I am in the business of breaking promises, jaws.

I broke my promise to Josh's butt (see previous entry), and for that I am sincerely sorry. However, it's not because I've been sitting around eating bonbons and wathching soap operas. No indeed. My summer has been chock-full of excitment since I returned from Scotland. I ventured north to Vermont to see a kickass Wilco show with my fella, witnessed some nuptials, dealt with car and cat repairs, and endured some harassment with the local constabulary.

Somehow I managed to find time for all of the above in between many many fun though occasionally stressful bartending shifts.

One of the downsides of tending bar in a place with no public transport is that you have to be extremely careful about how much you serve people. I am legally responsible for every person who has the pleasure to quaff a pint in my bar (we now have Boddington's on tap, btw... very exciting). This, because I'm compulsively responsible when it comes to jobs, can take it's toll and I get nasty and suspicious of nearly everyone who bellys up to the bar. I card people, shut people off, and this summer marked the first time I took away someone's pint (THAT was really not fun... and I didn't serve it to her in the first place, and boy did she have some mean thoughts to share with me). If you couldn't tell already, you can purchase alcohol in New Hampshire, you can drink it, but you CANNOT be drunk. I'm not a doctor or anything, but I have yet to work out the math on that. If any of y'all figure it out, I'd be happy to hear your thoughts so that I might explain it to surly customers who are hell-bent on getting visibly wasted in my presence.

I haven't yet thrown someone out of the bar, but I have a feeling that that's my next step and then I'll really be the tough broad slinging pints in the neighborhood bar. I'll let you know how that goes.

But enough boring nonsense about me not wanting some drunk asshole sending me to jail (or getting my broke ass fined). The benefit of my job is that I get to see lots of live music. Of course, I'm experiencing a fair number of bands well outside of my usual tastes, but it's all part of that potpurri of small music venues.

A couple of weeks ago, I had the miraculous fortune of bartending during a show by SeepeopleS (weird name, I know). Miraculous because we don't tend to get indie rock bands at Harlow's. They're from Asheville, North Tobylina, and they're pretty great. Please enjoy the following musical video:


Not too shabby atall. They're also very nice guys with decent taste in beer. And their live show kicks ass.

I think that brings me mostly up to date. Soon I'll be posting about my fall efforts in the kitchen (now that it's not hot, I don't feel bad turning on the oven), including my experiences with home canning. Wooo!

She's a squirrel-crushing, deer-smacking, driving machine!

This month finds me at a new job (in addition to twice-weekly beer spilling), parked at a desk and delighting in spreadsheets, invoices, and trying to get rid of phone solicitors. I know, you're wondering how I can handle all of the glamor in my life. I tell ya, it's rough.

The fun thing about living in the country, aside from the lack of good pizza or New York Times delivery, is that you must drive. A lot. To get anywhere. The bar is about 30 minutes (as the Sheena drives) from home. The new office is across state lines in Massachusetts, just a stone's throw from Boston. Ginger and I are going for some sort of Volvo mileage record.

I usually take Rte 93 all the way from Manch-Vegas to my office. This way, while I must counterintuitively drive north in order to go south, I can usually haul Volvo ass once on the highway.

This morning, I had an appointment too far to the south in NH to justify the north-then-south route. So, I manned up and went from 101A (lots of lights and assholes), to Rte. 3, to 95/128 (New England's most confusing highway). From there, I planned to hop onto my good friend 93 to get to my office. I had never done this on purpose before, but I figured that if 93 North has an exit to get onto 95, I could certainly get to 93 S from 95 north of Boston. Makes sense, right? Or, at least it makes sense to a non-Masshole who's not yet a full cup of coffee into her day.

As it turns out, getting to work is overrated. Why drive to my destination when I can burn a whole lot of the gasoline I purchased yesterday by taking a jaunt through the Metro-Boston area? What is a Wednesday morning without driving the length of the Tip O'Neil tunnel south to north? A wasted Wednesday morning, that's what. I was thisclose to picking up the phone, calling in stupid, and going home to pout.

I guess I'm not yet the commuting champion I thought I was. I suppose it was an instructive experience, but when you've already spent an hour in the car, it becomes difficult to correct your navigation error patiently. I did, at one point, scream "What the fuck is going on?" as I passed an exit for Walpole, which is south of Boston. This is the second time 95 has bested me (the first time, I drove to Waltham on my way to Beverly from NH (trust me, it was stupid)).

I suppose the more time I spend tooling around the commonwealth, the more likely I'll be able to realize my potential for asshole driving. I look forward to the day when I can blithely make a left-hand turn around someone from the right.

The troubling thing? I think watching the needle edge further down the tank might be worse than getting felt up on the N train. Is that weird? Yeah. Thought so.

____
In case anyone's wondering about the photo and title theme of this post, I had the Canyonero song stuck in my head during a pitiful daydream that involved piloting the mighty Hubertus over the highway median.

Ground Control to Major Tom

Tomorrow I leave the newly-blue state of New Hampshire for the delights of Brooklyn. Though I'm sad I didn't have my shit together to get down there to coordinate with Toby's visit, I'm excited to visit with all y'all New York folks.

I will have presents, an oil-changed car, bells on, etc. I will NOT have a working ipod or a New York Driver's License.

Yes, there have been changes afoot up here. First off, you may have heard, the Democrats have taken full control of New Hampshire. House, Senate, Governor. This is the first time the Dems have been in charge across the board since likely before the Civil War in this state. Crazy, no?

Oh, and then there's the thing about Democrats taking control in Congress. That's pretty cool, too.

In more inane news, I'm now a registered NH voter, licensed NH driver, and I have a notarized document indicating that I'm a legal resident of New Boston, which my dad had to sign at the Town Clerk's office. New Hampshire needed to be absolutely sure that I'm not a terrorist. Today I waited in line for forty-five minutes to swap my NYS license. I started to get pissed off about the wait and then remembered that I had to wait over three hours to swap my old NH license at the Herald Square DMV.

So, tomorrow afternoon it'll be me, Ginger, and good old I-84.

Diwali is a festival of lights....

I was tempted to congratulate myself on posting so hot on the heels of my last effort, but then I realized that these photos are a week old and, well...

Anyway, here are some pictures of my compatriots at work on the night of Halloween and a few from the previous Saturday, which was Halloween, (drunkenly) Observed For the Purposes of Partying. The chronology may be a little bitched up, but stay with me.

Here's Dan[imal], the nighttime grill cook. His official costume on Saturday night was Clean Sanchez, superhero who fights crimes of the sexually perverse. His Halloween night costume was hat-based to avoid long sleeves catching fire and whatnot, so he sort of looked more like a Gay Mexican. Here he displays a plate of chicken nachos.
















Here's my boss, Aeva, and her mother, Jess. At 14 months, Aeva is deeply enamored of skeletons and scary witches, but Jess's chicken costume was more than she could take. She ran away when Jess made her first appearance....





















Aeva, as you can see, was dressed as a laser of cute. So... much... cute.
















Here's Chelsea, dressed as a pink bunny. Heather, in the background, was an elven archer, replete with pointy ears.




















Jen, a beer wench.




















Mike, sporting another hat-based costume. It's at a jaunty angle, to the north-east.
















Izzy's barber-shop quartet-style hat.
















John, dressed as "Random things found in the restaurant's office." Smashing.




















Josh told fortunes whilst washing dishes.




















Jay, one of the fabulous bartenders, as a sleepy cowboy. Sure can't quit him.




















Amy, a woodland fairy. She also had pointy ears.




















Here's Aeva, again, inspecting our decorations. Note how she's not frightened of the witch hiding behind the tree.
















This is me, perhaps the day after Halloween, sporting one half of The Great American Hat Swap of 2006. Mike took my awesome tweedy hat on tour with his band, and left this Fidel-ish one in exchange. It's a new plateau in our friendship, you see.




















Rewind to Saturday. Bridget, jetlag up the wazoo, dressed as Little Red Riding Hood and ready to party.



















I got all pirated up and off we went to see aforementioned local band play in Manch-Vegas. Here's an extreme close-up at the show.














Juliana, decked out as a fabulous Cleopatra.



















Then I got distracted and didn't take any more blog-worth photos.... so let's fast-forward back to Halloween and the super cute parade of children that went by the restaurant in the middle of the day.

Here's a kid dressed as Gene Simmons from KISS, mugging for the camera.
















A cowgirl, replete with horse. Soooo cute.















Here's another good one... a praying mantis.
















And, the thing de la resistance: a tornado! He has little matchbox cars and whatnot glued to body of the tornado. He was a rather intense little kid, and the costume was a bit unweildy, but I tip my cap to him. Very cute and creative, considering the eleventy billion kids in Darth Vader outfits.

Many days late, a couple bucks short.

So, here are a few pictures from the lovely Columbus Day visit of Claire, Erin, and Seth. I didn't have my shit together to take pictures all through the weekend, so these are just a selection from the apple picking trip. Erin is not feature in these, as she was "visiting" her "sister" in "Boston" that day.








Here's Claire, doing her best William Tell's son impression in the lovely Mapadot Orchard in my town.
















Seth, juggling apples. Show-off. I managed to drop an apple onto my own head off of a branch. Now THAT takes talent.
















Here are Claire and Seth, desperately trying to tell the difference between Monroes and MacIntoshes. We later threw some Corlandts into the mix. It was chaos.
















As you can tell, it's very nice up here in New Hampshire... dontcha want to visit???

 

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.

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.

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).

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?