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.