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!