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.