It's Raining, It's Pouring, The Old Woman Is Snoring. Literally.

Have I mentioned the snoring?

There are no words to properly describe the range of sounds that my Grandmother emits quickly after closing her eyes for the night. It starts innocent enough ... just a little rattle here and there. Then, it's a full onslaught -- a nasal orchestra of epic proportions. I believe she has sleep apnea. She'll suck in a huge gulp of air, then it looks like she's trying to take in air for about four breaths without actually accomplishing anything.

As if that wasn't scary enough, what follows is horrifying -- and unbelievably loud. When the breath finally comes in, it reaches a crescendo that would make Maria Callas envious. 

Sweet baby Jesus ... thank you for earplugs. 

It's the crack of noon before we leave the house. It's raining, which makes three days straight of full-on rain. I am starting to think about building an ark.

As soon as I close and lock the door, the phone starts ringing. It's probably our lobsterman, calling to arrange this evening's delivery. Yes, that's right -- we're having fresh Maine lobster delivered fresh from the boat, and right to our front door. The woman who cleans the place where we are staying is married to the man who will catch these beauties, so I call her back from the car and ask for three to ensure we have leftovers. I'm armed with a grocery list that includes ingredients for a jalapeno-cilantro cole slaw and fingerling potatoes to go along. 

 

We are headed to Bar Harbor, but spying a winery sign, I turn in the opposite direction. Suddenly, we're passing an interesting garden, then a few hundred feet down the road, nearly hit a flock of wild turkeys. Just after, there's a roadside attraction with a truck on the roof, as well as a baby's playpen, complete with creepy doll and a sign that reads, "Who's your daddy?"

Weird is an understatement.

It's absolutely pouring, coming down so hard that I can barely see once we turn back around after finding the winery closed. We stop at a little roadside store promising Maine themed gifts, but offering mostly junk, and ask for a recommendation for a lobster shack. Lunts is their answer, assuring us that it's been around forever. I get another lobster roll (about the same price as the last place) and Gram orders a bowl of clam chowder. I'm concerned when the calamari we order as an appetizer comes out a bit rubbery, but am enjoying my Sea Dog Wild Blueberry Ale so much that I am temporarily distracted. Grandma loves the basil in her soup, but says the chowder at Mystic Pizza was better. The lobster roll was good, but not like at Day's. The amiable owner makes the stop worthwhile, though, handing us a guidebook for the road ahead.

I'll wash down my sadness with blueberry pie once we get into town.

In an effort to make that happen, we follow my colleague Molly's advice and head toward Southwest Harbor and Quietside Cafe. The pie is huge, standing at least three inches tall. The blueberry flavor is strong, balanced well by a scoop of vanilla ice cream. We walk into a shop or two, then pile back in the car bound for the seawall and Bass Harbor's head light. 

It's so yucky that we don't stop to get out, opting instead to head back and do our grocery shopping. We've read that the best way to cook lobster is in the water it came from, so I'm fixing to dredge some Atlantic water into a lobster pot when we get home and don't want to do it after dark.

We head to the unholy: Walmart. Sadly, the IGA we stopped at hoping to avoid this couldn't spell jalepano ( not a typo ... that was meant to be funny.) The ironic thing is, the IGA had green cabbage and Walmart didn't, so I've decided to replace that element in the cole slaw with fennel. Could be brilliant ... or tragic. 

In a half hour, we are again scooting along toward Prospect Harbor. When we arrive, I hurry inside, drop the groceries off and grab the lobster pot and camera. But when Grandma and I get out to what was the water's edge this morning, we note that the tide is out, leaving the water a good city block out. Between me and my salty brine goal now lies a swath of treacherous, slimy, seaweed-covered rocks.

What am I going to do with Larry, Mo And Curly now? (Yes -- I named the lobster.)

Unwavering, I leave Gram hugging the flagpole while I set off toward the sea. I hear her pleading behind me, saying that if anything happens to me, she is doomed. I make it about five rocks into the slippery landmine of muck before deciding that the last thing she needs to see, looking all precarious there on that outcropping of rock with the camera, is me fall. For someone that doesn't get scared of anything, it's something for me to say that this was really effing treacherous. I dipped the pot into some standing water and prayed, as I crawled carefully back across the death trap of slick stones, that it wouldn't make us sick.
 
I'm preparing this feast as a post entry for We The Eaters. We are doing a series in October on making foods "Less Scary," and now that I have conquered my fear of liver, I can think of nothing scarier than cooking a live lobster. Thankfully, they all but volunteer for who gets to go first into the pot. 
    

 

I'm irritated by Mo's attempts to crawl off the counter, so feel no remorse at dropping him into the stainless steel tomb. Poor Larry and Curly are playing dead, hoping I won't notice them.  Or perhaps they are just resigned to their scalding fate. As I pile them in on top of their writhing ring leader, I feel a little bad watching them squirm in response to the heat. So I clamp the lid down and run away. It's seems the only sensible thing to do.
 
In ten minutes, their shells have turned bright red. I pull them out of the pot, snapping a few pictures for the blog. Grandma is waiting patiently nearby as I transfer the three stooges onto a plate, moving everything we need to the table.

She attacks this thing like she has some deep seeded vendetta against all lobster-kind. I'm not doing bad myself, as a mixture of guts, water and meat particles fly through the air. I am suddenly really happy that she tucked the kitchen towel into my shirt before we got started.

This is my second time eating a full lobster, and my first time cooking it. Not a bad job, if I do say so myself. And the way she raves about it makes me feel really good.

I like to make the Grammy happy.

Gram Gives Me The Fingers, Then Gets Drunk

FRIDAY

It was gray yesterday, but actually raining when we wake Friday morning. With no sign of letting up. We share a treat from Modern Pastry, which looks like something I had in Italy that was delicious. Looks like, being the operative word here. I wish I would have bought extra canollis instead. Harumph.

Our first stop this morning is the Salem Witch Museum. This is hands-down the weirdest exhibit I've been to. You are guided into a large, oval-shaped theatre with benches along the walls, and in front of that, a row of both benches and chairs on either side of the room. Then, twenty feet above your head, individual vignettes are illuminated one-by-one, telling the story of how the hysteria began, through how it ended. The problem is, if the vignette is on your side of the room, you can't see anything. With roughly half a presentation under our belts, we are ushered into room number two,. There are actual exhibits there, including an extensive timeline on the wall. But you're not left to explore on our own. you are guided through by some sort of docent, and she skips over quite a bit. Unless you read while she talks, you don't get to see everything -- because as soon as she's done, you are shown the door. Thank you, goodbye. The best part of the visit was the pic I took of Gram I took in the gift shop.

Wicked witch of the octogenarians.

We haven't had good internet for days, so we stop at a coffee shop where I can do some deadline-driven NPR work. I feel bad having Gram just sit there, but she assures me she enjoys people watching. When I'm telling Adam about it later via the Bluetooth in the car, I say something about her doing well for the hour we were there. She makes it a point to tell him it was two hours, sticking up her fingers to make the point. I'm giving Adam the play by play, during which she's adamant about exactly which fingers she held up.

I did not flip off my granddaughter.

The whole concept of driving down the road while talking to someone hundreds of miles away -- as if they were in the car with us -- is pretty novel for her. As a kid, Gram used an outhouse and had to carry water into the house from the well outside. Now, she's signing for her purchases on an iPad and this disembodied voice is helping us find a good place to eat lunch.

Today, we're heading toward Portland, Maine. As we creep along our scenic route, I spy a submarine on the side of the road. The U.S.S. Albacore, land locked near Portsmouth, New Hampshire. I look at Gram and ask her if she's ever been inside a submarine. She shakes her head. Me, either, so I pull in. She's extremely hesitant. Not only is it freaking pouring, but she thinks she'll have to crawl in through the hatch on top and climb down a ladder. Even I'm not that cruel, and having seen the entrance cut into the side, tell her I'll go check it out.

I am assured by the cashier, as I pay for our tickets -- and an umbrella, that we will not have an issue. There is nothing more than an 18-inch step up.

He fails to mention the doors.

I've seen movies with submarines, but nothing can really prepare you for trying to fit a completely inflexible senior citizen through seven of those damn things. Yet again, this woman completely amazes me. While people half her age would have balked, she plunges forward, lifting the front leg up and through, reaching back to bend the left leg to follow. One at a time through these hatches, all the while admiring her surroundings like a little kid. My uncle, a Navy boy, will never believe it. Hence this video evidence.

She is a total rock star.

We're on the phone with my uncle as we cross into Maine. It's not far from there to Meg and Mark's place in Hollis Center, where we are staying this evening. They live on a small farm with goats, chickens, two kids (though their eldest is away at college) and four dogs, ranging from large (boxer lab mixes) to teensy-tiny (a Chihuahua that Meg calls "Pickle".) The farm house, about 140 years old, seems like a labyrinth with rooms off of rooms. I worry Grammy will get lost coming back from the bathroom in the middle of the night. Every detail of the place is charming, from the thriving houseplants, to the floral wallpaper and original wood beams in our bedroom. We decide to eat leftovers, and since the Internet isn't working, curl up to watch a movie together -- Pixar's "Up." It's absolutely adorable.

The internet comes back on, so I stay up a bit late to work to catch up on the blog. 


SATURDAY

We get up early and after Gram comes back from the bathroom, I head in that direction: through the glass door into the dining room, right turn into living room, left turn through the double glass doors, past the large mud room on the left (which doubles as
Meg's jewelry studio) and the stairs on the left, through another door into the kitchen and then left. Whew. Noticing Mark in the kitchen, I wander in to say good morning. He offers coffee, and I sit down to chat for a few while Meg joins us.

They are delightful. Mark owns his own carpentry business, while Meg has several jobs: U.S. Air, L.L. Bean and Airbnb. And a Mom! Then there's the farm. They sell some of the eggs to people they know, though Mark has just butchered several (a job Meg refuses to do, which reminds me that I will soon have to dispatch a lobster by boiling it alive.) She has plans to eventually make goat cheese, which I am dying to learn how to do. I envy the farm life, but can see that it isn't easy. They are very busy people, so we appreciate their time and the nice conversation.

Even more, we appreciate the fresh eggs that Meg uses to make our breakfast -- Gram raves about them several times during the day!

We head into Portland and the "Flea For All" I read about in one of the tour books Meg has for guests. It's awesome. I buy a few things: an apron made out of vintage material (for me), a gorgeous stoneware bowl (for me) and a fabulous three-tiered wire basket (for me). I'm seeing a trend here, and I like it.

Then it's off to the Portland Head Light and museum. It's small, but interesting. It's getting really cold, though, so I'm bundling up Gram to try and keep her warm. We head back to the car.  

Next, it's off to Allagash Brewery, where we are disappointed to find their next tour is overbooked. We wait around hoping some don't show up, and feel lucky when we finagle our way into the tour, which happens to include a tasting. Yum. I'm glad we both love beer. I get two bottles to go, planning to cozy up to Hugh Malone (their new IPA) tonight, and bring the other one home. Grammy gets shnockered. Funny, because she says there wasn't any alcohol in the beer.

"It was basically non-alcoholic beer -- only like 4% or something," she says.

Clearly she forgets that there were four, two with more than 7% each, and one with 11%.

After the tour, she tells our guide a story about her parents in Chicago during prohibition. Apparently, they decided to brew their own beer, but since they didn't know what they were doing, as the beer fermented, the bottle tops kept popping off. Worried their neighbors would hear and turn them in, they put it all in the bathtub and covered it with blankets.
 

We stop at Day's Crabmeat and Lobster for our first Maine lobster rolls. Pricey, but delicious. I could get used to this. Then it's off to Freeport, where I am less than impressed by the prices at the L.L. Bean outlet, but floored by the fact that I run into a friend from DC -- a former NPR colleague -- outside the store. It's a good reminder that I'm overdue for dinner with Alex. Small world. It makes me think of the time when Mom and I went on a cruise while I was in high school that my Mom's second-cousin just happened to be on, too.

It's a long drive from there to the house in Prospect Harbor -- about three hours. I've brought a bunch of music I think Gram will like -- Nat King Cole, Etta James and more -- and we sing along on the way. She actually tears up a few times. When I ask why, she says it reminds her of the past. Of my Grandfather.

We pretty much make a beeline for our destination, stopping only for gas and coffee. We arrive after dark.

Grandma is just tickled pink when she hears the ocean. I walk her out onto the deck, and though we can't see anything, we can hear the surf crashing against the rocks. I unload the car and put some pasta on to boil. We rummage around for a lobster pot to make sure our dinner plans for tomorrow will come to fruition. I plan to murder my first crustacean.

I make a fire and we sit down to eat, thumbing through the travel pamphlets for ideas on what we might want to do tomorrow. 

Though she has the opportunity to sleep in her own bedroom, she asks if I will stay with her.

My heart grows three sizes.

The Witching Hour

Before we went to dinner last night, our host and hostess offered us a tour of their home -- the Nathaniel Gardner House. It is believed to have been built 1740 and 1750 (although some records indicate it may have been erected in 1729), making it one of the oldest homes on the island. Walking through, Grandma and I admire the original trim, moldings, paneling, wide plank floors, fireplaces and baking oven. I'm captivated by the oven, complete with beehive protruding into the bathroom on the other side of the wall. In colonial times, they would stick breads, pies or other baked goods inside a small hole into this brick oven to bake. Apparently, early pictures of the house are on file at the Smithsonian.

Nantucket is such a charming place, and I can see why people come here. It has kind of a special place in my family as well, though I am just learning that this is where my dad proposed to my alternate mother, Leslie. The limbs on our family tree twist and turn in a myriad of directions, but I wouldn't have it any other way. She's become a pretty important part of the mish-mash that is our family unit.

It's rainy when we wake up on Thursday morning at about 8:30 am. Instead of waiting for the midday ferry, we opt to scurry and try to catch the next one. At 9:30. Yeah, that's in an hour. Grandma tries to help me pack.

"Help" is a term I use extremely loosely in this situation. I've noticed over the past several days that she's been trying to contribute in any way she can. Mostly, this means she will put stuff I have just removed from the bag back in it. Or she'll bring me things to pack while I am standing completely naked, fresh out of the shower. I just look at her and wonder, smiling to myself, what the hell she's doing. Helping. This woman is so used to being independent, so used to taking care of everyone around her, that she just simply can't let me take care of her. Damn, she's cute.

We make it to the ferry with just ten minutes to spare, plopping down at one of the tables, though there is already a bag marking the territory. I ask the woman who returns with a coffee and doughnut if she minds our joining her. She doesn't, saying she'll be working anyway. I'm glad for that, as I am hoping to catch up on the blog and some work stuff, too. 

Of course, we start talking ... about killing lobster. After I tell our new friend,  Joyce Paige from Amherst, Mass., that I plan to cook my first lobster in a few days for We The Eaters, she tells us a story. It's about killing an eight-pound lobster, which is the part that makes this piece fit into our theme next month: making food "Less Scary." I'm pretty terrified of killing a lobster, be it by scalding water, or the sword. This lobster she's telling us about was so big, it wouldn't fit in her fridge. They kept it outside, but when they brought it in, the cold weather had done a number on it. One of the claws just fell off. That didn't really matter, since it wouldn't fit in the pot without being cut up anyways.

"I thought she should have put a saddle on it, it was so huge," Joyce said.

As we laugh, Grandma pipes in that is won't be a problem -- she had to kill chickens all the time as a kid living on the farm.

Great. Former chicken slayer, now ruthless, lobster-killing white hair.

That sort of brings me back to the comment earlier about her "helping", and the independence it represents. I realize that I come from a long line of strong, independent women. My Great-Grandmother Evelyn left her husband when Grandpa was a small boy, trodding through fields to sell a farmer -- also the school's superintendent -- a set of encyclopedias. She was a Rosie during WWII. She had her own dress shop at a time when most women didn't work. My Grumpy's stepmother, Helen, had a college degree and worked at Michigan Bell. And Grandma, head nurse of a hospital in Detroit, was pretty much the sole breadwinner in their family. It's a badge of honor, and a great deal of responsibility.

We decide to skip Provincetown at the tip of Cape Cod and head up Route 3A, stopping instead at Plymouth Rock. It is so much smaller than I expected. The park ranger explains that it has slowly been chipped away over the years -- not by the elements, as one would expect. By people. They used to hand out a hammer and chisel so visitors could take a piece of the rock home. Although we don't go aboard, seeing the reproduction of the Mayflower moored in the harbor imparts a historic feel to the entire visit. We snap a few pictures and jump back in the car, heading North toward Boston.

Our logistical expert (a.k.a. Adam) provides us with a tip for lunch in Bean Town. As we are driving into the city, I realize how much I miss it here. I lived in Hopkinton (where the Boston Marathon starts) as a teenager, and then went to Boston University my freshman year of college. I loved the winding roads flanked by huge boulders, and the city steeped in history like the harbor steeped in tea so many years ago. Don't get me wrong -- DC rocks, but there is something special about Boston.

We arrive in the city, and thanks to my parking karma, find a great spot in just minutes. I figure since Grandma couldn't make it with Mom and I to Italy last year, we'll have the next best thing: lunch in the North End. We arrive at Carmen, ordering a fig, caramelized onions and Gorgonzola flatbread. We decide to split lunch, a crespelle (think crepe) stuffed with porcini mushrooms, caramelized onions, topped with a Bolognese Sauce. I can't even explain how good this food was. It was one of those eyes-rolling-back-in-your-head meals. It's making me a bit weak in the knees just thinking about it now. I totally had a foodgasm.

We stop by Modern Pastry to pick up a little treat for Mike, Adam's cousin, and his partner, Marc, who we plan to meet for dinner tonight. Just around the block, we stop at a great little grocery store for something to pair with the treats I've brought back from Italy. We plan to enjoy an Italian-style meal once we get to Vermont.

It's relatively easy to get out of the city, but slow going heading toward Salem. Once we get to the place we are staying, I'm a bit dismayed to see how many steps there are and how steep. I worked really hard to avoid this sort of thing. Grandma is a trooper and makes it up, then collapses for a little nap. I've got plans for the whirlpool tub in the bathroom, and am distressed to find it has been booby trapped. The stopper is AWOL, and I can only guess this is to dissuade me from using it. I am further convinced when I try to turn on the water and nothing happens.

Oh, lady ... you have seriously underestimated me.

I review the House Rules to confirm there is nothing in it about not using the tub, and then proceed to MacGyver a stopper out of a washcloth, opening the access panel to turn the water on. In about fifteen minutes, I am luxuriating in a steaming hot bath.

After I clean up the evidence of my blissful tryst, I find I'm foiled again when I can't get on the Internet. I check the listing, only to find it isn't listed as an amenity, but also notice while I'm there that the room isn't the one pictured. I'm slightly put off, but happy to curl up with my book.

We head out toward Pickering Wharf and Restaurant 62 to meet Mike and Marc for dinner. I drop Grandma off at the door and circle looking for a parking spot. I notice that she's caught up with them as
I circle by the door a second time. She's smiling broadly. Such a charmer, that one. She has threatened on multiple occasions to take Adam home with her already, and I think she's considering whether there is room for them, too.

They are both very sweet, and it's obvious that Mike and Adam share the same blood. They have similar personality traits. He's a "floorologist" (Grandma sees a sign with this word while driving into Boston and giggles away in the passenger's seat, having the same reaction again when Mike tells us he's in flooring.) Marc's in finance. I tell them where I work and it doesn't have the usual reaction. I think they may be the only gay Republicans I've ever met, which I don't feel bad mentioning, since it's them who point out this oddity as we dine (on crazy good food, I might add.)

So here I am, already nervous, and now we're discussing politics. I might as well launch into a diatribe about religion next.

We definitely reach common ground when it comes to Adam, who it is clear we are all pretty fond of. They are protective and seem glad to know that I care about him and his heart. Adam has told me a lot about them, and his cousin Judy, and I am looking forward to meeting more of the family. Adam's parents are adorable, and Grandma was quite taken with them. We may ask them to come along for Thanksgiving. That's saying something, considering we are driving. Eighteen hours is a long ride in the car if you don't like someone!

Sadly, the time comes for us to say goodbye. The gentleman walk us back to the car and I'm thrilled for hugs. I am a total hugger. Looking forward to a full report from Adam on what they thought, and tell him that I hope they will be honest.

Eeep. Now I'm nervous again.
   
 

SOUND THE ALARM ...

The Mermaids are without internet tonight.  So rather than dictate an entire post by phone, we shall regale you tomorrow.

Two posts in one day should make up for our absence, right?

A Whale Of A Time

It's near 10 am when we get out of bed, odd, because we are both still tired. Gram has slept a good 12 hours, and I've nabbed at least 8. Maybe it's the season changing? Perhaps we have reached the seventh circle of relaxation? It's been almost a week on the road, so the latter has my vote.

We have a little banana nut bread for breakfast. Gram is feeling a bit unsteady this morning, so she hangs her head over the side of the bed to "redistribute the rocks." Apparently, doctor's orders. It sounds like completely crazy medical advice, in my humble opinion, but what's a girl to do? I'm not giving this old gal orders, aside from insisting she let me take care of this wound on her leg that doesn't seem to want to heal up. I've got this fabulous homeopathic stuff that seems to be doing the trick. Tramueel cream. If you don't have some, get it -- especially if, like me, you bruise easily!

We walk toward Main Street and hit a few of the shops along the way. Grandma mentions this place we saw yesterday for lunch, and though I have great recommendations from my pal Alan's friend who summers here, I can't resist how excited she is. She has clam chowder, which does not surprise me in the slightest. I swear she intends to eat her weight of the stuff on this trip. We share black and blue sliders and some jalapeno mac 'n cheese. I love how spicy it is. The soup, however, does not get very high marks. I'd rather have a bad hair day than a bad food day ... so hopefully, we'll make up for it with dinner this evening.
 

We head to the Whaling Museum. A sign on the door advertises the thoughts of one travel writer who labelled this Nantucket attraction as one of the top ten places to see before you die. Now, I have two books that give a thousand places each -- one for America, the other of the world, making this top ten list seem pretty damn manageable. Let's cross one off the list, shall we?

We arrive just as one of the movies they play -- apparently, award winning -- is beginning in the main area of the museum. The skeletal remains of a large sperm whale are suspended in an animated pose over the room, and on the walls, all manner of whaling spears and instruments for dismembering said whale. The movie goes through the extensive history of the island, the rise and fall of the whaling trade here, and Nantucket's rebirth as a tourist center. It is long. I mean really long. Several times I look over at Gram and she's snoozing a bit. Can't blame her, really ... I feel my lids getting pretty heavy, too. That said, the bits I catch while trying to keep myself awake by sorting through some email stuff for things at home are both interesting and informative.

Afterwards, there's a brief talk that answers a question I have been trying to suss out while sitting here for the last my-ass-is-now-flat hour: how the hell did they get these 60 ton animals aboard once they harpooned them? From a glorified skiff, nonetheless? It's actually pretty gruesome -- both how they dealt the final blows, and the method for getting these massive animals on board: piece by piece. Literally. Ugh. It's nasty, but completely riveting. We wander through the exhibits, checking out the footprint of the candle factory that was on this site, and used the whale oil to make the smoke-free candles Thomas Jefferson touted. Then, it's to the observation deck on the roof, where we took this pic.  What a view.

  

We get some ice cream after the museum and decide to head back to the cottage to rest up, or wine up, before dinner. Tonight we are eating at Straight Wharf. I almost like the ambiance better than Oran Mor, but, then again -- they are very different. Oran Mor would be great for date night, a place where you could visit and actually hear your guests. Straight Wharf was louder, but super charming with the cedar shake walls, dim lighting and simple candles on each table. There was also a huge -- and I mean huge -- difference in the portions. Last night, the scale was reduced so that you didn't feel stuffed when you left. Tonight, we gorged, but the food ... oh, yum. And as most of those who know me well would attest, I like getting my money's worth. Grandma thought the rosemary bread was better last night, and I agree that it was dense and delicious. That said, the French we had this evening was crusty and chewy. I love that. The scallops? A toss up.

Again -- neither was really better, just different.

We shared everything, which is how I like to roll. Gram ordered roasted root vegetable salad, the swr clam bake and broccoli rabe. I ordered pumpkin chowder, local dayboat scallops and chocolate pot de creme for dessert. They started us out with a lovely bluefish spread and some sort of bagel crisp. Divine. The root salad was very good, but nothing that blew my socks off. I could not say the same for the pumpkin soup, which was heavenly: creamy, large luscious lumps of lobster, and the soft, subtle flavor of the mirepoix balancing the chewy, saltiness of the bacon. OMG. The lobster bake was amazing, with a full, shelled lobster arranged artfully atop the chorizo (since my trip to Mexico, I am a sucker for chorizo!). The lobster could have stood more flavor, Gram chirps in, but mixed with all the other flavors on the plate, it was delicious. Makes me anxious to try my own when we get to Bar Harbor, Maine in a few days. Grammy also thought the broccoli rabe (how the hell do you pronounce this?) was broiled, and thus overcooked -- or in her words, "ruined." But as a kale chip aficionado, I actually enjoyed the crispness, and especially what tasted to me like wasabi. It wasn't in the menu description, but I'd swear it was there.

So ... that leaves us to the chocolate pot de creme: if this dessert was a man, I'd have no willpower.

Mr. Grey? Yes, please. Sir.

It was velvety, smooth with a sinfully rich flavor that made my eyes roll back in my head. I show some restraint, finishing half, after convincing my tiny stuffed white hair to try at least a bite. I am completely unable to resist the shortbread cookies that came along with it, however. I'd stalk the chef's website to see if I could track down a few recipes, but the waitress didn't give me the right one. I'll get my Nancy Drew on tomorrow.

We are going home to sleep it off. My food baby, whom I have lovingly named "Emma," needs a break.

For like a week.

A Nantucket State Of Mind

Dragging our bones out of bed at 8 am isn't so bad after hitting the hay (a little barn pun for your amusement) before 11 last night. Grandma's legs dangle off the high bed, and she looks too cute not to take a picture. I'm reminded of something she said to me at the carousel the other day in Brooklyn: "Our roles have reversed." Funny how that happens, isn't it? I'm just glad that she's able to do this trip, and this morning, even suggests adding a few mermaids for our next adventure: my Aunt Kathy and Yvonne, my sister-in-law.

We had our tea outside this morning, trying, to get the horse in the pictures, but he wouldn't cooperate. The cat wanted to cuddle with me. Figures, since I'm allergic. It was hard not to scratch him behind the ears, but I know I'd regret it later, wheezing.

We get on the road by about 9 and absolutely meander. There is so much to see: tiny one-room churches, shaker houses mixed in with stunning Victorian numbers that take your breath away, and beautiful harbor vistas with sailboats keeled over, slicing through the deep blue water. The very tips of the leaves are beginning to change, and there are a few clusters here and there that are starting to turn. Some float softly from their limbs to the road before they'll even have the chance to dazzle, but they still look pretty on their way down. It's lovely, and I'm actually irritated when the GPS directs me to get on the highway at one point. We like the slow pace and the eye candy, so I switch it off and we wing it, hopping on 6 and heading north.

There's a lovely little group of antique stores that we can't resist pulling off at. Honestly, I just really need to pee. The guy behind the counter doesn't seem to want us using the facilities, but after seeing my white haired traveling companion, he relents. Membership has it's privileges. I find a little low-back bench/chair for the desk I just bought from a monk. Yes, a monk. Father Christopher, to be exact. It was meant to inspire me to finish the book based on our first Mermaid adventure. It is so lovely, and a tall chair hides it so much I find it a shame. This chair is darling, and with a shabby chic coat of milk paint, it will look fabulous. I talked him down $10, too, which doesn't hurt. It does, however, take up some room in the car. Thankfully, we don't have a need for the back seat at this point. 

We drive through Sandwich, Massachusetts. If I thought Mystic was captivating ... was I in for a surprise. This town, dotted heavily with darling little antique shops, is a place I'd like to come back and spend some time. Quaint is an understatement.

We've been talking a lot about butterflies and the difference between loving someone and being IN love as we drive. Yesterday, Grandma told me my Great Great Aunt Victoria wasn't in love with Uncle Walter when they married, but that she grew to love him,. That he was awfully good to her, and it was a decision she never regretted. They were married almost 40 years before he passed away, too young. Today, she tells me about Bob Bell.

He's the man that gave my Gram butterflies.

I'm kinda shocked to hear this story. I know my grandparents didn't always have it easy: from the stories she's told of him as a husband, and from things my mother has said about what he was like as a father. But I'm insulated from all that, my view colored by how he was as a grandfather. My Grandpa adored me, just exactly the way I am. That's rare, and of the men I've known in my life, there are very few I would say were that way with me. Maybe it's about respect, a sense of value for another person. He and I had a very special bond, and his passing was so brutal that it still aches. I inherited his bible and a hat he used to wear, adorned with pins from all the states he and my grandmother visited -- probably one of the things that instilled wanderlust to my core. Though it's been a decade since he died, I still really can't touch either. 

I digress. Bob Bell. He helped my grandmother's family move from Lincoln to New Holland, Illinois. He was in his early twenties, she just 16. Bob wanted to marry her, and though her mother approved, her father didn't. It wouldn't have mattered anyways, he was signing up for the military -- the seabees -- while she was bound and determined to go to nursing school (fierce independence? wow, wonder where I got that trait from!). By the time he came home, she had met my grandfather (a brilliant story for another time). Bob married a friend of hers, and sadly, they divorced just a few years later. Grandma says she once saw him on the street when she was home for a visit and those butterflies just weren't there anymore.

I've had the butterflies --the feeling of being completely enraptured with another person, whom the very sight of sets you on fire. And I've truly loved some of the men I've dated, but perhaps not been "in" love with them. Good men, men like My Uncle who treated their girls like gold. Men like my Grandfather, who told me just a few months before he passed that marrying my Grandmother was the best decision he ever made.

So what's the right answer?    

The ferry to Nantucket isn't far from Sandwich, and we arrive early enough in Hyannis that we can take the high speed ferry, shaving more than an hour off the voyage. It's this, or Provincetown, and I can hardly wait to get my feet on an island. I drop Grandma at the Ferry dock and go to drop the car off in the off-site parking lot. We get settled into our seats, pull out our teacups and have high tea on the high speed. And I mean high speed. We are clipping along at 40 miles per hour. That may not sound fast, but these are big, rough waves, and I am telling you -- you feel very little. Before you know it, we're disembarking and climbing into a cab, heading to our little cottage on Orange Street.

I hate to use the word darling twice in one post, but there is nothing else to describe this adorable little place. It is as sweet as sweet can be, as are the lovely hosts -- Guy and Bobbi -- who have supplied us with a bottle of Pinot Grigio (the way to my heart) and a fresh-baked loaf of banana nut bread (the way to Gram's). As we get settled in, Guy tells me something that makes me want to do a happy dance.

It's restaurant week on Nantucket.

I book a table at Oran Mor immediately, and we head to check out some of the shops. There is quite a bit of stuff closed up for the night, and some places closed up for the season, though still plenty to keep us occupied. I buy a few presents for people at home and Gram picks up some postcards. We've walked a good long way, and she's tired, so we sit by the water and watch the boats for a little while. We decide to head to dinner early and take our chances, feeling lucky when they can seat us right away.

No time is wasted before a pear martini ends up magically in front of me. We both have ordered the tasting menu. The creamy Atlantic salmon just melts in your mouth, balanced well with the earthiness of the lentils and the tartness of the pickled carrots and cipollini onions. The scallops are cooked to perfection, so buttery and rich. Grandma seems surprised, deciding she overcooks hers (don't tell her I said so, but I think this is common these days. If this is a side effect of getting older, shoot me now. Don't let me ruin scallops, or anything else for that matter.) The duck is fabulous, perfectly cooked, resting atop the emmer (a.k.a. farro, a.k.a. wheat), quinoa and bok choy medley. It's as tender as can be, but each bite is made truly delectable with a taste of the fig chutney artfully smeared on the plate. The dessert ... I could have lived without. I think Gram makes the best carrot cake in the world, and there are plenty of folks who would support that claim.

Back at the cottage, Gram flips through the cookbook I bought her at one of the antique stores for all of 30 minutes before crawling into bed. I've got some editing to do for the blog tonight, so I pour myself another glass of wine.

I mean, I have no car, she says with a wicked smile, and how much trouble can I get into on an island?

Chirping Birds, Tea & Scones

I hear Laurie-Annya bustling around in the kitchen and wake Grandma, whom I know will be very cross with me if I let her sleep through even a short visit with our charming hostess. As I move things around, I can hear them talking in the kitchen. The chef is concerned that she's put too much milk in the scones this morning and warns that they may turn out more like pancakes.

She couldn't have been more deliciously wrong. They were just perfect. We gather around the perfectly-set table, with beautiful cutwork linen, antique silver in a variety of patterns, and raise our lovely teacups. There's fresh figs on a bright bowl of fruit, and the scones absolutely burst with fat, juicy blueberries. They taste slightly salty, which was such a delightful compliment to the sweetness of the berries and the velvety texture of the biscuit. Yum.

We sit around the table for a while, enjoying the sound of the birds outside before we start packing up. We're heading into Mystic, Connecticut, this morning. Into the Mystic. I just love Van Morrison, something my mother instilled in me. I remember being up north in Leelanau, sitting in a restaurant with her, listening to the musician perform a rendition of this song. It's a favorite memory, and as a result, a favorite song. I play it for Gram as we sit at Laurie-Annya's kitchen table, saying it will be our theme song for today.  

It's blaring on the radio as we drive into Mystic and to our big stop: the Mystic Aquarium. We putter around, wandering through exhibits with all manner of fish and reptiles, watching the sea lions and penguins swim in their underwater habitats, touching the manta rays, and ogling the gorgeous beluga whales. One of the little penguins seems particularly taken with Grandma. A few times, he hovers right in front of her, suspended in the chilly water, and just stares. It must be the white hair.

Afterwards, we head into town and Mystic Pizza for lunch. We've heard it isn't great, bit it isn't half bad, either. I you remember that you're just going for pizza, and can forget that at this time last year you were eating it in Naples, you'll enjoy it. Especially with the Mystic Bridge IPA. I mean, how can I resist that? The bridge in Mystic is actually up when we roll into town. The beer is as yummy as this little town. It is absolutely darling and every bit worth a visit, especially in the off season without all the crowds. 

We get on the road around 4:30 or so. I'm so sleepy from the beer that we end up making an emergency stop at Marshall's on the way. We walk away, pocketbooks unharmed, and with me alert enough to make it the other ten miles we needed to go to get to tonight's lodging ... where our neighbor is a horse.

It's a bit tricky to find, but in a few minutes, we're rolling up to the barn as Mo, our hostess, walks over to greet us from the main house. She gets us settled in and takes us in to meet the four legged tenant next door. She tells us a little history of the farm. It was built in just three months in the 1940's, when the owners of two cottages at the front of the property became concerned about providing for their families near the onset of World War II. They planted gardens here and raised pigs to help weather those uncertain times. Her family bought the farm portion more than a decade ago, and have raised three sons and countless chickens here. Her eldest has just finished an amazing adventure -- a three month sail through the Northwest Passage -- and is on his way back to the nest.

We're tired and not too hungry after a big lunch, opting to stay in get to bed early. It is chilly, so Mo brings us an extra blanket, sharing some of the family's dinner with us -- spinach and kale quiche. I'm assuming the eggs are from the farm. It is unexpected, and totally lovely. Ironic, too, since this week's blog post on We The Eaters will feature quiche, too! I can hear the horse walking around just on the other side of the wall from us, while Grandma snores on the couch. Think I'll curl up with a book before I pull my earplugs out and haul her into bed.

Sleep well!

Grandma Throws Gang Signs In Brooklyn

We have an extremely leisurely NYC morning, not leaving Amy & Lenny's apartment until about Noon. Rehearsal is in full swing, as Amy gives us a big hug, seeing us out the door. Plan A is to pick up some lox and bagels at Russ & Daughters and head to Central Park for a picture with the teacups and Adam. This gets scrapped, since we are running late. Plan B: swing by Tal Bagel on Broadway between West 90th and 91st, then head to Central Park. At the bakery, I read reviews touting their chewy hand-rolled water bagels, and how affordable they are while waiting in line, so when the cashier tells me the total, I nearly choke. It's $46 for three everything with cream cheese, lox, tomato and capers, along with three coffees and two spanakopita-like concoctions for our lunch later.

When we find my parking karma malfunctioning near Central Park, the time once again forces us to change tack. On to Plan C. Damn. So we're speeding south on Broadway toward Penn Station, and as we close in on Times Square, I think, "Jeez, this would make a great pic, too." We pull over and jump out of the car in a mad teacup fire drill. And when I say "jump" out, I use the word incredibly loosely: Grandma doesn't jump (except at loud noises -- that seems to light a fire under her tiny tush. She explains the pain associated with sudden, loud noises and her hearing aids. Great, more awesome things about getting older. I may need to start writing a handbook: "What To Expect When You're Aging".)

Getting everyone out, teacup in hand, is quite a production ... and quickly destroyed by the evil glare of the sun, shining in precisely the wrong direction. We throw our hands in the air and take off again, dropping Adam at his bus with about 20 minutes to spare.

As we circle looking for the stop, I spy B & H, from which I have ordered photo equipment before, but never seen the inside of. Grandma doesn't seem to mind, so we find a parking lot that is free with purchase. I park her, as directed, on the saidewalk and run in, intending only to replace my severely scratched up polarized filter.   

The place must be owned and operated by the world's largest sect of Hasidic Jews. There are so many men with payot and kippa, that along with the green vests, you'd think it part of the uniform.   

I have never, ever, in my life seen such efficiency. Now mind you, this place is utter chaos, but in the most unbelievably organized fashion I have ever seen. Each department in it's own unique place, I pass videography, audio, lighting, computers and more as I beeline it for photography. Stopping at a desk selling used and refurbished equipment, I explain my dilemma with the filter and ask if they sell them used.

I walk away with a slip of paper and the promise that the new macro lens I've decided I can't live without will be at checkout. I'm pointed toward another area of the store to get a proper lens cleaning cloth, stopping along the way to check out a hand strap to replace the beat up neck strap I find more of a nuisance than anything. My slip is collected, my new item added on to my order and I am handed an updated piece of paper. At another counter, the lens cleaning cloth is added and a new slip issued.

When I walk toward checkout, I see these tracks on the ceiling, zipping blue bins above customer's head to the front of the store. It is absolutely brilliant, for two reasons. One, I am unsure how anyone could steal anything from this place. Second, there are a crap ton of people in here and I wait in line all of two minutes to pay, then am ushered along to the next counter to collect my purchase.

The only drawback: the peyot-free nitwit at the "baggage claim" drops by new lens, which lands with a thud on the counter, wrapped less than securely in bubble wrap. I inquire again about the warranty before hustling off to collect Grandma.

I nearly have a coronary when I near the parking lot and the car is gone, fearing she has been carjacked. Then I notice her smiling serenely, the car moved to a corner of the lot near the sidewalk. She's intently watching the passerby, and when I get in, remarks with a smile on the game of chess the lot attendants have been playing with moving cars. She is quite amused.

Then we're on our way to the Brooklyn Bridge. I've decided to take lemons and make some lemonade by hitting up this particularly charming park that my pal Sarah and I visited when we were in NYC in May for my Dad's 60th birthday party. There is a lovely view of NYC across the harbor from there that will make for a lovely pic, as well as a carousel. Thankfully, my parking karma is back in full effect, and we find a stellar spot. There's a little food vendor market set up by the waterfront. We sample cold pressed coffee and salted grapefruit jam before I find the perfect thing for our teacups: kombucha. Grandma says it's better than beer. I may have to get her a kit for Christmas.

It's late when we get on the road to Stonington, Connecticut. Traffic is a beast, and grandma and I are chatting in the car on the way. I see this billboard with a nude woman on it and point it out. Grandma says it reminds her of this photo I took in college when I worked for The State News. That, she says, was tasteful, launching into a tirade about the TV commercials advertising lubes and lotions. She complains about having to see the supposed aftermath of people using these products.

"Geez," she says, "I don't need to see that crap. Most of the people watching that haven't had an erection in six years."

Seriously -- I'm not creative enough to make this stuff up.

We arrive at Laurie-Annya's place around eight o'clock. She's had a small dinner party with her girlfriends, Francine and Nancy. We offer to go get dessert to let them finish up, but she's graciously invited us to have dessert with them. We haven't eaten much today, but surprisingly, neither of us is very hungry. That is, until out lovely hostess offers some of their leftover pasta, looking bright and delightful with fresh figs, nuts and orange zest. The foodie in me simply cannot resist, and I guarantee it is a recipe you will see on my food blog, We The Eaters. The peach galette she's made is also divine, as is the conversation. We sit and chat for more than two hours, and I am surprised when we get up to go to bed that it has gotten so late.

Our room is darling, well appointed with antique linens on the windows, a beautiful old wardrobe and large solid wooden bed with heavy, cozy blankets to ward off the chill. The windows are open to let in the crisp night air. Everything in this house is so sweet -- just the right touch here and there. I found myself drawn to several pieces as soon as we walked in the door. Antique canning jars caught my eye, and through our conversation this evening, I've discovered that Laurie-Annya is crafty. She makes the loveliest things with antique silverware, which grandma is just tickled with -- from tie tacks to herb stakes. The jars are transformed into solar lights with beach glass and soap dispensers filled with lovely stones, something I see in my kitchen. All of this is part of her business, For The Birds.

As Grandma and I check out, I am struck watching the process. It's such a juxtaposition, I couldn't help but snap this photo.

My nearly ninety-year-old Grandmother, signing her name with her finger on an iPad.

Who says you can't teach an old girl new tricks?  

Mamma Mia ... We're Self Propelling Through NYC

Grandma has insisted on sleeping on the couch, despite our protests. On Friday night, exhausted from a long day in Philly and our NYC baptism, she needs help standing up. Well, okay -- she needs help standing up a lot. As I pull her up, I notice she toots a couple time. I think she may be self propelling.

Getting old is a bitch, isn't it?

I remember when I first moved to DC, I was about 30 at the time. I went to get a facial. When my esthetician was done with the service, she offered a complementary eyebrow cleanup. After she said, "Let me just get a few of these stray hairs," I felt a sharp pain nowhere near my brow line. I realized, with unrestrained horror, that she was plucking hair from my neck.   

I have hair growing out of my neck.

In the past year, I've noticed a few other issues. I can't see anything close up. I have plantar fasciistis, lower back pain, and sporadic white hairs pushing through my scalp. Getting up from the floor sucks. My joints hurt. The skin on the back of my hands looks a little less supple than it used to.

Don't get me started about my tits.

I guess, in the scheme of things, self propelling is nothing.

We sleep well, and wake early to head to Ellis Island. Something Grandma has said rather specifically she has no interest in. She's said that about seeing a Broadway show as well. Of course, we're doing both. The cab ride is a cluster-@#$% (expletive removed for my alternate-mother Leslie's benefit). We tell the driver Battery Park ferry, and though I see it through the park, he takes us past that to the Staten Island Ferry. It's just a short walk from there, but I get confused and insist he's taken us to the wrong place. We tell him, again, we want the Battery Park ferry. He drives us to another ferry that goes to Brooklyn, I think. At this point, I think steam is actually coming out of my ears. It might be red. I'm worried we will miss the ferry, and this is a timed ticket. He insists he has brought us to the right place. We get out, and, of course,  it is not. As he drives off with $50 (I'm going to be sick) ... we hop in another cab who gets us to where we need to go. This time when I see the building 're looking for, I tell the driver to stop the car. When he keeps driving, I nearly have a meltdown.

Breathe.

Adam is calm and collected, as usual, proving he's a good match for my fire. I just want everything to be perfect for today. And it all turns out in the end -- we get through security and onto the ferry in no time. I need a freaking chill pill.   

We meet a lovely girl on the ferry -- Joanne from the UK by way of Australia -- and talk to her as we make our way out to the Statue of Liberty. Grandma seems less than impressed by the famous landmark New York Harbor, and makes a remark that nearly sends hot chocolate through my nose: "It's the only nice thing the French ever did for us."

We arrive at Ellis Island and disembark. As we walk up to the building, to the door her family trudged through with everything they owned in the early 1900's, her eyes well up with tears. "I'm walking on the same ground my grandmother walked," she says. I start tearing up, too, just seeing her. She's so damn cute.

We have the most amazing tour with a volunteer named Eric. We skip the main building and opt for a tour of the Ferry & Medical Building tour. It's pertinent for Grammy because when her grandmother, Maria, landed here with three of her children -- including Emilia, her mother -- the eldest boy had chicken pox. He was quarantined, and my great grandmother had to leave him at Ellis Island for a month.

Can you imagine, landing in a new country, at a place where millions of other immigrants were passing through, and having to leave your child behind? The people who came though this place were third class passengers, meaning they had no money. They were coming to America to seek opportunity, in a land fables to have gold in the streets. The husbands came first, scraping money together to send for the wives and children. There wasn't money to stay in a hotel in NYC to wait for her son to heal. She went on to Pennsylvania. But officials couldn't afford to have disease leave the island, as many of those leaving through the Ferry Building doors went into the city's crowded tenements, where an epidemic would be disastrous.

A funny thing happens on the tour. Grandma's cell phone goes off. She's fumbling around in her purse, embarrassed, as the tour guide looks on, bemused. He says, of anyone on the tour, she's the one he least expected to have a cell phone go off. One of the other visitors says it's probably her bookie.


We wander around for nearly five hours. before boarding the ferry back to NYC, where we return to the hotel and quickly leave again for tonight's performance. We're seeing Mamma Mia at the Wintergreen Theatre. Grandma loves musicals. We stop to see Rockefeller Center, then at Ruth's Chris for apps and a drink before the show.
 
I'm tickled when I look over and she is smiling widely.  It turns out this is Adam's first Broadway show, too. They both seemed to really enjoy it. The part my the mother is played by a sub tonight (not a sub like Anastasia Steele -- for those of you into to 50 Shades of I-Shouldn't-Be-Reading-This-Book-In-Such-Close-Proximity-To-My-Grandmother) ... and it's a little obvious she's unsure of herself on stage. It's a bit off. The actresses that play the mother's friends are an absolute riot, and the lead is spectacular. That said, I admit that "Donna" finds her voice for a stellar performance of ABBA's "The Winner Takes It All" near the end of the show. 

When we get back to the house, exhausted again after a long day, Grandma asks if it was just her that couldn't hear this actress during the performance. We all laugh, having thought the same thing to ourselves.

Tomorrow, Adam is going home and we begin the solo part of our adventure. We're off to Connecticut.

Don't worry -- teacup pics before we go. It's on the radar.

The Big Apple

After Grandma's less than enthused reaction to NYC, I recalculate, deciding just not to tell her anything about the trip at all. This poor little white hair has embarked on this adventure, completely unaware of what's in store for her along the way. And there will definitely be NYC, but with Adam (whom she keeps threatening to take home with her), it should be a breeze.

We arrive in short order from Philly, and I hear the breath catch in her throat as we drive along the skyline. Later she will tell us that, for her, it was the best part of the day. When my Grandfather (whom I lovingly nicknamed "Grumpy") and she visited the area in the past, he wouldn't drive near the city. Now, she's in it's belly.

The place I've booked for us is in a fabulous neighborhood on the Upper West Side -- West 99th and Broadway. When we arrive, we're surprised to fine a theater company practicing inside. This apartment doubles as our host's home and a rehearsal space. The show they are working on is Burned & Banned, and we all are giggling and excited about watching some of the performance in a unique behind-the-scenes view from our own living room! Our hostess, Amy, is warm and friendly and we feel right at home ... backstage.

We rest for all of 20 minutes (I must get to the end of this chapter in Fifty Shades of Grey, to which I am now addicted), before heading off to the Museum of Modern Art.

On Friday, MoMa has a free night sponsored by Target, which is welcome, since it's a small fortune to get in. I am spoiled by all of the free art in Washington, D.C., though I never have time to see it. The Van Gogh makes me a little weak in the knees, but otherwise, I just don't get it. I'll post some pics later and express my woes about modern art. I actually hope someone who appreciates it is listening and can explain to me how globs of paint on canvas compare to Sauter or Monet.

We're pretty pooped by the time we head to dinner at a place Adam has picked out that couldn't be any more fitting: The Mermaid Inn. It is divine. Grandma oos and aahs over her squash soup, while Adam and I dig into the salmon special. The food is delicious. There's a little flub with our order, which sets back our receiving one item (truffled mac 'n cheese -- yeah, like I can resist that!), but it's more than made up for by our waiter, who apologizes profusely, saying he won't charge us for it. It is totally worth the wait. There's even a tiny little dessert they bring us out to end on a sweet note.

Don't worry Mom, we got you a souvenir. 

Tales Of Syphilis & Long Hoses

Just in case you wondered ... going to bed at 3:30 am is not conducive to getting up at 7:30 am. I'm tired when we wake, but excited about the day ahead.

Our first stop this morning, to which we are running a teeny bit late (impressive, considering), is Philadelphia's Independence Hall. We push back our entrance time by an hour and decide to inspect Pass and Stowe's attempts to fix the original crack epidemic in the Liberty Bell.

I've taken my meds on an empty stomach, so Adam heads off to get a little something to put in our hungry tummies along with some water. Nothing like feeling like you might throw up on a national treasure.

I've been to Independence Hall before, but find myself as impressed this time with George Washington's "Rising Sun" chair as the last -- particularly the story about what Benjamin Franklin said about it. The mention of Ben launches Grandma into a discussion about his French prostitutes, and me into musings on syphilis.

Charming.

My Philly friend, Heather, fresh back from Australia, picks us up afterward in her convertible for a jaunt to Reading Terminal Market for lunch. We chat as we stroll through the aisles, looking at all manners of meats, poultry and cheese vendors, mixed in with Chinese, Italian and cheese steak stands. While we're talking about what is going on with work, I tell Heather that Grammy was just forced into retirement this year. Really. At nearly 90-years-young, she worked at Nielsen, typing in those diaries people keep when they watch TV. From 4pm to midnight, nonetheless.


 Heather calls her a bad ass, which is so true -- she's pretty amazing.

After a slightly disappointing cheese steak, Heather drops us off at the hotel (the only one we'll stay in on this trip) and we say our goodbyes. As we're packing the car, I remember I've forgotten a special part of this trip.

When I was a little girl, my grandmother used to always have these gorgeous teacups and saucers in the cottage my great grandfather built on Suttons Bay in northern Michigan. I spent a lot of time there growing up. they we're all decorated with tiny delicate flowers and intricate designs. She inherited them from her Aunt Victoria. After World War II, her husband, Uncle Walter's family was left in Russian sector of Berlin, on the eastern side of the Wall. Walter, then living in Pontiac, Michigan, would send things they needed over. As a thank you, they would send care packages back. As they worked in a china factory, one of the things they sent was teacups, saucers and lunch plates. None of them match -- not one set -- which makes each so unique and special in their own way. In time, my mother inherited them, and eventually, this amazing collection came to me. Since we don't have a Flat Stanley with us on this voyage, we're bringing the teacups. We'll take pictures of them along the way.
 

Sadly, today that means by the sign for the highway that will lead us off to NYC. We'll do better next time.

We're off, as my friend Dana would say, like a herd of turtles. But before I say adieu until our next locale, I must tell you one little story.

We pull off the turnpike in New Jersey to fill up the gas tank. It's our only stop in the Garden State, which, incidentally, does NOT smell like a garden. As we pull to the full-service pump, Gram says, "it doesn't matter which side we pull up on -- they all have long hoses."

I wonder, aloud, if she's just making an observation or actually making the statement that pops into my wicked mind.

All it takes is one look to confirm she means the latter.

I tell her she's a dirty little grandma, to which she replies, "Who, me?"

Oy. It's going to be an interesting trip.