The road to hell is paved with 10% tips.

Oh mercy. Much time has passed between now and my last post. Not a whole lot has happened, except a wonderful visit from Claire, Seth, and Erin and more waitressing shifts than you can shake a stick at.

I've been lax mostly because my post-shift hours are being absorbed by episodes of The Wire on DVD.

To make my life seem thrilling and fun, I'm going to do a little "by the numbers" rundown of what's been up here up nawth. Also, if you scroll down from here, you'll find a few posts with pictures of the past two NH trips (some courtesy of Gil and Claire). I've been fighting with Picasa and Blogger to post the damned things, so do check back a couple of times over the next day or so as I beat them into submission.

So, without further ado and in no particular order, here's the condition my condition is in:

Number of customers I shut off tonight (my first time shutting someone off): 2

Number of two dollar bills currently in my possession: 2

Number of times I rattled off our beers on draft, within earshot of three tables' worth of people: 3

Yellowjackets I killed during one lunch shift: 4

Yellowjackets I found doing the backstroke in the dregs of cup of coffee on our patio: 6

Gentlemen customers who suggested I sit in their lap: 1

Gentlemen customers in whose laps I've sat: 0

Dyson vacuum cleaners acquired by the family: 1

Dyson vacuum cleaners with which I am a little bit in love: 1

Average number of animals in my bed at night (excluding me): 3

Record number of animals in my bed at night (excluding me): 4

Geophysicists with whom I've conversed: 1

Number of times I've heard children yelling "Five-O! Five-O!" when encountering police cruisers: Approximately 100 (related: Did you know that Southern NH is waaay overpoliced? You heard it here...)

Number of Guinness Ginger Cakes baked: 1

Number of quality days in the kitchen since last posting: 1/2

Number of food publications in which I am behind in my reading: Too fucking many.

Number of albums recently acquired that are making me very happy: 3 (Bonnie "Prince" Billy's Master and Everyone, B"P"B and Tortoise's The Brave and the Bold, The Decemberists' Crane Wife), with my compliments to Seth, a prep cook at work, and Newbury Comics.

Number of times my iPod has crashed in the car, making me very unhappy: Eleventy billion (ballpark)

Driver's licenses acquired by my little sister, Hayley: 1

Driver's license photos in which my little sister Hayley looks drunk, fat, drugged or otherwise hideous (as is how one normally looks in said photos): 0 (wtf?)

Dead camera batteries in my room: 2

Gross bug in the bathroom that must go undocumented due to dead camera batteries: 1

Number of weekend shifts between me and some quality reading and cooking time: 2

Likelihood reading and cooking time will be thrown over for The Wire: high

Reader complaints I hope to have answered by tonight's posts: 3

 

When you send a gang of dudes out into the woods in the middle of the night to get firewood, you may find they come back with dead trees taller than themselves. You may also find that they make quite the ruckus in the process. Then, there's the occasional splinter the size of a two-by-four.



The other thing about building campfires with a bunch of dudes is that they become determined to get the thing burning higher and hotter than any campfire you've ever seen. I do believe we were able to do some smelting over this one after we'd finished making our s'mores.


This is me, whittling a marshmallow-roasting stick. Shortly after this photo was taken, the boys wrestled me to the ground, took away the stick, threw it into the fire, and then ran around the fire beating their chests and howling at the moon.
 

Y'know what's fun? Building campfires. Also, nearly setting your shoes on fire (Bridget) by said campfire.


It's also fun to take group photos by campfires. Here's a picture of me 'n' the sisters, looking very much from the same gene pool:


And then the gang, less Gil who is operating the photopicture machine:

 

It's hard to say "leaf peeping" without giggling.

Well, we're neck-deep in "leaf peeping" season here in New England. It's not quite peak foliage yet, but we're getting there, so it's time to batten down the hatches and prepare for slow drivers, directions-seekers, and people who just want a Mich Light, but only after hearing what we have on tap (happened to me again yesterday). I'm not really complaining, as the "peepers" (giggle) keep the tips a-streaming in, but dear God. A Mich Light (or, heaven forfend, Ultra)? Listen to the voice of reason (me), and have an Otter Creek Stovepipe Porter. It's fucking brilliant, and you and I will respect each other in the morning. Sigh.

But, you can see why people are flooding across our borders to have a looksee. It's very pretty.


The highlight of yesterday's double shift was pouring my first real Black & Tan. Oh mercy me, it was fun. And... AND the dude (who's actually a chef) said it was the best Black & Tan he's ever had. Perfect halves, perfectly separated (looked like they were made of gelatin), perfect finger's width of head. I really outdid myself (such that I fucked up his second one... too much Guinness). I didn't take a picture, but there were witnesses. It was a thing of beauty.

In other news, today was Gus's first foray into the great outdoors. Observe his Gusness, surveying his new kingdom:




It was a trying week for Gussy. He was unceremoniously stuffed into a carrier (not the same one as before, mind you, but he still escaped it... should have named him Houdini) and brought to the vet on Monday. He got locked in the attic twice, and then I cruelly lured him outside to explore. Though, I turn my back for two seconds and he disappears into a crawlspace (I assume.. he may have just disapparated) under the porch. Oops. He eventually emerged, covered in dirt and cobwebs, only to find another crawlspace in our creepy cellar a few hours later. Needless to say, he's been quite intrepid in his exploration of the farm.

In other news, the "companion oven" in our bitchin' stove has a proofing setting. That means I can let bread dough rise in a warm, draught-free environment. Pretty hot, right? I've put it to the test and it's pretty awesome. Dad and I have agreed that we'll call the oven The Piano, after the wood-fired oven of Jacques Pepin's apprenticeship. It's quite a bit fancier, but given how we regard it, it seems appropriate.

So, if anyone comes up here peeping at leaves (teehee), stop on by. I've got loaves of Molasses Oatmeal Bread.