Wicked long day.

For you non-New Englanders, I must apologize. I am reintroducing the word "wicked" into my vocabulary these days. As much as possible, actually. It makes me feel at home. It's not unlike how, in New York, I could say "Excuse me" to someone on the subway in such a tone that what I was really saying was "Hey, you're a [wicked] shithead." These are the little things we do to feel settled and connected to our surroundings.

Anyway, on to this post's main [inane] feature.

Today was my first double shift, meaning I worked from opening to the end of kitchen service. It was, as the title indicates, a wicked long day. My dogs were really barking (that's what real waitresses say, right?) by the time I sat down in the driver's seat of my car at 10:35pm (12 hours after I left it).

It was pretty busy day for a Wednesday, and I had quite enough to handle when, shortly after the lunch rush was tapering off, I got a huge splinter in my right index finger. It was from one of the baskets we use for serving sandwiches and whatnot. It was also my second splinter in a week (the last splinter before these two had to have been when I was, like, six). It hurt. A whole lot.

Tweezers were produced by a fellow waitress, and one of the cooks was pressed into service as an impromptu surgeon. Poor fellow. We've only just met and he found himself digging around in my index finger for a piece of wood the size of a rail tie, while I covered my eyes with my unmolested hand, yelping like a big sissy crybaby. "Just take it out!" I screeched between yelps. I sweated, whined, and felt nauseated. Mike, the cook, apologized profusely and finally removed the offending sapling.

Some hydrogen peroxide, triple antibiotic ointment, and a Snoopy BandAid later, I felt much improved. I told everyone the harrowing tale, and informed them that our long national nightmare was over before they even knew it'd begun. Everyone seemed qui te gratified that I bore the strain with such a stiff upper lip.

In other work-related news, I have a few tips to the dining public:

1) Tipping on a credit card. Granted, it's not optimal as we your servers get taxed on that money, but we don't begrudge you the convenience. However, if you're going to try to get your tab to a nice round number, I'd humbly suggest leaving a tip with a random bunch of change only if the total tip if over 20%. Otherwise, your server may well shake their fist at your back as you leave. Similary, random pocket dumpage is lame. Yesterday, I received a fistful of change, an opened perfume sample (Dior's Pure Poison), and a soda can tab. I can't pay any bills with those things, people.

2) Give a heads up before you change tables. We divide the restaurant into sections, and you may be messing with the system if you move. It's fine if you do move, just let us know. It's odd to discover that the table you were serving has mysteriously disappeared.

3) I'll make it my business to be friendly, helpful, and charming. If you do the same, I guarantee I'll be running by to check on you just to hear your voice and see your smiling face. Sounds stupid, but a little friendly rapport goes a long way to getting some top-notch service (we get treated like hell by so many other people... why don't YOU try to restore our faith in humanity?). However, if you're a moody attractive man dining solo, it's likely I'll be harassing you just to see what your Byronic deal is, so you know....

4) I've discovered that I love carding people. I feel drunk with power. So, if you look, like, under 60, you'd better have some ID. I love looking for those holograms. Also, looking at IDs is a lot like looking at license plates on a roadtrip; wicked fun.

I'm actually rather enjoying the waitressing. It's hard work, I'm not sooo great at it yet, and the rewards are too often squarely resting with people whose aim it is (or seems to be) not rewarding you very much. BUT, it's a nice place, and I have this smiling face awaiting me when I get home:

Hard to argue with that.

Another day, another shitty bottled beer.

So, I've been waiting tables at a pub here in New Hampshire. I've only worked 5 shifts, and while I'm not really good at it yet, it's interesting (after 5 shifts... I imagine that will soon morph to "annoying" and then later, in several months, perhaps "soul-crushing") to be serving the drinking public. I'm interested in what people drink.

According to the liquor class we had this week, 35% of wine coolers consumed in the U.S. is by underage drinkers (the other 65% would be.... people with no taste buds?).

Also according to the liquor class from this week, the number 1 purchased edible good in New England is Budweiser beer. Number 2 is Bud Light.

The pub where I work has many more interesting beers than Bud and Bud Light (though we do have those in bottles). I enjoy rattling off what we have on draft, and even utzing people into drinking some of my favorite brews. And I'm always confounded when they slip through my grasp and drink swill. Sample conversation from today:

Customer: "What do you have on tap?"
Me: "Guinness, Harp, Bass, Newcastle Brown Ale, Hoegaarden, Pennichuck Engine #5 Red Ale (brewed locally, and my personal favorite), Wolaver's Organic Brown Ale, Geary's Hampshire Special Ale, Long Trail IPA, and Harpoon Oktoberfest."

A handsome selection, no? Surely you can find something there to wet your whistle? Just wait...

Customer: Pause. "I'll have a Mich Light."

Then he took his fork and poked me in the eye.

OK, so maybe everyone has a right to drink what they like, but jeeeez. Mich Light? To our regular patrons' credit, we have some sophisticated beer drinkers in our midst. The 9% Geary's HSA is a staple on our taps. And for every person I encourage into the local Engine 5, there are another two who've had it and love it.

In other beer news, I poured two pints of Guinness yesterday and they both came out perfectly. Like, perfect head and everything. It was awesome.

In non-beer news, here's the view from one of the windows in my room:



I also took this picture to document Carson's war of attrition to become Gus's friend. He has two approaches: 1) bark and make gremlin noises until Gus runs under my bed, and 2) Inch closer to the cat as he sleeps and then pretend to be asleep as well. This is an occurence of the latter.

Here's the first shot, which is pretty close for a cautious cat and an excitable Chihuahua.



And then, five minutes later:



Shortly after this was taken, I believe Carson fell back on the barking and gremlin-noise approach, so Gus went under the bed to wait it out. I expect Carson believes that Gus will eventually give up on this "run and hide" nonsense as long as he's persistent. I'll keep you updated on how it goes.

And finally, my "thing de la resistance." This sign was spotted by me when Hayley pulled the car over this evening on the way home from driver's ed. Apparently we neglected to put the top down all the way, so the car was dinging indignantly (you see, the visibility is better in the convertible when the top's down, and Hayley's learning to drive, so we want everything to be as visible as possible, even if that means freezing my butt off in the passenger seat). I took the picture without the flash, because I was afraid somone would come running out of the shop thinking I was some kind of terrorist (in a black hoodie, chaufferred in a Volvo convertible by a 17 year old student driver). It didn't come out all that well, but I hope you can read it.




Yes. That would be the "It's Never To Late" bridal shop.

Well, they got the apostrophe....

Today is your birthday...

Joyeux Anniversaire to mon chere Joshua.



If I were in Brooklyn, I'd bake you a cake and pour a beer on your head. So, we'll raincheck that.

Meanwhile, isn't that a nice photo?

Happy Birthday Joshie! Gus and I will toast your health tonight!

Keeping it real in the 603.

So, it was my first weekend in the new environs. I did a lot of unpacking, and my dad and I moved a lot of things up to the attic. I complained about his moving technique, he told me to quit whining. It was like old times.

I don't have shades on my window yet, but I do sometimes have painters just outside my windows at 7am. That's pretty jarring.

I did quite a bit of cooking over the weekend. Bread pudding, baked cod, Tarte Tatin, madeleines, etc. Basically, I used a whole lot of butter and was lulled into a trance by our gorgeous oven's gentle hum. The best thing was charring chiles (directly on the flame) for Friday's beef stew.

Here's a picture of the Tarte Tatin (recipe from Mastering the Art of French Cooking... thanks Seth!!) I made for dessert tonight:


It was pretty tasty. I was a little discouraged by the difficulty in rolling out the shortcrust pastry, but recovered with a successful unmolding. The integrity of the apple slice spirals held up, and while I think I can master it after a few more attempts, I was pleased by this first effort.


Switching gears (to the gross, as opposed to the tasty), I am adjusting to the bug aspect of country life. It's the time of year when black flies come inside, and we have a plethora of them as we're on a farm. Hayley and I have a running kill competition going. So far she's got 32 to my 24, but I'm going to catch up while she's at school (Sshhh don't tell!). As far as I can tell, every fly you kill morphs into two flies.

Also, while going through the back hall to the laundry room, I encountered this jaunty fellow (or lady):



I don't think I've ever seen a praying mantis in person before. Cree-py. I mean, not cockroach creepy, but there's something very odd about the way they move when you try to unsettle them. I tried to get him onto a ruler, the better to transport him outside, but he wasn't having it. Then, when I returned to the laundry room this morning, he was perched on a towel, which I then carried outside.

He was quite attached to the towel:



It was only after I started taking pictures that he started to mosey off into the bushes behind the barn.

The final bug-related thing I have to share is this spider:



Unfortunately, I don't think this photo really does justice to the bizarre shape and configuration of this particular arachnid. We don't know what kind of spider it is, but about 10 of them (they are enormous... just keep that in mind) rule the entrance to our cellar.

That's right. Cellar. No harmless cement basement in this old house. The floor is mostly dirt, there are canning accoutrements stored there, and it is as good for causing arachniphobic nightmares as it is for storing wine.

My mother and sister got a couple of these big guys with the vacuum, but like the flies, two jumped in to take the place of each of their deceased comrades.

The bad news is, the cellar door is a few short steps from my room. I can hear them pounding on the door in the middle of the night. I'm afraid they are well beyond toilet paper, or even spider grabbers. I fear the Tennis Racquet of Death would meet its match. This is definitely the sort of spider that would kill you, fuck your wife, and burn your house down before moving on to conquer Russia in the dead of winter. And it (along with its spider army) is a few short steps from my bedroom.

In other non-gross news, I went driving with Hayley (in my mom's delightful convertible) today. For two whole hours, we cruised the back roads and bustling urban centers of our region. And, by some miracle, I did not fall asleep. She did very well. Pulled off an excellent right turn on red (hoooray New Hampshire!) and didn't lose her cool if I ever fell behind on my coaching and instructing.

I'll leave you with this thought: It is fucking beautiful up here right now. Perfect, perfect weather. The smell of freshly cut hay is in the breeze, there are wild turkeys strutting the pasture. Even Gus is enjoying his new environs (Though I imagine he could do without Mick following him around or Carson barking at him to play).

Over the line!

It's many days late, and possibly a couple of sales-tax-free dollars short, but here are pictures from my last (for a while) evening of adventures at Melody Lanes in Brooklyn. The Rocks were closed, the barkeep was in fine form, and we were ignoring the full day of moving that awaited us.

Chris taunts Seth with the sweatshirt he'll never part with. Or maybe he's flashing him. Hard to tell, really.


Me, after one in many discouraging frames. Perhaps I consumed too many Rocks? Inebriation affects one's bowling performance, eh? Curse you, cheap beer!


Claire displays the tools of my undoing.



Megan and Gilhouse. Aw.


Then we had a session of up-close face pictures. Obviously. In and of themselves, they probably won't seem weird or funny, but know that each of these two photos was part of a series of like six abortive efforts at a decent up-close face pictures (the things you do under the influence, I tell ya).




Yeah, not sure why the foot is in this picture....


Megan selects her weapon.



Digital photography reveals that Chris does not, in fact, have pupils. Just like Little Orphan Annie.



In conclusion, good times were had (as usual), and drunk people shouldn't have cameras.

OK, Tobs. I think it's time we got cracking on a playlist (or, you know, "tape") that makes it worse. We can work on it tomorrow when you and Ol' Muddy come over to play euchre. I'll make some popcorn balls. You guys bring the mulled cider.

Drive courteously. It's the New Hampshire way?

Well, I made it.

I now officially reside in New Hampshire. Today, our house was approved for occupancy, which is handy, and the furnace man is currently hooking up our heat (thank GAWD). He doesn't have the grates to put over the ducts, though, so we won't have anything to prevent Gus from climbing into said ducts and cooking himself until tomorrow, which is not handy.

We arrived after a rather hellacious journey from New York. His Gus-ness did not take to being crated behind the passenger seat. After spending the first ten minutes of the ride howling piteously he escaped from the top-load door of the carrier and proceeded to run around the car, wailing. We were in the Brooklyn Battery Tunnel, and I tried not to swerve into the barriers on either side while trying to keep the panicked feline from crawling a) under the pedals, b) onto the dashboard, or c) up the side of my face. I managed to soothe him enough in my lap, and though he was panting (mouth open, tongue lolling... a very scary face indeed) and cat hair was flying all around the interior of the car, we were not dead from a horrific wreck. Every time I got him calm, he'd freak out again and attempt escape through a cracked window or pace around the back.

Oh, also he scraped his belly in the escape, so he bled on my jeans.

After getting out of the city (I preferred my chances of chasing him down in a rest area rather than on a city street), I pulled over and resecured Gus in the carrier (I used his discarded collar to tied down the lid... that'll teach him). He continued with the yeowling for some time, but eventually fixed me with a baleful stare and settled into a stupor.

The kicker, of course, is that within an hour of arriving in his new environs, Gus climbed into a heating duct and went for a little jaunt and had to be coaxed out, sooty-pawed, with treats.

What would such a trip be without a little adventure?

Here's the man himself, peering out from the safety of my comforter. He's already succeeded in scaring the hell out of the Chihuahua. Now, if I could just convince him to eat or drink something.



I'll post more pictures soon (I have some from the weekend's activities). I'm a bit overwhelmed with new-job and new-house stuff.

We went to a house, an unfinished house, in the coun-tray.

Phase One of my move to New Hampshire was this past weekend. I was fortunate enough to woo some members of the gang into making the long drive through the interminable state of Connecticut to the family home for a weekend of camping in the front pasture, roasting marshmallows, and sleeping all together in an enormous tent while bears and pig-dogs rustled around for leftover s'mores outside.

We did a lot of eating and we put my mother's Jura coffeemaker through its paces. The whole weekend is really something of a tweaky, caffeinated blur. I'm sure the others will post more (and better) photos when they're not busy with "schoolwork." I only have a few photopictures, as I spent a lot of time christening my dad's restaurant-grade gas range and convection oven (*swoon*).

Here are some pictures from dinner on Saturday. We had all local vegetables (sweet corn, wax beans, zucchini, new potatoes, and tomatoes) to accompany some gorgeous roasted chickens (cooked side by side in the remarkable convection oven). It was delicious.

Here are Seth and Claire, about to tuck in to the sumptuous meal.


Here are Josh and Erin, hiding in a smoke cloud.


Here is my younger sister Hayley. Isn't she puurrrty?



Mick creeps up on Chris, who is napping at the table.


Here Claire is weilding the Electric Fly-Swatting Tennis Racquet of Death. Despite the phrase "Not a toy" printed on the handle, almost everyone took a turn sticking their fingers through the plastic webbing.


Here's Josh and his newest, littlest friend.


Seth playing with the dogs.


Gilhouse and his poker winnings.



We had excellent weather on Monday, so we went out for a tramp through the woods. We found some salamanders and the dogs went wading in every gross muddy puddle they could find.

Here are Chris, Claire, and Seth, off to see the wizard. Claire was hoping the wizard could make her taller.


Here is Gil helping the dogs find some gross mud puddles.



New Hampshire is awfully pretty. Who wants to move there with me? Anyone?