The Best Friend I Never Met

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

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

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

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

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

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

(She pauses for dramatic effect.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I hate to think what my undercarriage looks like.

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

Mad As A Grandma

Grandma is pissed. Really pissed.

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

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

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

Okay, so she's pissed. clearly.

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

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

Great. So she's pissed and overtired.  

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

And, she reveals, I poked her.

Now I want to shoot myself.

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

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

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

And it's raining again. Surprised?

Mad As A Hornet

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

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

Or rain, as the case may be.

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

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

So are hearing aids.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Try.

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

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

Breakfast & A Thirty Minute Warning

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

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

I might as well go to sleep.

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

Marcelle's Croque-Matin

Sesame Kaiser Rolls, split

Jamon (ham), thinly sliced

Egg

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

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

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

No comment.

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is going to be tough.

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

Merde, Je Ne Parle Pas Français

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

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

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

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

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

She says yeah -- with one ball.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Can you hear the tires screech?

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

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

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

Clearly, that's not in the road.

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

Fuck.

Sorry, Moms -- that one was warranted!


        

Good Morning, Sunshine ... And Goodbye

I got up pretty early and jumped right in the shower, figuring I would give Grammy a little more time to sleep in. As I'm washing my hair, I see the shower curtain pulled aside and her standing there stark naked getting ready to step in.

Holy awkward, Batman.

With unmistakable amusement in my voice, I ask if she plans to get in the shower with me. She is clearly startled. She saw the blanket I tossed on the couch after I was done reading my emails this morning and thought I was snuggled under it. Still smiling, I ask if she thought I was in the habit of just leaving the shower running while I wasn't in it. She mumbles something and goes back to the bedroom.

It's going to be an interesting day.

The sun is out in full force this morning -- just in time to shine on our backsides as we depart this lovely area. Son of a ...

Still, it's lovely to sit out on the deck and enjoy our breakfast and a cup of coffee, even if it puts us on the road a half an hour later than planned. Once we're all packed up and I convince her we do not need to take the mayonnaise or vinegar we brought with us, we are on our way across state lines.

Of course, getting across Maine's takes about six freaking hours. We pass the time singing. I almost choke when Grandma starts rocking out to the 80's music I put on.  Particularly "Addicted To Love" by Robert Palmer. Apparently she loves drums. Who knew? She says when they started using drums at her church, the pastor asked if they were too loud. She told him that he'd never hear a complaint from her. My grandma, the rocker.

There's a crazy looking roadside flea market where I pick up a darling little vintage dress, all girl scout green, yellow rick-a-rack and huge pockets with matching yellow embroidered flowers. Then, we stop in Rumford, Maine to have lunch along the river. We've made lobster rolls. Paired with the jalapeno-cilantro cole slaw, they are pretty damn good -- if I do say so myself. That said, I have decided that I am just not the biggest fan of lobster rolls. Or lobster in general. I mean, it is good, but I prefer my lobster cooked for and picked for me. And in a bisque format, thank you very much.

Sorry, Maine. I will take some of your blueberries home with me, though. In preserve format.

Once we roll into New Hampshire, it's just shy of two hours across the state to Newbury, Vermont. As we drove along the coast of New England, I began to worry about seeing any leaves on the trip. Those fears are alleviated, though, the further north we drive. It started as little pockets of color. Nothing too vibrant, but still promising. As soon as we hit the Granite State, it was like an explosion. The dark green pines making the deep reds and vibrant oranges stand out that much more -- and this was near dusk. We can't wait to see what it looks like in sunlight!

More tomorrow. Our lovely hosts are making dinner this evening and we are off to visit with them.

On Faith, Rain ... And Killing Lobster

I've always considered my Grandmother a woman of great faith. I also pretty much think she has a direct line to the guy upstairs, so I like knowing she prays for me and my family.

She made a promise to God at one point that if my Grandfather was saved, she would never cut her hair again. Since her hair is uber thin, and always wrapped up with this little hairpiece attached, you'd never know it reaches clear past her tiny tush. The hairpiece is this pony tail holder covered in white hair. Since we've been traveling, I've taken to hiding it at night after she takes it off. One night, it was on an angel hanging on the wall. Another, a stuffed Boston Red Sox bear on the bed. There's a story she's told me before about her hair.  Hearing her laughter once she finds it makes me smile.

I digress.

So ... Gram has this really long hair that is a testament to her faith and promise to God. Well, last night, she told me another story, warning me about breaking a promise to the Almighty. She said after she made that covenant, she went to a beauty parlor and talked to the hairdresser about cleaning it up on the sides to make it easier to manage. She said as soon as the woman started clipping, she felt convicted by the most horrible feeling. She went home and cried, telling Him that she was sorry for breaking her promise and that she didn't want him to break his. She vowed, once again, that she would never touch her hair with anything more than soap, water and a comb.

This story is meaningful for two reasons. It illustrates that, sometimes, even people of great faith fall off track. It also shows that faith comes in all shapes and sizes. Sometimes the ask is just a wee bit smaller. Last night, Grandma is looking at the sky and saying that this weather won't let up. I ask her to stop saying that, telling her that I have faith that He will be bringing us sunshine tomorrow. The meteorologists can say whatever they want, but I'll be sticking to the forecast in my heart, as it's the one I'm praying for.

Couldn't be a prettier day when we wake up. Thanks, G.

Of course, I speak too soon, as once we're in the car -- another deluge. A local tells me they've had about three inches of rain in the past few days. A white tail deer pops out of the woods as we are heading down the driveway, bounding back into the woods with a few graceful leaps. At least there's that.

We stop at a small farm down the road with a little store. I spend an arm and a leg for some hand spun, hand dyed yarn to knit my first hat. We arrive in Bar Harbor about an hour later, deciding to wait out the rain and do a little shopping. On Star -- which is what I've begun calling Adam -- has done a little research for us. He suggests the Thirsty Whale for lunch based on reviews for their lobster rolls. If this is unsuccessful, I'm going to make them myself. I order a Shipyard Pumpkin Ale and hope for deliciousness to ensue.

This time, the beer is a bit disappointing, but the lobster roll is the best I've had -- though not because of the lobster. That pretty much tastes the same. It's the bread and the way they grill it. I throw a little cole slaw and some hot sauce on top ... and voila: it's lobster roll heaven (I'm still going to make my own tomorrow.) Gram says their clam chowder is really good, but still comes in second to Mystic Pizza.

Who knew?

As the sun starts to peek out, we head back to the car for a trek up to Cadillac Mountain. There's a beautiful view of the ocean and the sky is just beautiful. It's a little chilly, though, so I think Gram is happy to be back in the car and heading toward The Jordan Pond House, a place recommended by several folks as a great bet for popovers. These will be a first for both of us. We slather butter and strawberry jelly over the hot crusty muffins before devouring them. They are awesome.

It's about an hour and a half back to the house, and since I am quickly going into a popover-induced food coma, we pull over so I can shut my eyes for a second.

Or maybe I'm just terrified of what awaits me back at the house: three more live lobsters which need to be dispatched. Tonight, I plan to cook our crustaceans on the grill. That means splitting them ... live.

This is not a task for the faint of heart. I can't even explain to you how horrifying first plunging that knife in is. The lobster starts writhing around madly. The first one keeps moving long after he's split in two. Grandma tells me about chickens running around with their heads cut off, which doesn't exactly help. I am grossed out and feel so horrible that I'm just about in tears. In the picture, you'll see my "why won't you DIE?" face. I didn't even know I had one of those. It was really awful.

That said, after the first lobster finally finished it's death throes, number two and three (no names tonight -- I'm trying to distance myself) were much easier to handle. And the taste ... oh, my. Grilled lobster is absolutely delicious. Paired with a Bobby Flay recipe for basil butter that I souped up with my own garlic and lemon twist -- it was literally a smoky, luscious treat I won't soon forget.

Or repeat.