For anyone who's interested (mostly Josh)...

We have Harpoon Hibernian Ale on draft at the bar.

My review..... meh.

Predictable, really, considering Harpoon's tendency to occupy the gross-to-meh spectrum.

If you want a real Irish-style red ale, I'd avocate seeking out the Pennichuck Engine 5. It's delicious.

Sneak in all quiet-like. Like a fish.

It seems to be in fashion to choose an official fish these days.

Therefore, I hereby declare the awesomely-named Patagonian Toothfish (fuck those assholes who renamed it "Chilean Sea Bass") the National Fish of my blog.

Not only is it a delicious mercury-steeped treat (I know, I know, I must lean toward vegetarian fish), but it is in part responsible for the landing of a record-breaking colossal squid.

Calamari rings the size of tractor tires. I imagine those would be a bit on the chewy side...

Whoa there, Wild Thing.

Hey kids! This post marks the official beginning of Sheena's Opining About the Red Sox Season. We are 39 days and 53 minutes away from Opening Day. I'm sure y'all are just as excited as I am.

Anyway,Boston.com (and indeed the whole region) is all a-twitter over "Dice-K," but for me, the matter at hand is Jonathan Papelbon's hair:


Yes, he's going for the "Wild Thing" association, which I dig, but somehow it doesn't fly as well during spring training. Here he just sorta looks like a rapist trucker. I think the mojo-enhancing power of weird hair should be reserved for the regular season, but that's just me.

Meanwhile, observe the clever conversion of a Damon jersey.

Stay tuned through the season to read more about my thoughts on Red Sox grooming habits and occasionally the manner in which they play the base-ball.

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.

Nothing says "I love you" like a dead rodent.

Today, I received the best valentine ever. His Gusness killed a mouse and laid it at my feet. It was very romantical. I plied him with Greenies, and he spent the rest of the afternoon lolling on his favorite perch looking pleased with himself.

I'm pleased that Gus is taking another crucial step towards becoming a real cat. We'll be working on the outdoors business more when it gets warm again. There's no convincing him to go out in the cold, much less the snow.

Oh yeah, we've had a metric shit-ton of snow. I don't know if anyone heard any excitement over the mystifying appearance of winter weather in February. It came, saw, and bitch-slapped us around a little. The snow is all light and feathery, which makes for easier clearing, but it's been falling fast pretty much all day.


Even more exciting than the first proper blizzard of the winter, is the first Brooklyn-New Hampshire visit of 2007. Carson has dusted off his best black turtleneck sweater in anticipation. I expect there'll be a fair amount of eating, drinking, lounging... and perhaps a little romping in the snow?

And I think I speak for everyone when I say that we'll wish Toby were her.

Oh la la! C'est super-cool!

It seems likely that I'm going to get some back-sass on this, but I'm firmly of the opinion that everything is cooler in French (and in France in general, those folks know how to live, talk about the War all you want). No, it's not some kind of Stockholm Syndrome after years studying French. I do not wake up in the middle of the night screaming "Où est la bibliothèque?!"

So, it's no surprise that I'll play and replay "C'est la mort" by Stereo Total because I like the nonsensical lyrics... in French. Nor should it surprise you that I'm a devotee of Clotilde and her blog, Chocolate & Zucchini. First of all, the subtitle of her soon-to-come book is "Daily adventures in a Parisian kitchen." Now, THAT sounds cool. Mostly because the implication is before the adventures in the kitchen, there are adventures in the Parisian markets which are wonderful and embody everything that food shopping should be (tactile, local, daily, social... I could go on. Now imagine talking about some neat purple carrots with a vendor... in French. See? Automatically cooler.). Of course, in my head, Clotilde is cooking in the kitchen from Amélie, and shit, I wanna do that (even though I currently cook in the most rockin' kitchen in which I've ever had the pleasure to wield a Wüsthof, it's not, you know, in France).

Clotilde's recipes allow me to indulge the crazy on a few levels. First, she tends to title recipes in French, which gives me permission to write them in The Book of Greatest Hits as such without feeling like too much of a tool. Second, when baking her cakes and whatnot, I bust out the old metric digital scale, thus engaging in a deliciously precise baking process (Seriously. Fuck cups. When are we living? Le Moyen Age? I cannot tell you how crazy I feel scraping sticky ingredients out of cups for recipes; "But. If. I. Don't. Get. It. All. Out. The. Finished. Product. Won't. Be. Right." And then my mother doses me with a glass of Malbec and I forget to set a timer and it's all ok.).

But more than anything, it's just that culinary terms are so much better in French. My favorite example is the bain-marie. It's the hot water bath in which you bake your crème brûlée . It's the pan of boiling water that melts your chocolate. It's also, very poetically and awesomely derived from an alchemy term, according to Wikipedia. I previously thought it meant "Mary's bath" as in the Virgin, but I guess I was wrong. It turns out that it's awesomer, invented by an alchemist called Mary the Jewess.

Now, you tell me, would you rather bake a crème brûlée in a bain-marie or a hot water bath? While we're at it, is not crème brûlée more appetizing than burnt cream? You may argue that the French makes it all seem so impossibly grandiose, but I think that's what makes it so great. You think that crème brûlée is some insurmountably difficult dish, but it turns out it's just a soft custard baked in a hot water bath (it's the torching that makes it fun and grand, and gives you that wonderful crack when you break it with a spoon).

Today's awesome French culinary term, as learned from C&Z: abricotage. This is the method whereby French patisseries get the pretty shiny glaze on tarts and whatnot. It apparently involves heating some apricot jam with a little water until it's thin-ish and spreadable. The combination, aside from adding a pleasant fruity flavor, sets up and makes the confection look like a work of art.

Abricotage sounds so much cooler than "paint with melted apricot jam," no?

So, in honor of abricotage and the bain-marie, and because it uses both, it seems that I'll be attempting this cake for Sunday dessert. Thanks Clotilde!

For a good time, please don't call me.

Message received at my MySpace account on Monday at 8:10am:

"Subject: hi

Body:

24 m concord nh , new to the concord area but going to be leaving soon and wanting to get together with a nice gal before i leave for boot camp. your very cute i'd be willing to pay over a grand to hang out with you for an hour or two and i'm dead serious"

My first thought: "I could sure use a grand."

My second thought: "Agh!"

It doesn't seem to be spam. I'd rather not get into the particulars of the dude's profile, as I fear he'll find and kill me. But Jesus H. What, exactly, about my silly MySpace profile indicates that I'd be willing to "hang out for an hour or two" in exchange for money? The unmitigated gall! And don't you try to prey on my patriotism, sir. It'll get you nowhere. Furthermore, if I were to be a hanger-outer-for-an-hour-or-two for hire, I certainly wouldn't deign to "hang out" with a man who doesn't punctuate.

In conclusion, I do not own very cute.

PS. How much more than a grand?

PPS. Just kidding, Mom.

How to Pick Up Your Bartender

It's a full-service establishment around here, and don't you forget it.

Allow me to tell you what to do (and what not to do) when you find yourself smitten with the barmaid (I suppose it could work for the barman as well, but most of the anecdotes that spawned this list are from my experiences and my sister's tales of working behind the bar in Scotland, and we're both ladies, y'see).


First off, I suppose it warrants mentioning that since men seem to find women in the beverage service industry very appealing (guys, correct me if I'm wrong here, but this is what I've heard), so you should probably keep in it in mind that she deals with a lot of douches throwing themselves her way, so you'll need to work pretty hard to prove you're not one of said douches. There are a few easy ways to do this.

1.) Be careful with the tipping. Too little and she thinks you're an asshole. Too much and it seems like you're trying to buy her attention. Always tip fairly ($1 per drink, maybe more for cocktails. Probably lots more if you order sissy cocktails.), with the occasional sympathy over-tip if you go in on a really busy night and feel bad for her. This is something a bartender appreciates over time, which brings me to...

2.) Cultivate status as a "regular." We like regulars. They are comforting. We know they don't get out of control, we know they don't run out on bills, and they're not going to go for the reach-around if we run down to change a keg (all of those things are unappealing in a dude, by the way, so don't do those things). Also, a bartender is much more likely to chat with a regular than some one-off dude who waltzes in and throws a wad of money on the bar and then expects she'll take him home. Also, being a regular means coming in for non-busy hours, which is more conducive to chatting with a non-busy bartender.

3.) You are what you drink (in that we remember what you drink). Don't drink sissy drinks. Nothing with "Breeze" in the name. In fact, you should get into the theme or specialty of the establishment itself. Some young men once asked me to select their beers for them, which was great. It allowed me to nerd out about Julius Echter and Fuller's ESB. Chances are, the bartender enjoys a tipple herself, so it's a nice icebreaker to ask her opinion on a beverage selection. There really is nothing worse than rattling off the tap list and getting hit with the old "I'll just have a Mich Light." I, in my growing beer snobbery, have begun to expand my disdain toward guys who unadventerously go for the Bass Ale... yes, it's a solid beer, but c'mon! Live a little!

4.) You may notice the spot where she's spending a lot of time washing glasses. The sinks may necessitate bending over at the waist. Do not sit in front of that spot. You will be able to see right down her shirt. She will know that you can see right down her shirt. She will find that it creepy if you sit there.

5.) No matter where you're sitting, don't stare. You won't be able to will her into conversation with you. You'll only succeed in augmenting the feeling of being a caged animal. Wait until she comes by to check on you to make light conversation. Once you cultivate the regular status, familiarity will grow and you'll be in business.

6.) Don't get wasted and ambush her. Don't get wasted and stay as she's closing the place down. Don't leave your number unsolicited. If you get wasted, you should probably keep to yourself, because she's going to remember the idiot things you said even if you don't. This harks back to my cardinal rule for picking up chicks: do not be more wasted than she is if you really want to score. This is tricky because bartenders are stone-sober. Or, they're supposed to be (at least in N'Hampshah).

7.) Take a friend. Become regulars together. This will help you to avoid sitting at the bar and silently waiting for her to talk to/look at you (which is creepy.... at all times, you want to avoid being creepy.). I don't tend to engage men who are solo at the bar (fearing the creep factor), but a pair or small group is manageable.

Above all, I think the important thing is that you must crawl before you can walk... befriend before you go for the digits. There are plenty of guys who hit on lady bartenders in alarming ways. Don't be that guy.



As an extra special bonus, I have a few important "Overheard From Behind the Bar" guy-to-girl pick up (or take home) lines that I'd like to share as a cautionary tale (be ye not so ridiculous):

"Mmmm. You smell fertile. No, seriously. That's a compliment."

(I am not making that up. I really overheard that. I very nearly puked into my sink. The sad thing is, the dude had only had two beers. )

"You're gorgeous. I just want you to know that."
"We don't need to have sex. We could just hold each other."
"I'm not just a one-night stand. I need love to get erect."

(These gems are all from one very wasted dude. I am also not making them up. It should be noted that in the latter line, he sort of pronounced it "luuuv." You'll be pleased to know, however, that the gentleman went home alone.)

My opinion matters.

In descending order, my favorite winter ales:

1. Smuttynose Winter Ale - Oddly enough, I first tasted it in Brooklyn. I fervently wish we had it on tap at the bar, but alas. We already have two winter ales, which leads me to...

2. Long Trail Hibernator - Great one. No weird spices or flavorings. We've had it on for a while, and it's consistently popular.

3. Woodstock Inn Brewery Wassail - Not too bad. Again, no flavorings commonly associated with fancypants winter ales. It tastes strong, though the abv isn't on the barrel, so I can't confirm how strong it actually is. I definitely prefer other Woodstock offerings over it, like the Red Rack Ale and Old Man Oatmeal Stout.

And now, the yucky winter ales:

Harpoon Winter Warmer - Ick. Too sweet. I am, for the most part, unimpressed with Harpoon. I really dislike the IPA (I had an awkward moment last week when I ranted againest the Harpoon IPA to a ground of friends and they all looked at me like I'm nuts, because they all inexplicably love the stuff.). It kind of reminds me of Rolling Rock, in that it tastes like beer-flavored soda.

Magic Hat Roxy Rolles - Automatic disdain for being from Magic Hat (though I do like Fat Angel). A customer described it as "tastes like hops and that's about it." This proves my theory that Magic Hat beers are by and large one-note.

That's right. All of the tea.

Jeez. It's pretty chilly out there. Am I right?

I have to say, I hate being a slave to the car, but it sure makes the recent frigid temperatures a little easier to take.

Anyway, you should all congratulate me on surving my bout with the Norwalk Virus, or as we of Harlow's have come to call it, "The Double Dragon" (I'll allow you to explore the possible genesis of that name on your own). It was pretty fucking horrible. Hayley nicknamed me "Corpsey," and everyone in my family offered sympathy and bottles of Coke, all whilst vocally hoping to avoid infection themselves (thanks Mohans!).

"But wait Sheena," you say, "Isn't Norwalk Virus that terrible gastrovomititus thingy that people get on cruises?"

Yes. Yes it is.
"But you're in New Hampshire, right?"

That is correct.

"WTF?"

Well, children. New Hampshire is a lot like a cruise ship. Except fewer people, warmer clothing, and fewer Broadway medley stageshows. Also our soundtrack isn't Iggy Pop.... Yeah, I don't know why Norovirus is running rampant through Southwestern New Hampshire. I expect that I got it because the dirty dirty public comes into the restaurant and spews their diseases all over innocent little me. And then they leave me a lousy tip for my trouble. My handwashing vigilance has increased hundred-fold in the aftermath, let me tell you.

After spending several days weak as a kitten and exhausting all of the HBO OnDemand offerings, I was back in action in time to bowl very badly at our staff holiday gathering (late because we serve the rest of y'all at your staff holiday gatherings) and drink several very restorative Molsons. Between frames, I watched those Pats lose spectacularly in an almost Red Soxly fashion. I hear some people in New England were upset for a few minutes, but now we're mostly all over it. It's my understanding that many of the Patriots were suffering from the Double Dragon whilst preparing for the game against the Colts. If that's true, I must say I feel sorry for them. It was a Herculean labor not to weep like a child when faced with climbing a flight of stairs, so I can't imagine attempting to play that there "American football."

In other news that matters just to me, my iPod has recovered from the iNorwalk iVirus or some such. The cure? Bridget hit it. A lot. And then it came back to life. Huzzah!

Stay with me and next week you'll find a long-overdue post of the instructional variety.

40 lashes with a wet oak leaf... please.

I am back in New Hampshire after a delightful trip to New York. Getting home was a bit of an adventure, involving a dead car battery, AAA, and four and a half hours with non-functioning heat or radio.

Surprisingly, not even the sight of my hands frozen into gnarled blue claws on the steering wheel could get me down, because I started 2007 with The Platza (insert dreamy sigh here).

Tuesday afternoon found me at the Russian and Turkish Baths in the East Village with Claire and Erin. It was Erin's maiden voyage into the public bath (I'm a big fan), and we two veterans were eager to show her a good time and perhaps sweat out some of those New Year's Eve poisons in the process. We have discovered, in recent months, that the platza is the difference between a good time in the Baths and a superlative bathing experience.

The best thing about the Russian and Turkish Baths is its unfussiness. The changing rooms are separated by a partial wall (such that a dude once called out "God Bless you" when I sneezed), the towels are a dull beige and the staff a somewhat surly bunch of Russians. You can decide whether you want a massage or scrub or whatever when you get into the Baths.

The relaxing unfussiness translates into the treatments as well. The platza is a treatment whereby you allow yourself to be gently beaten with a bunch of soapy oak branches in an extremely hot stone room. Sounds fun, right?

The first time we did it, Claire and I both found it somewhat unpleasant (in a very pleasant way, if you catch my meaning) while it was happening, but fantastic once it was over. You're in the hottest room in the baths, facedown with a towel on your head. The towel is cold, which helps you breathe, but you aren't able to see what's going on and whether the Orthodox Jewish men in there are watching you get scrubbed up and bent around like a pretzel. And the heat. It's so incredibly hot in the Russian sauna, if you take too deep a breath, you wonder if you're going to cook your lungs, and just as you're about to leap up and run screaming away from the bossy Russian man of Mongolian extraction, the hot room, and the voyeurs, the aforementioned bossy man pours cold water over you and you are restored. He cracks your back, scrubs you with leaves, and drags you around the place by the hand like a petulant child, and you let him. It's an overheated, sweaty kind of Stockholm Syndrome.

We knew it'd be different last week when the young man who approached us to offer the treatment smiled. He was barrel-chested, tattooed, and sporting a big gold cross around his neck. We wondered if perhaps he intended to [gently] beat the fear of God into us. We prepared Erin for the torturous element of the Platza. The bossing, the bending, the possibility of burns. Then we sent her in first. Fifteen minutes later, she emerged, mouth agape.

I went next. Instead of bossing, this fellow barely spoke. The same frantic feeling came over me after a few minutes in the heat, followed by the same relief upon a cold dousing. He was gentle at the right times and rough at others. It was all quite.... intimate. Except for an audience of old men.

Reduced to a limp heap of contentment, I found myself wishing I could say "So, can I call you sometime?" in Russian.

When Claire emerged from her turn, my suspicion was confirmed. This guy is the Platza King. No, there is no "happy ending" on offer at the baths. He's all business... but with a smile. And a giant gold cross around his neck.

Praise be.

On the road again...

Tomorrow, I depart for Brooklyn after work. I look forward to a solid four days of forgetting that I don't live there anymore.

To the left, you'll note my new EZ-Pass, purchased after frustrating toll lines during my last trip (also, I decided it was time to enter the 21st century, though I have had fun paying for a 35-cent toll entirely in pennies).

Ginger has been freed of detritus. I am in possession of a New Year's Eve frock and my contributions to Beer Christmas. Now, if I could just motivate myself to pack.

Look out, bitches... here I come!

Stinky Whizzleteeth also likes good grammar.

As promised, here is my post about The Thing That Made Me Happy to the Point of Joyful Tears.

My, ahem, charming compulsiveness has reared its pretty head. You all know by now that I like my English written all proper-like, with each apostrophe placed with pride and certainty.

I, like other folks on this Internet Machine, feel inclined to point out violations against our mother tongue (though they tend to be quicker with the acerbic wit, and less reliant on the ranting and raving).

Behold, a common violation to my peace of mind:


I took this photo at a local supermarket this evening while my sister look on, puzzled.

Whomever began the trend of making the word "items" a general, uncountable noun is, in a word, a jerkface.

This sign blazing above me (as I purchase fewer than ten items at the local grocery store) is troubling.... enough to make me wince as I accept my change. The fact that this widely-accepted, easily-corrected error is also the title of some crappy movie (I assume it's crappy because they failed to employ a person with half a brain who could steer the enterprise through those shark-infested waters of usage vs. convention) swings the needle over into apoplexy.

So, in that store, I try to keep my purchases large and my eyes averted.

Just down the road a piece, though, there is a fine supermarket establishment whose prices are a little high, whose chili peppers are incorrectly sorted (an Anaheim and a Serrano should not be in the same basket... HELLO?), and whose checkout lines are stocked with Rachael Ray magazines. They have all of the elements I wish to avoid in my food shopping experience.

However, while collecting ingredients for holiday cookies the other day, I caught sight of what may well win this place my business for life:


Hosannas from the highest! Isn't it beautiful? Yeah, I think I need to do a little dance....







So, you see, I reward the worthy even as I chastise the feebly literate. Someone at that coporate headquarters pulled their heads out of each others patoots long enough to listen to the shrill cries of losers like me. And for that I thank them from the bottom of my cold cold heart. I wished I could have danced with the pimply-faced bagger in the bakery aisle without being hauled away given antipsychotics. Because 10 Items or Fewer? It's a beautiful thing.*


*ha ha**


**Yeah, I don't get out much.

Wha Happened?

Yes, changes are afoot. I've gotten into this "re-do your blog in Beta" craze.

I'm trying the new title on for size... a cheeky reference to my delusions of culinary grandeur, you see.

Anyway, bear with me as I find the time to futz with the template (those titles to the right are terrifyingly large... I'm gonna work on that, I swear) and post things that might amuse or titillate (Oh, who am I kidding... things that amuse and titillate me and maybe also Claire, but mostly in that indulgent way).

I haven't dropped off the earth, it's just a little crazy 'round these parts.

There's a couple of things I simply must post about soon, namely "How to Pick Up Your Bartender"(an offshoot of earlier instructional posts) and also "The Thing That Made Me Happy to the Point of Joyful Tears."

Who's excited? Just me? Well, stay tuned.

Big Dude, Little Dog

As promised, heartwarming photos of dudes with Carson.

First, my uncle Dennis:



And a great one of Josh:



As he mentioned, Josh and I had a lovely visit, which involved some fine beers at Strange Brew, breakfast at a diner where there's Scripture on the back of the menu, and plenty of dog-related hijinks.


Here is Josh, settling down with his bunkmates. He woke up with at least two of Carson's toys in his bed.

We've decided that we're going to move to Paris to become garbagemen.... 8 weeks of vacation!

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.

Over the river and through the woods, down Everett Turnpike we go!

Thanksgiving is upon us, and I've spent the last week or so poring over cookbooks and Gourmet, taking polls of the family, and skulking about my local grocery stores in preparation for the big meal.

We're having quite a lot of extended family over, which should be fun, and since I have these pesky cooking aspirations, I volunteered to spearhead the planning and preparation of our first Stateside-as-a-family (less my younger sis, whose Scots university doesn't give Tryptophan-and-Football Day off, oddly enough) Thanksgiving feast.

While I certainly don't mind the planning or the cooking, finding some of the ingredients and equipment has been challenging. A 10-inch deep-dish fluted quiche pan for the pumpkin pie? Not going to happen. I have to accept that and take the ceramic pie weights and steel pastry scraper I found today as sufficient consolation. Furthermore, I'm dealing with the lack of one-stop shopping. Our mildly-fancy grocery store does not carry brussels sprouts or shallots. Or more than one variety of wild mushroom. I'm just going to have to move on with my life, suck it up, and drive all over hill and dale in search of these things. Nevermind my pointless quest for cooked, peeled, and jarred chestnuts. I'm going to roast and shell those suckers myself... perhaps imparting an interesting smoky flavor to the stuffing? Or maybe the shells will cause my fingers to bleed... either way, it'll be nearly impossible to keep from eating them instead of reserving them.

The matter of the turkey is fully in hand, however. The bird arrives from Vermont tomorrow, will be collected Wednesday, and subsequently submerged in a honey salt brine. I can hardly wait to unleash our convection oven goodness on it.

You may wonder what the photo has to do with anything, aside from showcasing my kitchen-nerdiness.

Well, as promised, I test-drove the much-ballyhooed Bittman bread recipe, with quite delicious results (if I may say so myself). I am therefore quite pleased that I have 25 pounds of flour to work with over the next few weeks as I slow-ferment some carby goodness as frequently as possible. I have to say, I was frightened by the thread on Kitchen, but I never should have doubted The Great Minimalist. As we speak, I'm fermentin' up a wheatier version of the original recipe to bring to a potluck tomorrow. We'll see if I got the proportions right, gluten-wise... it'd be bad form to show up at a dinner gathering with a hockey puck masquerading as bread.

Oh, the other element of the picture is my super cool squeeze-handle flour sifter. My Gram gave it to me, as the squeezing motion is bad for her arthritis, and I'm in love. We've had the same crank-operated one for ages (an heirloom on my mother's side), and there's a hole in the screen, rendering it pretty well useless. This new one has me sifting flour even if the recipe suggests it as optional.

So, what's everone else up to for the holiday? Planning to eat anything exciting? Be sure to stop on by the farm for some leftovers. Between the turkey and the roast beef, we're going to have a full fridge for ages. Joshua, I'm looking at you. You know how I feel about leftovers. Don't let me down.

I think I might be in a codependent relationship.

With a Chihuahua, that is. He waits for me to come home at night, sleeps under my covers or around my neck, and just this evening followed me into the bathroom and camped out on the mat while I took a shower. It's getting quite intense.

In other Carson news, I'm going to begin posting my photo series, "Big Dude, Small Dog." I have a few shots of the little guy being held by men, and, well, I can't keep them to myself. Furthermore, any men who find themselves near me, a camera, and The Dude, would do well to smile and say cheese.

So, here are those inaugural photos (courtesy of Gil):

Here are Seth and Carson, engaged in a meeting of the minds.



Here, Chris has discovered how the Chihuahua is fully-poseable.


Not bad, right? Come Thanksgiving, I'll likely be able to trick my uncles and family friends into picking him up. Stay tuned.

Sooo.... I'm back in New Hampshire. I was going to post a lengthy treatise on the New York weekend's activities, but realized there are only so many ways you can write about eating, drinking, and sleeping before you start to seem like some kind of lazy, lushy glutton. I could also write about the magical land of Berlin, located in (The Interminable State of) Connecticut, where Mapquest took me needlessly on the drive home. I saw many strip malls (featuring Home Depot, Chile's, Panera Bread, Staples, etc.), Adult DVD and Video stores , and traffic lights. I also nearly ran over a hitchhiker (by accident).

The highlight of my return is the mysterious resurrection of my iPod (might have to rename it "Lazarus," from "The Pookah McPhellimey"....oh, I'm a nerdlinger. You'd better frickin' believe it.). Seriously. I don't know what happened, but I do know that I won't have to scan through a million radio stations playing James Blunt and Nickleback. And that makes me unimpeachably happy.

Sometime soon I'll give you denizens of the Interweb a rundown of my most recent trip the Russian and Turkish Baths, unless Claire beats me to it. At the moment, I find I'm in the throes of fighting off a nasty cold. I may enlist my mother and her laryngoscope to determine whether there are, in fact, hedgehogs living in my throat. Mean little hedgehogs with fiery spines. 'Til then, it's grapefruit juice, AirBorne, and lemons for me. All that Vitamin-C has the extra effect of activating my adamantium blood. Excellent.

Tomorrow, with any luck (and hedgehogs willing), I'll get cracking on a loaf of Bittman's slow-fermenting bread. Then, I'll put my oar in here. Stay tuned. Come on over if you'd like to be a guinea pig.

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.