for at least an hour before I got up to get her a Breathe Right strip. And a sleeping pill for me. And unplug the computer, from which was emmenating the most hellish blue light.

I couldn't hear her snoring anymore, so I took out my earplugs twice and hugged her to make sure she was still alive. I think I scared the crap our of her jumping up and then coming at her like a wild howler monkey with that strip. 

But, I slept like a baby afterward. I woke up at 7 am and she wasn't there. I thought maybe she was in the bathroom. Then 8, still no Grandma. At 9 I started to worry, until she stalked into the room, mumbling something about being on the couch to my query about what was wrong. She then grabbed her toiletries and shut the door, a little hard, behind her.

Okay, so she's pissed. clearly.

There's nothing worse than making a cute little old white hair mad, and not knowing exactly what you did.

She comes back about an hour later. I ask her, again, what the problem is. I also ask her if she slept on the couch. She says she didn't sleep.

Great. So she's pissed and overtired.  

She says she can't help it if she snores. I tell her I know that, and that I slept fine when I came back -- she wasn't snoring anymore. She says that's because she didn't go back to sleep. She went and sat on the couch, dozing off around 6, she says, but waking at 7:30 and getting ready while she waited for someone to get up.

And, she reveals, I poked her.

Now I want to shoot myself.

I don't poke little old ladies. She insist that before I jumped up and slapped the snore-bashing strip on her nose, that I poked her hard in the ribs. I try and defend myself, telling her I must have been sleeping and that I would never do that on purpose.

I get out of bed and head for the bathroom, telling her to take a nap while I get ready and that she can get some sleep in the car.

This is going to take some serious sucking up to correct.

And it's raining again. Surprised?

Mad As A Hornet

Finally, though it lasts all of an hour before the rain starts to fall. Drat ... foiled again. This dreary weather makes it hard to get excited to explore the city.

Now, what to do today? Our plan is crepes for breakfast, and then on to Notre Dame Cathedral. We've also been turned on to Rue Sainte Catherine, a great spot for shopping -- both above, and below ground. With extremely cold winters here in Montreal, the malls have gone under street level, connected by passageways that allow you to walk for blocks without subjecting yourself to sub-zero temperatures.

Or rain, as the case may be.

Our other host, Stephanie, got in late last night from a work trip to Las Vegas, so we met her this morning. With the elevator out when she arrived, she had to lug her suitcase up the stairs after midnight. Said she sent a picture to their Board with the "elevator out" sign and her bag in front of it. I like her immediately.

We start our day at a little creperie around the corner from the apartment -- La Crepe 2 Go. I suggest we order one sweet and one savory, but Gram looks at me like my head is on fire when I recommend chocolate for breakfast. If I'm going to eat the spinach she wants slandering my plain old ham and cheese standby, she can eat my hazelnut and strawberry. It's called compromise. But when I tell her this, she thinks I'm saying I'll eat all the spinach one and she can have the chocolate one. She starts arguing that she wants half. I'm so confused until I realize she hasn't heard me, just as she begins to say how important communication is.

So are hearing aids.

The crepes are good, but not as good as the ones in Rehoboth Beach, Delaware. Of course, that might have more to do with the adorable little Frenchies that make them there ...

You have to pay to park your bike here, which I find intriguing, and not necessarily conducive to less car traffic. We won't be touring the city by car today, however. And we won't be walking. Grandma says she plans to tell mom that some of the stairs in Italy made their way to Montreal. She has suggested we head for the metro, which will be her first experience on this method of public transit. 

We can't find an elevator into or out of the metro, so Gram hurtles herself up and down the stairs. I frankly have no idea how she is doing it. We get off a few blocks from Notre Dame, and while we walk, Grandma reaches into her pocket for something when I see a yellow jacket near her hand. Before I can do anything, it stings her on the thumb. She makes the most horrible sound, wincing. I know it hurts like hell, and there is just nothing to be done about it. Not a nice way to start the day.

Inside the cathedral, it is absolutely stunning. We sit down in some pews near the front to admire the view. I hear Gram praying, thanking God for all his glory. It makes me start to think, does a big ornate church honor God? I ask her, and she says that it honors man, but that when structures like this are created, the aim is to glorify God. It's not our place to judge. I can't help but think how many mouths this pomp and circumstance would feed. I like my theater church. Simple, with a big focus on helping others.

I saw a lot of churches in Italy, so I wasn't that excited about seeing this one. That said, this is one of the most beautiful I've ever seen. It's just breathtaking, and I am dying to hear the 7,000+ pipe organ play.

The shopping is kind of anti-climactic, aside from a stop at Canada's equivalent to Marshall's ... called Winners. Shopping in a store called "Winners" is just funny. I find a great pair of black cords and a present for the boy. Because we're winners, damn it. After, it is back to the apartment for a siesta. Even I think I'll nap this time.

We head to the port and Old Montreal for dinner. The area is just darling, and if Gram's legs weren't mush, we might have done a little more walking around. I even try to convince her to do a horse drawn carriage ride with no success.

Speaking of no success ... dinner is a bust. After researching online, I've come up with Modavie, a well-reviewed place that isn't too pricey. That's not to say it's cheap. It is not. Most dinners start at about $30. The place is darling, the reception warm and the window table, marvelous. The service, however, left a lot to be desired. There are a few things I look for in a good dining experience.

1. You should be greeted quickly upon arrival.
2. Glasses should never sit empty, especially water.
3. Food should arrive promptly: 10-15 minutes for appetizers, 20-30 minutes for entrees.
4. The waiter should always check in within five minutes of patrons receiving food.
5. Plates should not be cleared until everyone has finished eating.

This place failed miserably on numbers 2, 3 and 4. When he finally did come back to inquire why I hadn't touched my food, Grandma was already done eating. By then, it was a little late to do anything about it. I sent it back.

In my opinion, a restaurant can dig there way out of this sort of thing. In New York, they forgot part of our meal. It was brought out promptly, they apologized profusely, and brought us all a small dessert. Here, he stumbled, then said I would not be charged, and offered to bring something else. When I explained that the timing was a bit off and asked how long it would be (considering it took more than 40 minutes to arrive in the first place), he said he could try and rush things.

Try.

If only he would have tried to make sure we had a good experience in the first place. Another glass of wine would have gone a long way. At least I could have drank my dinner.

I really wanted to like this place. C'est la vie.

Breakfast & A Thirty Minute Warning

It was so dark last night, as we drove along in the black of night. We make it as far as Sherbrooke before I have to pull over at a convenience store to look at a map. Between that and a few questions to the cashier, I am able to navigate us into Eastman and the bed and breakfast where we will stay for the evening, Gite La Marmotte.

We get settled in and then head into the common area to watch the presidential debate on TV. It's in French, but our hostess, Marcelle, finds it on another station -- Fox -- for us to watch. No comment. Also, my grandmother and I don't see eye-to-eye on politics. No comment.

I might as well go to sleep.

Success. I sleep nine hours ... and it only took a separate bed, earplugs, drugs and a Breathe Right strip (for Grandma, of course!) I have the world's greatest shower, complete with overhead rainfall shower, and head into the dining room to check some email. Once Gram joins us, Marcelle serves breakfast. She says there's Croque-Monsiuer and Croque-Madame ... but nothing for breakfast. Enter Croque-Matin.
  

Marcelle's Croque-Matin

Sesame Kaiser Rolls, split

Jamon (ham), thinly sliced

Egg

Italian cheese mix (provolone, mozzarella, Parmesan, emmenthaler)

Preheat over to 400 degrees. Scoop some of the bread out of the tops of the kaiser rolls. Layer with several slices of jamon. Break egg into the "bowl" on top of ham. Cover with cheese. Cook for 20 to 24 minutes, depending on desired yolk consistency.

It is magical. Crunchy, savory fabulousness. Then, our hostess says she's forgotten to let us know that she has an appointment at 11 am. Either we can be out in thirty minutes, or wait until she returns to leave.

No comment.

Amazingly enough, I dry my hair, throw on makeup, pack the car and shoo Gram out the door in just the nick of time. We are heading to Knowlton, Ville De La Brome, having been told it is absolutely charming. There's a walking tour and lots of old Victorian buildings that will be fun to check out.
 

It's a pretty drive, but once we arrive, we only see about six stops on the tour. The buildings, most constructed in the late 1800's, are beautiful ... it's just that Gram is really exhausted. I walk her back to the car and set out on my own. I've found a few presents I want to buy, and realize that along with my complete lack of directions, I also have no Canadian cash. It's so much easier crossing the border here that you just don't think twice about being in a foreign country with a foreign currency. I also find this sweet little Italian store with a woman from the heel of the boot running shop. She's lovely, and makes a few suggestions, lamenting that I didn't bring Gram in -- she says she would have made her tea.

Why don't I come to Canada more often? I've always been told they don't like Americans and would not be nice. So far, I've found there is nothing further from the truth.    

When I tell Grandma about the Italian woman, she starts talking about Sunday dinners when she was a kid. She was always responsible for making the noodles. She would roll them out, but her mother -- my great grandmother -- would not let her cut them. They would start dinner with chicken noodle soup, then it was roasted chicken, canadle, and a vegetable. Sometimes, in the summer particularly, there would be wilted lettuce with bacon. And, says Grandma, "She'd always have something for dessert."  

It's not far from there on to Montreal. We get in quickly, and even I am impressed with my navigation skills. It's like I have a compass up my bum. A sixth sense for which way to go. Oh ... and the uncanny ability to actually read a map -- a dying art form in today's GPS culture.

One of our hosts, Joel, meets us at the door (once I call him from the coffee shop downstairs. Still no cell.) The place is modern, and in a fabulous location. We rest for a while before he points us to a Japanese restaurant down the street for dinner. Gram eats her weight in ramen. When we return, we discover that the elevator isn't working. We are staying on the fourth floor.

This is going to be tough.

I think we'll call it an early night. Dors bien, Belle.

Merde, Je Ne Parle Pas Français

We had a lovely dinner with our hosts in Newbury, Vermont. Louise cooked us a marvelous feast of stuffed roast chicken, along with broccoli, red cabbage, mashed potatoes, as well as roasted turnips and carrots. For $25, we had the most amazing home cooked meal. To top it off, an absolutely priceless apple pie for dessert, with just about the most delicious crust I've ever had. The secret? Crisco. Marv, Louise's dish-washing dynamo of a hubby, suggested cheddar cheese with the pie. I've heard of that, but hadn't tried it. I like firsts, and this was a great one!

Their house was lovely, but Raney -- their wiggly little Bichon puppy -- is what made it a cheery home. She was the most adorable little thing, full of snuggles and body-wagging joy. I might be missing Sake, my fluffy baby, a little bit!

I'm sure it will shock you to hear it is fricking raining when we wake up.

When we're finally upright, we find that Marv has left us a very welcome list of suggested stops for today before leaving the house. Louise is setting out a few things for breakfast, including what I discover later to be the most unbelievable red raspberry jam ever. It is so bright and fruity that the flavor just explodes in your mouth. We take a quick picture with our teacups and Louise and she gets ready to head out the door to work. 

Our first stop is 4 Corners Farm, which Marv touts as the best farm stand on the planet. It is wonderful, though Gram remarks at the price of the tomatoes -- rattling off a price I actually think she must have misread. It about $15 a bushel? Does seem high. Inspired by this morning's breakfast, I buy a much more moderately priced (and transportable) jar of raspberry jam, hoping it will be half as good. On the way out, I tell her the gooseneck gourds look like, um ...

She says yeah -- with one ball.

Next, it's Robie's Farm, across state lines back into New Hampshire. The farm has been in the same family since the Civil War. I pick up some cheese, while absolutely marveling at the cash register sitting on the counter with a sign underneath that reads "honor system."

Sorry, I'm from Washington D.C. -- what's that?

There's one more little farm market before I take Grandma back to Vermont and to a truck stop for lunch. Now, before you chastise me for subjecting her to diesel, gritty men and racks of girly mags, I have to tell you that this place gets some pretty good ratings. As Marv tells us, the P & H Truck Stop has the best maple cream pie on the planet. Since I have never had maple cream pie before, I have very little to compare it to. That could be a good thing, if the pie isn't. However, we are both pleasantly surprised. It's not as sweet as you would think. It was rich, but just right. As full as we are from lunch, we do some damage.

Criss-crossing our way back to New Hampshire, we stop in Bath, to see two things: the Bath-Haverhill covered bridge and The Brick Store, the oldest general store in America. There's a tour bus in front of the latter, which makes the tiny store a little crowded inside. It's still fun to poke around -- especially seeing some of the "goods" on display that would have been available in the store's early days.

As we head north toward our big stop for the day -- Moose Alley along Route 3 from Pittsburg, NH, to the Canadian border -- we see all manner of dilapidated houses, many looking like they might completely collapse under a good, stiff breeze. There are so many lovely things, too, including a beautiful waterfall (near a much-needed bathroom) and then we cross the 45th Parallel. There are signs for churches hosting turkey dinners, ham dinners, and chicken pot pie suppers. There are signs condemning the Northern Pass, screaming "Live Free or Fry." One thing we don't see, and something we noticed of Maine, too -- there are no billboards. It's lovely.

Approaching the main attraction, Grandma begins praying that God will keep the moose in the woods.

Can you hear the tires screech?

I pull over to the side of the road and ask her what she's doing. She replies, making sure we're safe. I remind her that God actually listens to her, and ask that she revise her prayer.

She prays again, requesting this time that we see moose, and that they're not on the road.

Apparently, He listened to the first prayer ... and the second. Despite my creative efforts crawling down some pretty shabby dirt roads off the main strip, the only moose we see is a metal lawn art number.

Clearly, that's not in the road.

We arrive in Canada under the shroud of darkness. And since my phone stopped working an hour before we get to the border, we are sans any kind of directions. I also don't speak French, so good luck with the street signs, which are few and far between, anyway. And I don't know the metric conversion for kilometers to miles per hour.

Fuck.

Sorry, Moms -- that one was warranted!