Three cheers for Hayley.

Dear People on the Internet,

My baby sister (pictured to the right, in full patriotic regalia... you can see she's not really a baby at all, but I was 8 when she was born...) has been accepted to college!!!!!

She's the coolest girl ever, so I am naturally delighted for her, and for the venerable Boston institution that may find themselves with the pleasure of her well-dressed company come fall.

The losers in this scenario? Dickslap-lyan and Ass-deis Universities. Yeah, that's right you jerks. Stick it!

Also, I'll be very sad because she will take her awesome wardrobe to college with her.

Well done my darlin'.

No no no.... Thank YOU!

I suppose I'll get in on the action of post-Thanksgiving wrap up. When we left off, I was still in the shopping and prepping phase. The day itself began with a brine.


Here's that lovely delicious turkey bath. Water, kosher salt, honey, a lemon, an orange, whole cloves, bay leaves, and peppercorns. After putting the brine together on Wednesday morning, I rushed off to a double shift (on the craziest bar night of the year, in fact).

After surviving lunch and dinner, it was home again to make some stuffing. This is when things got a little tricky. I was a leeetle tired, a touch hurried, and just a smidgeon preoccupied with the desire to get the hell into bed. Add one crusty loaf of sourdough, one dull-ass bread knife, and instructions for a 1/3 of an inch dice, and you get:




A rather nasty slice through my left index finger. The good news: I stopped cutting before I sawed off the tip of my finger. Also good news: my knife-weilding hand is fine (though it would take a really special someone to cut their knife hand... or a really special knife), so my ability to continue in my Thanksgiving cookery role is shaken, but holding on. Bad news: Bleeding. Bleeding a lot. I was luckily too angry by the delay to get all woozy as one might when one sustains a nasty cut to the finger. My anger manifested itself in me running around the downstairs at 11:30pm, clutching a paper towel to my finger, screeching obscenities. It was at this moment that I decided to enlist my mother, a skilled Nurse Practitioner, who'd just gone to bed.

Me: (At the bottom of the stairs, tentatively, but with some urgency) "Mo-om? I cut myself pretty badly."

Mom: (Appearing on the landing in her bathrobe, trepidatious) "What?"

Me: "Yeah, pretty bad. With the bread knife."

Mom: (she has not seen it yet) "Jesus Christ!"

Me: (ascending the stairs, arm outstretched) "Do you think I need stitches? Please tell me I don't need stitches."

Mom: (looking at finger) "Jesus Christ Sheena!"

- It should be noted here that my mother is not a blasphemer by hobby, but rather finds taking the name of the Lord to be steadying in the face of her idiot children hurting themselves, thereby worrying her. Her bedside manner with her real patients is impeccable. With us it's a little adversarial.

My mother ruled that stitches would be useless for the type of wound, a ____ion (one of those medical words she throws around and I forget), expertly anointed and wrapped my finger in bandages, and scolded me soundly. Luckily, my middle name didn't enter the equation at all, so I know I'm not in too much trouble. She warned that the finger would "Throb like a mo-fo" (she was right... ) and told me to stop what I was doing and get some sleep for Christ's sake.

I finished assembling the stuffing nine-fingered (sorry Mom... had to be done) and retired.

Thanksgiving morning, with my finger thumping away, we welcomed cousins, aunts, uncles, and grandmother to the melee of meal preparation. Dad handled the musclework of getting the turkey from its briny bucket to the roasting rack, while I sliced brussels sprouts and Hayley chopped mushrooms. My cousins were put to work on the pies:

Here is Shayne, assembling a Tarte Tatin (with pears instead of apples)



Here, my cousin Corey helps Shayne with the Tarte.


Naomi displays the caramel pumpkin pie filling.


Here's the bird, right out of the oven, perfectly crispy and golden thanks to the convection setting.

And the turkey's friend, Prime Rib:


Here's my uncle Mark, enjoying a prime rib chew:


Generational portrait!



Much food was eaten and good times were had by all. Many thanks to my impromptu army of sous-chefs.

Tomorrow, I'll post about a Joshie weekend, and two new installments of Big Dude, Small Dog.

Desperately Yours

Slate's cover stories today are all about summer camp. My favorite bit in Timothy Noah's You Are How You Camped:

People (like myself) who didn't enjoy camp tend to have a problem engaging in organized activities of all kinds. Later in life we often become criminals or sociopaths. The more respectable among us often become journalists. If we're extremely bright or creative (or aspire to be), we may become writers or scholars or artists.

Shocking as this may be, I fall into that category. I did not like summer camp. I was a nervous child, so being surrounded with unfamiliar normal children plunged me into my own personal Lord of the Flies hell.

Granted, I do remember two semi-positive camp experiences. I went to Girl Scout Camp in New Hampshire with a friend of mine from home. The week went by quickly, and though I didn't love such forced group activities as swimming lessons on a cold and cloudy day, we had a pretty good time. The following summer, we were signed up to go to another camp together, this time on the Seacoast, but she bailed on me at the last minute, and I had to go alone.

Now, that was one hellacious camp experience. I was surrounded by strange children, adult counselors who didn't seem to like children in the first place, and very bad camp food. Especially offensive to my culinary sensibilities were the boxed mashed potatoes. The idea. There were no cool rustic cabins with bunks (my first camp had that... I liked that, reminded me of the movies). Just a big carpeted conference room where we slept as a group (though I just stared at the ceiling and counted the minutes until I didn't have to be surrounded by strangers who were not as offended by powdered mashed potatoes as I was.

We were dragged from pillar to post for all manner of group activities. The least pleasant of which was a boat ride out to and hike on one of the Isles of Shoals (Star Island, I believe). The exhaustion and windburn resulting from this jaunt inspired me to write a pathetic missive (closed with the phrase in the subject heading... yeah, that's right) to my parents, asking (nay, begging) to be collected immediately (the aforementioned child-hating adults would not let me use the phone). The letter did not reach my parents until I was already safe at home. Funnily enough, it was in the mailbox along with a letter I'd written before the hated boat trip, saying that things were fine. Naturally, they held onto it and occasionally quote tracts from it during family gatherings (not even two trans-Atlantic moves have parted it from them... lucky me). I imagine it'll comprise a wedding toast or two one day.

After that, I no longer told myself or my parents that I liked camp. There was a conservation retreat with my 6th grade class, but that hardly counts as I knew everyone, my teachers were there, and the counselors were from such exotic places as Australia. Also, we got to climb a ropes course.

I've long thought that there should be a camp for people like me. We could just hang out with our friends and siblings, not be forced to do anything. In my ideal camp I could alternate playing with my sister and reading.

Really, my ideal camp is just staying home. No money spent. No sleeping bags, no mean girls. More frequent showers, no latrines. No boxed mashed potatoes or swimming in crappy weather with uncomfortable color-coded swim caps. No gimp lanyards.

Of course, I still like summer camp movies (especially Wet Hot American Summer...if it counts, being a parody... I'd totally go back to summer camp if Michael Showalter was there). They allow me to imagine what it's like to not be intimidated by other kids or annoyed by organized activities.

Belatedly yours.

Some photos from Fourth of July in New Hampshire.

This is the view from the deck of my aunt and uncle's lake house. It's on an island in Lake Winnipasaukee, the largest lake in NH.


This is my cousin Corey and the well-traveled (and wildly popular among the cousins) Chihuahua, Carson. Carson enjoyed harassing Corey's family dog, Hazel (a Golden Retriever), frightening off a couple of Boxers, sitting in the bow of a motorboat, and being fussed over by the girls. He did not enjoy swimming quite so much.



After a lovely barbecue and some swimming and sunning, we were driven back to the mainland by my (other) aunt and uncle (who live on the lake year-round... pretty sweet). I took some pictures of the fam during the journey. This is my beautiful mother:



This is Bridget with the pater familias behind her.

The lake at dusk:


On the day of the 4th, we convened, along with other New Bostonians, at the Fourth of July Parade. The theme for the floats was "games." As usual, the Rev. "Woody" Woodland of the Presbyterian Church provided excellent commentary throughout the event.

This is my cousin Mil, her husband, and their adorable baby.




This is Hayley, striking a pose on the bridge in a very patriotic hat.


Pretty horses (they were pulling the Molly Stark cannon)


Some of the floats:





Some tractors (I think they were promoting a John Deere expo, if memory serves):




Only you can prevent forest fires.


This is a man in a banana suit. B-A-N-A-N-A-S.



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Give it a little shoe.

[Parental] revelation upon turning 25, #346:

I am legally able to take my youngest sister, Hayley, driving.

Hayley, whose fine soccer sock-purchasing work you may remember, is 17, repatriated, and not yet licensed to drive. When she left Zürich, she was used to legally purchasing beer, criss-crossing Europe on clean and punctual trains, and associating with teenage boys who know how to dress themselves. Needless to say, she's in for a little culture shock. Not the least of which is driving around the great state of New Hampshire.

Luckily, she had me to shepherd her through one such adventure. She hasn't had any driving practice since last summer, so we opted to take my dad's shiny new (to him) Volvo to the parking lot of our local elementary school. I drove there from the farm, and as we came into town, I put on the turning signal, which didn't light up or make any clicky noises. I remarked to Hayley that this would make it extremely difficult to remember to turn off the turning signal.

We got to the school and swapped places. This is Hayley tolerating my documentation of the event.


Then we took a little spin around the school. I instructed Hayley in the basics of driving, such as backing out of parking spots, letting the car pull you through a curve, dooring pedestrians, and menacing old ladies in crosswalks. Then I asked her to perform a left turn into the lot, and when she put on the turning signal... no clicky noises or lights. At this point, we agreed that perhaps we should investigate whether the turning signals were working at all. They were not. Hayley parked the car, opened the hood, and I fiddled with the fuses. This is me fiddling with the fuses:


I replaced a fuse, dropped an extra one into the wheel well (oops), and we tested the lights. They worked! I'm a genius!*

We got back into the car and drove around the school some more. Then I was bored with that and felt that Hayley offered sufficient proof of being able to distinguish the brake from the gas. So, I decided to make a tour of some of New Boston's pretty back roads.

This is where the adventure part came in. First off, we drove over a branch that subsequently got caught in the undercarriage. Alert driving instructor that I am, I had Hayley pull over and put on the hazard lights while I shimmied under the car to free it (note: this was after I thought that the noise was just a malfunctioning AC fan).

I have to say, I am a fantastic driving instructor. Calm, helpful, with lots of positive reinforcement. I also incorporated the best command ever uttered (by my godfather, John) during my practice driving experience: "Give it a little shoe." This suggestion is best made during one of the standard new-driver achingly slow turns. Similarly, "You're in the ditch" or "Get out of the bushes!" may be applied when the student is hugging the shoulder, for fear of getting nicked by oncoming traffic.


Anyway, on to our continuing adventures. After the branch incident, we had to avoid a doe standing in the middle of the road. Deer are honestly like mosquitoes these days... EVERYWHERE. I had to avoid three, all told, during my weekend at home.

Then, Hayley had to drive around a turtle, who was strolling across the road with a cloud of flies around his head. Gross. Here's the turtle as we approached him:


And as we passed him:

All in all, the lesson went well. She's got a ways to go, but I think Hayley's going to be just fine after this crash course in driving alongside the flora and fauna of New Hampshire.

________
*As it turns out, I'm not actually a genius. Rather, the wonkiness of the turning signal and lights is caused by the key (one of those laser-cut jobbies) making a poor connection in the ignition. Now, if the lights don't work, you can just jiggle the key to make it work. My dad solved this after we fiddled with fuses together for a while.