"No Daddy, you sit over there."
"I'll sit over here, but we aren't going to move anywhere if I don't sit in that seat."
"No, Daddy's gonna sit over there and James wanna sit riiight here."
"I think you're going to change your mind."
"I wanna move, Daddy."
"Yeah, your feet aren't long enough to reach all the way down, are they?"
"James gonna sit on Daddy's lap?"
"Yes, that's fine. Here, wait a sec. Okay, don't hit your head on the...oops, are you okay?"
"Yup."
"Alright, are we ready?"
"Let's go, Daddy!"
"Okay. We're going to go slow. Do you remember why we get to do this?"
"Yup."
"Tell me why we get to do this."
"Yup."
"We get to do this because you went poopy in the potty, right? And that is a very big boy thing to do, so now we have a big boy reward."
"Turn it on, Daddy!"
"Okay, here we go. Yup, let Daddy do that."
"I'm driving, Daddy!"
"Yes, you are! Good job...watch out, let's straighten out a little bit."
"I'm driving, Daddy!"
"Yup, see how we're getting close to that van? Let's straighten out again."
"Let's turn this way, Daddy!"
"Good, so make a nice smooth turn of the wheel...yup, you don't have to keep on moving it back and forth. That's pretty good!"
"Daddy, we go that way?"
"No, we aren't going to take the car out on the road."
"Why?"
"Because you don't have your driver's license."
"Why?"
"Because you need to be able to reach the pedals with your feet to have a driver's license."
"Why?"
"Here, let's keep on driving in the parking lot. Should we go this way?"
"Yeah. I drive this way."
"Good...should we put it in second gear?"
"Okay. Daddy, I wanna drive to the raspberry farm and pick raspberries."
"No, we'd have to go on the road to get to the raspberry farm. Plus, you just had a lot of ice cream."
"Daddy, do not park the car."
"I won't, you still have a little longer left on your turn. Should we go this way?"
"Yeah, I drive the car this way."
"Good job. Can you see anything?"
"I'm driving."
"Okay"
Thursday, July 31, 2014
Monday, July 28, 2014
Matins
An Inconvenience is only an Adventure wrongly considered.
It's just about 7 in the morning, and for the last hour I've been trying to read with my head stuck out the back window of a third floor apartment in my underwear.
I got up about 5:30, put on some coffee, and pulled out my bag of books. Homer, Ovid, the New Testament, the Vulgate, Ivanhoe. It's a cloudy and drizzly sort of morning, so there wasn't much light. I felt all around the kitchen for some sort of limited lighting, but all I found was a small nightlight below the microwave.
We are in H----n, NY, at music camp. J is sleeping in one room, and James is sleeping in the other. All three of us are running on less sleep than we should, and I figured that I ought to keep the apartment as dark as possible.
I set up on the counter beside the microwave with a barstool. Squeak, squeak, squeak. I can't sit on it in a way that doesn't make a ton of noise. Squeak, squeak, squeak. No more barstool. I am standing under the microwave light attempting to read as my water boils and I pour the coffee.
We're up on the third floor, so even though it's relatively cool outside the apartment is stuffy and hot. "Daddy, why the apartment be hot?" "Because heat rises, and so all the heat in the building is coming up to our floor." "Daddy, why does heat go up?" "I'm not sure. Magic, I think."
I've already stripped down to just my boxers, and I lean as far out over the counter as I can towards the window, so that my head is almost touching the screen. Every once in a while a breeze will blow a little bit, and I can feel some cool air on my face. I'd go steal a fan, but I ought to let J and James sleep.
The coffee is delicious and miraculous, but it's hot. I'm dripping sweat on my books as I balance on the counter and try to contort into a comfortable reading position. There are noises coming from James' room that I'm pretending not to hear. It still isn't even 6:30, and he didn't go to bed last night until close to 9. He needs more sleep, especially since he won't get a nap this afternoon.
Nope, he's up. He's chatting away to himself merrily. I climb off the counter, wipe my brow, and put my books away. There's a little coffee left, and I take a swig. I put in my contacts, and look through the hamper of clothes I brought down. Nothing clean left except dress clothes.
I sit down on the barstool to pull on a pair of trousers. It squeaks, and a little voice calls out from the next room, "Hah, Daddy!"
Time to go over to the dining hall in a few minutes. We'll have a hot breakfast, but it should be air-conditioned in there. Then we'll go watch the conveyor belt take our dishes into the washroom in rapt awe. After that we'll go down to the quad and look up at the statue of six birds. There's a plaque beside the statue with a bible verse and the names of six students who were killed in a car crash. James will stand before the plaque, point to the engraving, and read in a solemn voice "These are the birdies which are up in the sky."
All in all, camp isn't so bad.
It's just about 7 in the morning, and for the last hour I've been trying to read with my head stuck out the back window of a third floor apartment in my underwear.
I got up about 5:30, put on some coffee, and pulled out my bag of books. Homer, Ovid, the New Testament, the Vulgate, Ivanhoe. It's a cloudy and drizzly sort of morning, so there wasn't much light. I felt all around the kitchen for some sort of limited lighting, but all I found was a small nightlight below the microwave.
We are in H----n, NY, at music camp. J is sleeping in one room, and James is sleeping in the other. All three of us are running on less sleep than we should, and I figured that I ought to keep the apartment as dark as possible.
I set up on the counter beside the microwave with a barstool. Squeak, squeak, squeak. I can't sit on it in a way that doesn't make a ton of noise. Squeak, squeak, squeak. No more barstool. I am standing under the microwave light attempting to read as my water boils and I pour the coffee.
We're up on the third floor, so even though it's relatively cool outside the apartment is stuffy and hot. "Daddy, why the apartment be hot?" "Because heat rises, and so all the heat in the building is coming up to our floor." "Daddy, why does heat go up?" "I'm not sure. Magic, I think."
I've already stripped down to just my boxers, and I lean as far out over the counter as I can towards the window, so that my head is almost touching the screen. Every once in a while a breeze will blow a little bit, and I can feel some cool air on my face. I'd go steal a fan, but I ought to let J and James sleep.
The coffee is delicious and miraculous, but it's hot. I'm dripping sweat on my books as I balance on the counter and try to contort into a comfortable reading position. There are noises coming from James' room that I'm pretending not to hear. It still isn't even 6:30, and he didn't go to bed last night until close to 9. He needs more sleep, especially since he won't get a nap this afternoon.
Nope, he's up. He's chatting away to himself merrily. I climb off the counter, wipe my brow, and put my books away. There's a little coffee left, and I take a swig. I put in my contacts, and look through the hamper of clothes I brought down. Nothing clean left except dress clothes.
I sit down on the barstool to pull on a pair of trousers. It squeaks, and a little voice calls out from the next room, "Hah, Daddy!"
Time to go over to the dining hall in a few minutes. We'll have a hot breakfast, but it should be air-conditioned in there. Then we'll go watch the conveyor belt take our dishes into the washroom in rapt awe. After that we'll go down to the quad and look up at the statue of six birds. There's a plaque beside the statue with a bible verse and the names of six students who were killed in a car crash. James will stand before the plaque, point to the engraving, and read in a solemn voice "These are the birdies which are up in the sky."
All in all, camp isn't so bad.
Sunday, July 27, 2014
Dear Self
Dear 18-Year Old Self,
It's you, ten years later. Things are going pretty well, and you have a lot to look forward to. Don't want to give away too many spoilers, but you have a lovely young family and your career is going pretty darn well. I know it's 8:00 on a Sunday evening and you don't want to leave your apartment. You need to do it anyway.
You need to go and practice for 2 or 3 hours. I know you pretty well, and I know that you get into little intermittent streaks where you practice intensively and intelligently for about 2 or 3 weeks at a time. Then you get busy or lazy, and you just do an hour a day until someone lights a fire under you. You fool, this is the only time in your life you're going to be able to practice this much! Not only that, but this is the only time in your life that you're going to get such a rapid rate of return on your practicing.
I would LOVE to be able to practice for 3 hours a day. Career success actually works against you here. You see, in ten years you're going to need to be able to get through a two and a half hour concert every Friday and Saturday night, not to mention all the rehearsals you'll have during the day. You won't be able to afford to practice yourself out to the very dregs...you'll need to perform later.
Not only that, but on a non-concert day your family is going to want to see you, and you're going to want to see them. And even though it seems like you should have a plenty of time to go to church, have a meal together, run around the yard, and then go practice, it doesn't work like that. Your wife has stuff she needs to do to, there are phone calls to be answered, emails to be answered, paperwork to be done (sorry, by the way, taxes aren't any easier or intelligible when you're 28 than when you're 18) and just when you think that you can break away for an hour to the practice room, your 2 year old will fall down the steps and demand to be held by only you while he sobs his little heart out for 20 minutes.
And you won't want to practice. You'll want to be with your family. You'll have to go practice anyway, because that's what puts bread on the table, but it sort of isn't as much fun when you do it because your livelihood depends on it. You're a student right now, and it's kind of surprising and fun that you're turning out to be kind of good at this trumpet thing. Later on you'll HAVE to be good, or else...
Don't worry, though. There is a lot to look forward to. Your endurance and high range will get loads better, and you're going to have a lot better equipment in ten years time. The best part will be working with your colleagues, though. I mean, in a lot of ways they aren't any more mature than the college goofballs you work with now, but they are amazing musicians, and it will be a privilege every time you take the stage with them. You become a weird, really dysfunctional family.
But put in the time now to get better at the things you need. Honestly, stop practicing the stuff you're already good at. Playing Carnival of Venice three more times tonight won't make you any better at it. Practice lip trills, practice slotting your low Ds and C#s with a tuner, or practice French etudes or downward slurs. If you don't kick your butt now, someone else will later.
I know you don't want to get dressed and trudge across campus and spend all evening in a practice room by yourself. If it's any consolation, I do feel a little sorry for you. There's a lot of other fun you could be having right now, and some of that you won't get another chance at later. But honestly, when you're ten years out of college, you're going to wish that you'd used all that expendable time to practice more trumpet and to read more books.
Oh, and by the way, I heard that the 38 year old version of us was trying to track me down. If you see him, tell him that I'm at home tonight. I can't practice because I can't wake up the baby, but I'm trying to get some reading and writing done.
Stick it out, kid. Good luck,
You
P.S. I know how much you hate it when people call you 'kid.' That's kind of why I did it. It's good for you.
It's you, ten years later. Things are going pretty well, and you have a lot to look forward to. Don't want to give away too many spoilers, but you have a lovely young family and your career is going pretty darn well. I know it's 8:00 on a Sunday evening and you don't want to leave your apartment. You need to do it anyway.
You need to go and practice for 2 or 3 hours. I know you pretty well, and I know that you get into little intermittent streaks where you practice intensively and intelligently for about 2 or 3 weeks at a time. Then you get busy or lazy, and you just do an hour a day until someone lights a fire under you. You fool, this is the only time in your life you're going to be able to practice this much! Not only that, but this is the only time in your life that you're going to get such a rapid rate of return on your practicing.
I would LOVE to be able to practice for 3 hours a day. Career success actually works against you here. You see, in ten years you're going to need to be able to get through a two and a half hour concert every Friday and Saturday night, not to mention all the rehearsals you'll have during the day. You won't be able to afford to practice yourself out to the very dregs...you'll need to perform later.
Not only that, but on a non-concert day your family is going to want to see you, and you're going to want to see them. And even though it seems like you should have a plenty of time to go to church, have a meal together, run around the yard, and then go practice, it doesn't work like that. Your wife has stuff she needs to do to, there are phone calls to be answered, emails to be answered, paperwork to be done (sorry, by the way, taxes aren't any easier or intelligible when you're 28 than when you're 18) and just when you think that you can break away for an hour to the practice room, your 2 year old will fall down the steps and demand to be held by only you while he sobs his little heart out for 20 minutes.
And you won't want to practice. You'll want to be with your family. You'll have to go practice anyway, because that's what puts bread on the table, but it sort of isn't as much fun when you do it because your livelihood depends on it. You're a student right now, and it's kind of surprising and fun that you're turning out to be kind of good at this trumpet thing. Later on you'll HAVE to be good, or else...
Don't worry, though. There is a lot to look forward to. Your endurance and high range will get loads better, and you're going to have a lot better equipment in ten years time. The best part will be working with your colleagues, though. I mean, in a lot of ways they aren't any more mature than the college goofballs you work with now, but they are amazing musicians, and it will be a privilege every time you take the stage with them. You become a weird, really dysfunctional family.
But put in the time now to get better at the things you need. Honestly, stop practicing the stuff you're already good at. Playing Carnival of Venice three more times tonight won't make you any better at it. Practice lip trills, practice slotting your low Ds and C#s with a tuner, or practice French etudes or downward slurs. If you don't kick your butt now, someone else will later.
I know you don't want to get dressed and trudge across campus and spend all evening in a practice room by yourself. If it's any consolation, I do feel a little sorry for you. There's a lot of other fun you could be having right now, and some of that you won't get another chance at later. But honestly, when you're ten years out of college, you're going to wish that you'd used all that expendable time to practice more trumpet and to read more books.
Oh, and by the way, I heard that the 38 year old version of us was trying to track me down. If you see him, tell him that I'm at home tonight. I can't practice because I can't wake up the baby, but I'm trying to get some reading and writing done.
Stick it out, kid. Good luck,
You
P.S. I know how much you hate it when people call you 'kid.' That's kind of why I did it. It's good for you.
Tuesday, July 22, 2014
5 Minutes of James, transcribed
"Okay, sit in that seat."
"mm-hm"
"Yeah" (I want to be scooched in)
"I was way far away"
"Goo-pah!"
"George ate a burped."
"I want to read the maple syrup book."
"George maked that noise in the syrup book."
"Burp!"
"George is eated syrup."
"George is hungry for syrup. Yeah."
"Where does syrup come from, Mommy?"
"Yeah."
"George lived in the syrup."
"I wanna watch George eat syrup." (2x)
"Yeah." (He had syrup on his waffle this morning.)
"What are you doing?"
"Why are you blowing your nose?"
"mm-hm"
"All-mn-ms." (All the m&ms)
"I wanna eat." (as he is eating)
"I wanna put my fruit on the table and knock it throwed down."
"I wanna take every one out this."
"Uh-oh"
"One falled down"
"A raisin falled down"
"I wanna eat"
(is busy sorting out his trail mix into separate piles of m&ms, raisins, peanuts, and almonds)
"Look at the those ones" (blue m&ms)
"mm-hm"
"Yeah" (I want to be scooched in)
"I was way far away"
"Goo-pah!"
"George ate a burped."
"I want to read the maple syrup book."
"George maked that noise in the syrup book."
"Burp!"
"George is eated syrup."
"George is hungry for syrup. Yeah."
"Where does syrup come from, Mommy?"
"Yeah."
"George lived in the syrup."
"I wanna watch George eat syrup." (2x)
"Yeah." (He had syrup on his waffle this morning.)
"What are you doing?"
"Why are you blowing your nose?"
"mm-hm"
"All-mn-ms." (All the m&ms)
"I wanna eat." (as he is eating)
"I wanna put my fruit on the table and knock it throwed down."
"I wanna take every one out this."
"Uh-oh"
"One falled down"
"A raisin falled down"
"I wanna eat"
(is busy sorting out his trail mix into separate piles of m&ms, raisins, peanuts, and almonds)
"Look at the those ones" (blue m&ms)
Monday, July 21, 2014
A Trumpet Player's Lament
When a plumber needs to practice piping for some project
And says to his wife "I'm off to plumb" she gives him a kiss
And when a purple helicopter riding toaster needs to toast
He says "I'll toast for five minutes at most some rye and swiss"
And when a juggler jiggles or a pope pontificates or carpenter carps
Or a lawyer lies or a doctors docts or a doodler doodles
Or a chef goes into his kitchen to press out whole wheat spaghetti noodles
No one complains and no one makes any fuss about them working
But when I need to practice trumpet you'd think the world is ending
My family buries their heads in pillows to block out the sound
The neighbors call the police, endangered birds fall trumpeted dead to the ground
The white hot noise shakes plates and breaks all the wineglasses
Traffic gets backed up on all the highway overpasses
A thousand bassoons and violists gather outside my apartment porch
They carry pitchforks and fiberglass shields, each burning a rosin-lit torch
Frantic calls are exchanged as the stock exchange starts to drop
The UN security council resolves this endless racket must stop
"Enough," they all shout "or surely we all won't survive
Or if he must practice, please no more Mahler five!"
And yesterday evening, my family heard me play
A delightful concert of Beatles tunes, it chanced
And since they were seated about a football field away
They could enjoy the trumpet, from a healthy distance.
And says to his wife "I'm off to plumb" she gives him a kiss
And when a purple helicopter riding toaster needs to toast
He says "I'll toast for five minutes at most some rye and swiss"
And when a juggler jiggles or a pope pontificates or carpenter carps
Or a lawyer lies or a doctors docts or a doodler doodles
Or a chef goes into his kitchen to press out whole wheat spaghetti noodles
No one complains and no one makes any fuss about them working
But when I need to practice trumpet you'd think the world is ending
My family buries their heads in pillows to block out the sound
The neighbors call the police, endangered birds fall trumpeted dead to the ground
The white hot noise shakes plates and breaks all the wineglasses
Traffic gets backed up on all the highway overpasses
A thousand bassoons and violists gather outside my apartment porch
They carry pitchforks and fiberglass shields, each burning a rosin-lit torch
Frantic calls are exchanged as the stock exchange starts to drop
The UN security council resolves this endless racket must stop
"Enough," they all shout "or surely we all won't survive
Or if he must practice, please no more Mahler five!"
And yesterday evening, my family heard me play
A delightful concert of Beatles tunes, it chanced
And since they were seated about a football field away
They could enjoy the trumpet, from a healthy distance.
Saturday, July 19, 2014
Niagara Falls
My earliest memory of Niagara Falls is perhaps around age 7 or 8. I was big enough to be a stupid big show off to my younger brothers (this started happening way before age 7, I'm sure) but not mature enough to have any sense about drawing the line. (This didn't happen for quite a number of years after age 8 either.) We were making our way along the Niagara River towards the Goat Island bridge, and I decided that I was going to touch the current. I broke away from my younger siblings, ran to the edge of the river laid on the grass, and was reaching a hand toward the water when my Mom yanked me up and gave me as violent a smack as I can ever remember. I don't remember exactly what she said, but she conveyed quite clearly to me how dangerous the river is, how stupid (and illegaly) I was behaving, and what the consequences would be if I or any other brother would ever try anything like that again.
But the real punishment doesn't come until years later, when you're taking your own little boy, full of little boy confidence and stupidity in his little boy brain, and the first thing he does when he sees the river is point and say "Oh, I wanna go IN it!"
It was a long planned reunion yesterday. We got together with our Canadian friends, Andrew and Melodee, and J's best friend Jessica came along too. Melodee is expecting a little boy about a month before J, so the plan was to meet at the Falls, photograph baby bumps, grab some dinner, and then all go to my orchestra concert that night. Or at least, that was what we thought the plan was. A good portion of the day actually was spent waiting around for one another and trying to figure out (via text exchange at international roaming rates) what the other group had thought the plan was before they drove past and parked two miles away.
It really was a great time once we all got together. And I practiced outside by the Niagara River for an hour while we waited, which is the perfect spot to do it. When there's a deafening waterfall on one side of you and a highway on the other, no one really complains about a trumpet player.
Most exciting for James, Melodee and Andrew brought their dog Uley. James thought Uley was the coolest thing he'd ever seen, and Uley was pretty interested in James too. J later told me that she still didn't want a dog, "but..."
We made our way to the Canadian side of Goat Island, and I pushed the stroller up to the rails. The Falls were hardly ten feet away, and we were blasted by the wind-whipped mist. (Steam, James calls it.)
"Daddy, I wanna get out of the stroller!"
"Absolutely no way, James."
Five minutes later, when he was out of the stroller, he pointed out the Maid of the Mist below and threw lots of pebbles at it. I'm sure he'll be excited to see Papa's house again, but throwing rocks in Papa's pond might not seem so cool after he threw rocks at a boat over the top of Niagara Falls.
We never made it to the concert as a group. I made it, of course. I publicly stripped down and changed into my suit for I think the third time this month, and made my way back to the hall while every one else went to Wegmans.
It's hard to stand over the gorge and Niagara Falls and think mundane thoughts. Most of the time this time around I was thinking "I sure with James was a little bit more scared of all this. I think I'm going to move him a little further back from the edge." He was a good little boy, and he complied. I'm glad I didn't have to smack him.
But the real punishment doesn't come until years later, when you're taking your own little boy, full of little boy confidence and stupidity in his little boy brain, and the first thing he does when he sees the river is point and say "Oh, I wanna go IN it!"
It was a long planned reunion yesterday. We got together with our Canadian friends, Andrew and Melodee, and J's best friend Jessica came along too. Melodee is expecting a little boy about a month before J, so the plan was to meet at the Falls, photograph baby bumps, grab some dinner, and then all go to my orchestra concert that night. Or at least, that was what we thought the plan was. A good portion of the day actually was spent waiting around for one another and trying to figure out (via text exchange at international roaming rates) what the other group had thought the plan was before they drove past and parked two miles away.
It really was a great time once we all got together. And I practiced outside by the Niagara River for an hour while we waited, which is the perfect spot to do it. When there's a deafening waterfall on one side of you and a highway on the other, no one really complains about a trumpet player.
Most exciting for James, Melodee and Andrew brought their dog Uley. James thought Uley was the coolest thing he'd ever seen, and Uley was pretty interested in James too. J later told me that she still didn't want a dog, "but..."
We made our way to the Canadian side of Goat Island, and I pushed the stroller up to the rails. The Falls were hardly ten feet away, and we were blasted by the wind-whipped mist. (Steam, James calls it.)
"Daddy, I wanna get out of the stroller!"
"Absolutely no way, James."
Five minutes later, when he was out of the stroller, he pointed out the Maid of the Mist below and threw lots of pebbles at it. I'm sure he'll be excited to see Papa's house again, but throwing rocks in Papa's pond might not seem so cool after he threw rocks at a boat over the top of Niagara Falls.
We never made it to the concert as a group. I made it, of course. I publicly stripped down and changed into my suit for I think the third time this month, and made my way back to the hall while every one else went to Wegmans.
It's hard to stand over the gorge and Niagara Falls and think mundane thoughts. Most of the time this time around I was thinking "I sure with James was a little bit more scared of all this. I think I'm going to move him a little further back from the edge." He was a good little boy, and he complied. I'm glad I didn't have to smack him.
Friday, July 18, 2014
The Adventure of the Shingle and the Dandelion
It happened on one morning in high summer that I was making sport before the grand entrance of my castle, as is my wont. This is a place of marvelous wide expanse, replete with grassy spaces, a road particularly beloved to me, and many stout trees overshading great gardens manicured with skill both beautiful and magical. On this morning I was with my dearest companions, Sir George and Sir Steven, and my venerable father was also attending me.
My dear father is an ancient creature of enormous height, much beloved to me and to all the people of the world. His voice is as a rumbling sound, and his grizzled visage is covered in hair and fur. Although he is wise and kind, he must always be wearied by his many years, for neither he nor my beautiful mother are joyed to run and to quest as I do, but they are always laying or sitting themselves down as if burdened my much toil. Indeed, I have seen my giant father sprawled low on the floor as if fast asleep, although I know in my heart that he sleeps not. When I see this to happen I will inquire of him many questions and urge him to remember his valor and rise, yet sometimes I think a great hurricane could blow over him and he would not stir.
It was thus that my old father sat upon the ground before my castle whilst I made trial of my swift legs. I strode as a stallion and could hardly keep myself aright with the joy of my running and my swiftness, such that many times I careered into a bush and pretended to beat it back as a foeman. Sir George ran with me, as was his wont, although Sir Steven I entrusted to the care of my father, lest he be wearied with the heat of toil.
On this morning I made resolve in my heart to set out upon a great adventure, and I opened my mind to my ancient father. Because he is deaf and I fear that sometimes he does not know me I spake my intentions many time to make journey across the vast plains of our land unto a certain shrine dearly beloved to me. Yet before I would embark I in my wisdom made provision for days to come, for I climbed atop a great rock which jutted forth from the black earth, and though my ascent was perilous I summoned all my courage to grasp hold of the limbs of the towering apple tree which overspreads this great rock. There by the skill of my fingers I picked countless apples, and though I could not number them I filled to the brim a secret crevice of my rock where no living thing would have knowledge or discernment. Sir George and Sir Steven, my beloved companions, were of great assistance in my labor, though when Sir George sat upon the tree I could scarce stand by the violence of my laughter at his sight. Indeed, it is beyond recounting how Sir George had clomb the tree as the monkey that he is, and even now my spirit trembles with mirth inside me to remember such a prank.
With many steps did my ancient father and I start our journey north to the great shrine of the tractor. Such space lay before us that no man could see the end of green expanse. Here are the fields of the tractor's country, which my ancient father has called "The Courtyard." I know not whence or in what manner this marvel is possible, but it happens in this country that the tractor should mow The Courtyard, enormous though it be, upon every Friday. This is a most sacred ritual, and my heart burns glad within me even now to think upon it. As I made the great journey with my father I disburdened my tongue of all this joy, and spake to him in solemn tones about my joy for the tractor, my eagerness to visit the tractor's shrine, my wonder that the tractor should perform this portent each Friday, and what manner of veneration we might perform when we had reached the end of our long pilgrimage.
My old father, as he went, was much weakened and confused. He went looking into a book of prodigious size and weight, but yet I think that the book was no book at all. For earlier I had looked upon it with the cleverness of my own eyes, and not one picture did I see. Oft I think that my ancient father's mind has softened in the weakness of his old age, and that mayhaps he is distracted in his understanding as he pretends to understand pictures where none would be.
After countless days had passed we came to a spot in the verdure of the courtyard where I espied with my keen eye some powerful object lying in the grass. At first I was startled by this omen, for as yet I was discoursing upon the merits of the tractor and its shrine. Yet as I beheld the object and considered it, my courage returned and I ran with great swiftness to seize it in my hand. As I lifted this strange piece of treasure in my hand I learned of it that the texture was most curious, something like coarse dirt, but unlike dirt in many other ways. I should have thought it would be a might stone, yet its weight was too light for this. There were sundry colors upon its course face, yet all the rest was black as darkest night and smooth. Because of the blackness I considered whether it might not be an evil object, and I offered it to the ancient wisdom of my father.
My father recognized the strange stone forthwith, and declared it a piece of shingle which fallen from the roof. I gazed up far beyond the courtyard and looked upon the eternal castles which girded the green plains of the tractor. There I noted for the first time, though many times I had beheld this in the length of my years, that shingles covered all the top surface of these mighty castles. I held my own piece reverently and considered its immense worth and importance. Holding it aloft I declared upon my own valor that I would guard and keep my shingle as an unparalleled treasure until the time should come when I might stand on the banks of my grandfather's sacred pond and cast it into the holy waters there.
You must understand my surprise, after I had resumed my long journey to the tractor's shrine, when I found a second treasure of immense worth upon the verdant grass. There before me, by some heavenly grace, was a flower of immense beauty and fragrance. I knelt before this wonder and surveyed the splendor before me in rapt silence. Surely, I thought, I would not leave this treasure unguarded in the wild wasteland of the Courtyard. No, even if I should be able to stand and guard it myself for all time, I must needs pluck this beautiful flower and bear it in all its glory unto the shores of my grandfather's sacred pond where I might cast it in. I entrusted my faithful companions, Sir George and Sir Steven, unto the care of my ancient father, and when I resumed my journey I held one hand the precious treasure of the shingle, and in the other hand, the fairest dandelion that ever grew upon green grass.
As I made my journey I could scarcely control the excitement of my praise, not only for the tractor which mows the grass on Fridays, but yet still for the possession of the shingle (what joy it is to teach one's tongue the name of a new and hitherto unknown word) and the beauty of the dandelion.
And yet my journey nearly ended in calamity, for even as I came in sight of the tractor's shrine, a hideous old man appeared from his own castle who I had never seen before. He was even more ancient than my old father, disfigured by the weight of innumerable years and yet moving with a swiftness that portended much danger and illdoing. Here I confess my courage failed me and dread panic coursed through my very bones. Forgetting my own strength I made ready to protect my treasures by fleeing behind the knees of my ancient father, and there amidst his bristly limbs I averted my face from the stranger's gaze, lest he bewitch me or attempt to elicit some speech from my mouth. (I find that wicked strangers almost always try to ensnare you in their magic by compelling you to speak some word, whether it be a greeting or the description of your years or name.)
Yet where my bravery to fight had failed, I still endured the trial of the stranger and the danger passed as he went to other parts of his country. So it passed after many days of travel (I am afraid I did not reckon the number) I arrived at the shrine of the tractor possessed of two inestimable treasures. Thus was my adventure.
My dear father is an ancient creature of enormous height, much beloved to me and to all the people of the world. His voice is as a rumbling sound, and his grizzled visage is covered in hair and fur. Although he is wise and kind, he must always be wearied by his many years, for neither he nor my beautiful mother are joyed to run and to quest as I do, but they are always laying or sitting themselves down as if burdened my much toil. Indeed, I have seen my giant father sprawled low on the floor as if fast asleep, although I know in my heart that he sleeps not. When I see this to happen I will inquire of him many questions and urge him to remember his valor and rise, yet sometimes I think a great hurricane could blow over him and he would not stir.
It was thus that my old father sat upon the ground before my castle whilst I made trial of my swift legs. I strode as a stallion and could hardly keep myself aright with the joy of my running and my swiftness, such that many times I careered into a bush and pretended to beat it back as a foeman. Sir George ran with me, as was his wont, although Sir Steven I entrusted to the care of my father, lest he be wearied with the heat of toil.
On this morning I made resolve in my heart to set out upon a great adventure, and I opened my mind to my ancient father. Because he is deaf and I fear that sometimes he does not know me I spake my intentions many time to make journey across the vast plains of our land unto a certain shrine dearly beloved to me. Yet before I would embark I in my wisdom made provision for days to come, for I climbed atop a great rock which jutted forth from the black earth, and though my ascent was perilous I summoned all my courage to grasp hold of the limbs of the towering apple tree which overspreads this great rock. There by the skill of my fingers I picked countless apples, and though I could not number them I filled to the brim a secret crevice of my rock where no living thing would have knowledge or discernment. Sir George and Sir Steven, my beloved companions, were of great assistance in my labor, though when Sir George sat upon the tree I could scarce stand by the violence of my laughter at his sight. Indeed, it is beyond recounting how Sir George had clomb the tree as the monkey that he is, and even now my spirit trembles with mirth inside me to remember such a prank.
With many steps did my ancient father and I start our journey north to the great shrine of the tractor. Such space lay before us that no man could see the end of green expanse. Here are the fields of the tractor's country, which my ancient father has called "The Courtyard." I know not whence or in what manner this marvel is possible, but it happens in this country that the tractor should mow The Courtyard, enormous though it be, upon every Friday. This is a most sacred ritual, and my heart burns glad within me even now to think upon it. As I made the great journey with my father I disburdened my tongue of all this joy, and spake to him in solemn tones about my joy for the tractor, my eagerness to visit the tractor's shrine, my wonder that the tractor should perform this portent each Friday, and what manner of veneration we might perform when we had reached the end of our long pilgrimage.
My old father, as he went, was much weakened and confused. He went looking into a book of prodigious size and weight, but yet I think that the book was no book at all. For earlier I had looked upon it with the cleverness of my own eyes, and not one picture did I see. Oft I think that my ancient father's mind has softened in the weakness of his old age, and that mayhaps he is distracted in his understanding as he pretends to understand pictures where none would be.
After countless days had passed we came to a spot in the verdure of the courtyard where I espied with my keen eye some powerful object lying in the grass. At first I was startled by this omen, for as yet I was discoursing upon the merits of the tractor and its shrine. Yet as I beheld the object and considered it, my courage returned and I ran with great swiftness to seize it in my hand. As I lifted this strange piece of treasure in my hand I learned of it that the texture was most curious, something like coarse dirt, but unlike dirt in many other ways. I should have thought it would be a might stone, yet its weight was too light for this. There were sundry colors upon its course face, yet all the rest was black as darkest night and smooth. Because of the blackness I considered whether it might not be an evil object, and I offered it to the ancient wisdom of my father.
My father recognized the strange stone forthwith, and declared it a piece of shingle which fallen from the roof. I gazed up far beyond the courtyard and looked upon the eternal castles which girded the green plains of the tractor. There I noted for the first time, though many times I had beheld this in the length of my years, that shingles covered all the top surface of these mighty castles. I held my own piece reverently and considered its immense worth and importance. Holding it aloft I declared upon my own valor that I would guard and keep my shingle as an unparalleled treasure until the time should come when I might stand on the banks of my grandfather's sacred pond and cast it into the holy waters there.
You must understand my surprise, after I had resumed my long journey to the tractor's shrine, when I found a second treasure of immense worth upon the verdant grass. There before me, by some heavenly grace, was a flower of immense beauty and fragrance. I knelt before this wonder and surveyed the splendor before me in rapt silence. Surely, I thought, I would not leave this treasure unguarded in the wild wasteland of the Courtyard. No, even if I should be able to stand and guard it myself for all time, I must needs pluck this beautiful flower and bear it in all its glory unto the shores of my grandfather's sacred pond where I might cast it in. I entrusted my faithful companions, Sir George and Sir Steven, unto the care of my ancient father, and when I resumed my journey I held one hand the precious treasure of the shingle, and in the other hand, the fairest dandelion that ever grew upon green grass.
As I made my journey I could scarcely control the excitement of my praise, not only for the tractor which mows the grass on Fridays, but yet still for the possession of the shingle (what joy it is to teach one's tongue the name of a new and hitherto unknown word) and the beauty of the dandelion.
And yet my journey nearly ended in calamity, for even as I came in sight of the tractor's shrine, a hideous old man appeared from his own castle who I had never seen before. He was even more ancient than my old father, disfigured by the weight of innumerable years and yet moving with a swiftness that portended much danger and illdoing. Here I confess my courage failed me and dread panic coursed through my very bones. Forgetting my own strength I made ready to protect my treasures by fleeing behind the knees of my ancient father, and there amidst his bristly limbs I averted my face from the stranger's gaze, lest he bewitch me or attempt to elicit some speech from my mouth. (I find that wicked strangers almost always try to ensnare you in their magic by compelling you to speak some word, whether it be a greeting or the description of your years or name.)
Yet where my bravery to fight had failed, I still endured the trial of the stranger and the danger passed as he went to other parts of his country. So it passed after many days of travel (I am afraid I did not reckon the number) I arrived at the shrine of the tractor possessed of two inestimable treasures. Thus was my adventure.
Tuesday, July 15, 2014
Pizza
1:45 PM
I am making pizza tonight.
J and I agreed last night that I would make a pizza entirely on my own, and that she would stand by as a neutral observer, kind of like the UN presence in Syria, except that (based on my history here, here, and here) the pizza may turn out to be more catastrophic and perplexing. She won't give advice or do any of the actual preparation, but we'll both be blogging our report of what transpires as we go.
3:44
The Neutral Observer informs me that it is time to start making dough if we're going to eat by 6. 90 minutes for the dough in the bread machine, then another half hour for assembling the pizza and baking "if everything goes according to plan." I think that she has stressed this last sentence with needless emphasis.
3:46
I get out the bread machine and plug it in, checking to make sure that there aren't any spice containers inside the chamber. James routinely shuts himself in the pantry and "makes cookies" by putting seven or eight spice containers inside the bread machine. This is also usually a sign that he is filling his diaper with something that is not cookies. Mental note to work on potty training again this weekend.
3:48
I wash my hands and begin to search for a recipe. I have no idea where her dough recipe is. There is a pile of recipes on the floor from when J was making cookies earlier and James upended the recipe box. They have gradually been scattered under the refrigerator and kitchen table. This may take awhile.
3:49
The Neutral Observer has offered to tell me where the recipe is. I have accepted her offer.
3:52
I sort through hundreds of recipes and find no less than three separate Pizza cards before I find Bread Machine Pizza Dough. NB: the Neutral Observer has taken over my typing duties because she wants to eat sometime before 8PM and is tired of watching me bend over the computer every 30 seconds. Any misspellings are her own fault. (Hey!)
My first measuring cup is the size of Uganda. I decide against using it to measure 1 1/4 cups of water. My preferred measuring cup has been turned into a death trap for fruit flies. I'm being forced to improvise. I locate a dirty Pyrex cup in the dishwasher and am now washing it. The meniscus of the water is now at the 1 c line. I have used lukewarm water.
3:56
The Neutral Observer is telling me not to use lukewarm water. That's correct. The meniscus of the water is now at the 1 c line, full of hot water.
3:57
I have added an additional 2 oz of hot water, for a total of 1 1/4 c of hot water. Having trouble locating the bread flour.
3:58
The Neutral Observer is interfering again, telling me I am putting in my ingredients in the incorrect order. I set the flour aside and dig for measuring spoons. I locate a coffee scoop and head to the sugar canister. Neutral Observer keeps her mouth shut.
3:59
Conducted a brief taste test of the medium-sized canister to determine contents. Verdict: sugar. Apprehension about where precisely the measuring line is on my measuring spoon. That's because it's really a coffee scoop. Poured the salt in, with minimal spilling onto the tabletop.
4:01
N.O. has noted that my water is rapidly cooling. I search for the powdered milk. Added successfully.
4:02
I am using a half-cup measuring device to measure the bread flour. I have deduced that I will need six scoops to equal 3 cups.
4:03
I have run out of bread flour after 2 cups and will supplement with regular flour. I hope this still works.
4:04
2 tablespoons of yeast. 2 TEASPOONS of yeast. Triple checking...close call. He's still using the coffee scoop.
4:05
Dough preparation complete. I have turned on the dough cycle of the bread machine.
5:23
I preheat the oven to 525. (We have started cooking our pizza more quickly at a higher temperature on the recommendation of J's brother and his wife.) I will now begin to prepare the sauce.
5:25
Can't find the recipe for the sauce. Digging through the unorganized mess of cards again.
5:26
Found yet another recipe for pizza dough but none for sauce. I have decided to search the internet for a recipe instead.
5:29
Found plenty of recipes on the internet, but they call for lots of ingredients we don't have. Also, how can tomato sauce be an ingredient for tomato sauce? The only jar of "tomato sauce" we have (which is actually "tomato basil sauce" looks like it should go on pasta and comes in 24 (not 15) ounces. I think I've found a good recipe though. I will be using tomato PASTE.
N.O. has returned as stenographer.
5:31
I am attempting to find an appropriate mixing vessel, of which a colander is not. Not seeing any silver bowls of the right size, I'm looking at Tupperware, none of which seems to be the right size. (Purely eyeballing all of this.) My emotions are conflicted. I use one of the Tupperwares he bypassed, or a normal cereal bowl. I'm going to try to mix them together in a 42 oz Gladware.
5:33
Three unsuccessful attempts to use the electric can opener. I now search for the manual one.
5:34
I can't find the manual can opener. I think the N.O. threw it out. Incorrect. There are two in there.
5:35
Successful on the fifth attempt with the electric can opener, except that there are bits of label in the sauce, er, paste. The bread machine is beeping at me and I'm not ready for it yet. My feelings are: anxious. I'm also not sure how much tomato paste I'm using, 6 or 8 oz. And I buzzed off the part of the label that tells me how many oz are in the can. Feeling more anxious
5:36
My dough has risen beautifully! He sounds surprised. A triumph!
5:37
I am now filling up the Pyrex with 1 1/2 cups of HOT (cast sidelong glance at N.O.) water for the sauce. I am wondering whether I ought to be stirring with a wooden spoon or a tablespoon. Would that make it more official? <consults recipe>
5:39
The oven has preheated. My anxiety increases. I've added the olive oil and am having trouble locating the garlic.
5:40
N.O. steps in to inform that the last of the minced garlic in the fridge was used earlier in the day. Consult the pantry for more.
5:41
Had trouble finding how much minced garlic equals two cloves. Also, this garlic is packed in olive oil. Should I siphon off some of what I already added? This is going to be extremely garlicky sauce. I'm not sure that whoever invented this recipe was planning on kissing anybody afterwards. I will put some back. This was a very wise move, whether or not I kiss him afterwards. I am immediately refrigerating after opening.
5:43
"Salt to taste. Pepper to taste." <long pause> I have given both shakers a pat on the butt. I have now salted and peppered to taste.
5:44
"1/2 T of dried oregano. 1/2 T of dried basil." I am out of clean tablespoons. I have rescued a dirty tablespoon from the dishwasher and am cleaning it by hand. I don't have a half tablespoon measure. Shoot. 3 teaspoons equals 1 tablespoon. If I trust the metric math written on the spoons, 1/2 T equals 7 1/2 ml, or 1 1/2 teaspoons. I gotta give him some credit there. Impressive.
5:46
This is taking a long time. If there are many more ingredients I will just do them "to taste." I"m not sure the right lids ended up on the right spices.
5:47
The spoon fell in the Tupperware and is now slimy. "1/2 t dried rosemary, crushed." I'm having trouble finding the rosemary. I am surprised. Not sure how I"m supposed to crush it any further. I'm pinching it very hard as I put it in.
5:49
I will now stir this all together. I wonder if I can put a lid on it and shake it like when I make pudding. There are way too many spices in here.
This looks way too runny to be sauce...I can't believe that recipe really called for 1/3 c of olive oil. Gross.
5:51
I am trying the sauce.
5:52
<rinses mouth out over sink and clears throat> I am now googling recipes for white pizza.
5:54
I have sprayed the pizza pan with olive oil and am now spreading the dough. N.O. has urged me, urgently, to put flour on my hands and on the dough. N.O. has also given me a spreading lesson, which apparently is very different than kneading. It is not spreading particularly well.
I am biting my lips. This is possibly salvageable, but it needs experienced hands.
5:56
I will try more flour.
5:57
"Stop laughing."
Raw footage
5:59
"Oh, PLEASE, can't I help you?!?" I'm now googling how to spread pizza dough on the pan. Oh wait! Rolling pin!
6:00
I have remembered that we own a rolling pin. I am rolling out the dough. N.O. has stopped laughing so hard that she is crying. True. My pizza dough is in the shape of Europe.
6:01
I'm having much better success with the rolling pin and will now finesse the edges by hand.
6:02
I declare this good enough. I can't remember where I immediately refrigerated the garlic. I know I'm the one what put this away like five minutes ago (actually, it was twenty). This pizza is in danger of being extremely garlicky once again.
6:03
I have now coated the dough with garlic oil "to taste". I have re-refrigerated the minced garlic immediately.
6:04
I am coating the pizza with mozzarella cheese. I am hoping that copious amounts of cheese covers a multitude of sins. I am asking N.O. if she thinks that's enough cheese. She does.
6:06
In a moment of culinary inspiration, I am shredding a bit of parmesan cheese on top...parmesan cheese is moldy. I'm throwing it out.
6:06
I am baking the pizza for 8 minutes at 525 degrees, <blast of oven air> which is really hot. Whew!
6:07
I'm cleaning up, which involves putting the bread machine and spices away. And flushing the sauce down the toilet.
6:08
I forgot that the spoon had slipped into the sauce container. I am now washing my hands very thoroughly. Also, I'm very glad that I cleaned the toilet earlier today.
6:14
The timer has rung! <opens oven> Whoa. It's ready. The moment is come...
CODA:
Neutral Observer here. After reading and hearing the numerous past tales of pizza-making woe, I agreed to witness this attempt, and was happy to serve as stenographer during some of the stickier moments. I learned a few things today, which I shall now succinctly summarize:
1. I thought that anybody could cook or bake just by following a recipe. I don't think this anymore. Some kind of additional technique is involved at just about every step, which I guess some people have more naturally than others.
2. The chef here was up against some pretty weighty obstacles, including not having enough bread flour (a key component that has compromised some of my bread machine dough in the past), and this, quite honestly, crappy sauce recipe. But how could he have known that close to 2 cups of liquid added to 6 oz of tomato paste is never going to yield anything more than herbal soup?
3. The chef tries really hard. None of this was exaggerated or stretched for comedic effect.
4. In spite of the dough-stretching and "coating" exercises, the pizza actually tasted pretty good. The dough had a nice texture and the cheese melted evenly over the top. There were a few bites that were just about all garlic, but these could be overlooked for the sake of what can easily be called the greatest triumph of the chef's endeavors. He shall be kissed tonight (if he desires) for his efforts and improvement.
Now! On to the dishes!
I am making pizza tonight.
J and I agreed last night that I would make a pizza entirely on my own, and that she would stand by as a neutral observer, kind of like the UN presence in Syria, except that (based on my history here, here, and here) the pizza may turn out to be more catastrophic and perplexing. She won't give advice or do any of the actual preparation, but we'll both be blogging our report of what transpires as we go.
3:44
The Neutral Observer informs me that it is time to start making dough if we're going to eat by 6. 90 minutes for the dough in the bread machine, then another half hour for assembling the pizza and baking "if everything goes according to plan." I think that she has stressed this last sentence with needless emphasis.
3:46
I get out the bread machine and plug it in, checking to make sure that there aren't any spice containers inside the chamber. James routinely shuts himself in the pantry and "makes cookies" by putting seven or eight spice containers inside the bread machine. This is also usually a sign that he is filling his diaper with something that is not cookies. Mental note to work on potty training again this weekend.
3:48
I wash my hands and begin to search for a recipe. I have no idea where her dough recipe is. There is a pile of recipes on the floor from when J was making cookies earlier and James upended the recipe box. They have gradually been scattered under the refrigerator and kitchen table. This may take awhile.
3:49
The Neutral Observer has offered to tell me where the recipe is. I have accepted her offer.
3:52
I sort through hundreds of recipes and find no less than three separate Pizza cards before I find Bread Machine Pizza Dough. NB: the Neutral Observer has taken over my typing duties because she wants to eat sometime before 8PM and is tired of watching me bend over the computer every 30 seconds. Any misspellings are her own fault. (Hey!)
My first measuring cup is the size of Uganda. I decide against using it to measure 1 1/4 cups of water. My preferred measuring cup has been turned into a death trap for fruit flies. I'm being forced to improvise. I locate a dirty Pyrex cup in the dishwasher and am now washing it. The meniscus of the water is now at the 1 c line. I have used lukewarm water.
3:56
The Neutral Observer is telling me not to use lukewarm water. That's correct. The meniscus of the water is now at the 1 c line, full of hot water.
3:57
I have added an additional 2 oz of hot water, for a total of 1 1/4 c of hot water. Having trouble locating the bread flour.
3:58
The Neutral Observer is interfering again, telling me I am putting in my ingredients in the incorrect order. I set the flour aside and dig for measuring spoons. I locate a coffee scoop and head to the sugar canister. Neutral Observer keeps her mouth shut.
3:59
Conducted a brief taste test of the medium-sized canister to determine contents. Verdict: sugar. Apprehension about where precisely the measuring line is on my measuring spoon. That's because it's really a coffee scoop. Poured the salt in, with minimal spilling onto the tabletop.
4:01
N.O. has noted that my water is rapidly cooling. I search for the powdered milk. Added successfully.
4:02
I am using a half-cup measuring device to measure the bread flour. I have deduced that I will need six scoops to equal 3 cups.
4:03
I have run out of bread flour after 2 cups and will supplement with regular flour. I hope this still works.
4:04
2 tablespoons of yeast. 2 TEASPOONS of yeast. Triple checking...close call. He's still using the coffee scoop.
4:05
Dough preparation complete. I have turned on the dough cycle of the bread machine.
5:23
I preheat the oven to 525. (We have started cooking our pizza more quickly at a higher temperature on the recommendation of J's brother and his wife.) I will now begin to prepare the sauce.
5:25
Can't find the recipe for the sauce. Digging through the unorganized mess of cards again.
5:26
Found yet another recipe for pizza dough but none for sauce. I have decided to search the internet for a recipe instead.
5:29
Found plenty of recipes on the internet, but they call for lots of ingredients we don't have. Also, how can tomato sauce be an ingredient for tomato sauce? The only jar of "tomato sauce" we have (which is actually "tomato basil sauce" looks like it should go on pasta and comes in 24 (not 15) ounces. I think I've found a good recipe though. I will be using tomato PASTE.
N.O. has returned as stenographer.
5:31
I am attempting to find an appropriate mixing vessel, of which a colander is not. Not seeing any silver bowls of the right size, I'm looking at Tupperware, none of which seems to be the right size. (Purely eyeballing all of this.) My emotions are conflicted. I use one of the Tupperwares he bypassed, or a normal cereal bowl. I'm going to try to mix them together in a 42 oz Gladware.
5:33
Three unsuccessful attempts to use the electric can opener. I now search for the manual one.
5:34
I can't find the manual can opener. I think the N.O. threw it out. Incorrect. There are two in there.
5:35
Successful on the fifth attempt with the electric can opener, except that there are bits of label in the sauce, er, paste. The bread machine is beeping at me and I'm not ready for it yet. My feelings are: anxious. I'm also not sure how much tomato paste I'm using, 6 or 8 oz. And I buzzed off the part of the label that tells me how many oz are in the can. Feeling more anxious
5:36
My dough has risen beautifully! He sounds surprised. A triumph!
5:37
I am now filling up the Pyrex with 1 1/2 cups of HOT (cast sidelong glance at N.O.) water for the sauce. I am wondering whether I ought to be stirring with a wooden spoon or a tablespoon. Would that make it more official? <consults recipe>
5:39
The oven has preheated. My anxiety increases. I've added the olive oil and am having trouble locating the garlic.
5:40
N.O. steps in to inform that the last of the minced garlic in the fridge was used earlier in the day. Consult the pantry for more.
5:41
Had trouble finding how much minced garlic equals two cloves. Also, this garlic is packed in olive oil. Should I siphon off some of what I already added? This is going to be extremely garlicky sauce. I'm not sure that whoever invented this recipe was planning on kissing anybody afterwards. I will put some back. This was a very wise move, whether or not I kiss him afterwards. I am immediately refrigerating after opening.
5:43
"Salt to taste. Pepper to taste." <long pause> I have given both shakers a pat on the butt. I have now salted and peppered to taste.
5:44
"1/2 T of dried oregano. 1/2 T of dried basil." I am out of clean tablespoons. I have rescued a dirty tablespoon from the dishwasher and am cleaning it by hand. I don't have a half tablespoon measure. Shoot. 3 teaspoons equals 1 tablespoon. If I trust the metric math written on the spoons, 1/2 T equals 7 1/2 ml, or 1 1/2 teaspoons. I gotta give him some credit there. Impressive.
5:46
This is taking a long time. If there are many more ingredients I will just do them "to taste." I"m not sure the right lids ended up on the right spices.
5:47
The spoon fell in the Tupperware and is now slimy. "1/2 t dried rosemary, crushed." I'm having trouble finding the rosemary. I am surprised. Not sure how I"m supposed to crush it any further. I'm pinching it very hard as I put it in.
5:49
I will now stir this all together. I wonder if I can put a lid on it and shake it like when I make pudding. There are way too many spices in here.
This looks way too runny to be sauce...I can't believe that recipe really called for 1/3 c of olive oil. Gross.
5:51
I am trying the sauce.
5:52
<rinses mouth out over sink and clears throat> I am now googling recipes for white pizza.
5:54
I have sprayed the pizza pan with olive oil and am now spreading the dough. N.O. has urged me, urgently, to put flour on my hands and on the dough. N.O. has also given me a spreading lesson, which apparently is very different than kneading. It is not spreading particularly well.
I am biting my lips. This is possibly salvageable, but it needs experienced hands.
5:56
I will try more flour.
5:57
"Stop laughing."
Raw footage
5:59
"Oh, PLEASE, can't I help you?!?" I'm now googling how to spread pizza dough on the pan. Oh wait! Rolling pin!
6:00
I have remembered that we own a rolling pin. I am rolling out the dough. N.O. has stopped laughing so hard that she is crying. True. My pizza dough is in the shape of Europe.
6:01
I'm having much better success with the rolling pin and will now finesse the edges by hand.
6:02
I declare this good enough. I can't remember where I immediately refrigerated the garlic. I know I'm the one what put this away like five minutes ago (actually, it was twenty). This pizza is in danger of being extremely garlicky once again.
6:03
I have now coated the dough with garlic oil "to taste". I have re-refrigerated the minced garlic immediately.
6:04
I am coating the pizza with mozzarella cheese. I am hoping that copious amounts of cheese covers a multitude of sins. I am asking N.O. if she thinks that's enough cheese. She does.
6:06
In a moment of culinary inspiration, I am shredding a bit of parmesan cheese on top...parmesan cheese is moldy. I'm throwing it out.
6:06
I am baking the pizza for 8 minutes at 525 degrees, <blast of oven air> which is really hot. Whew!
6:07
I'm cleaning up, which involves putting the bread machine and spices away. And flushing the sauce down the toilet.
6:08
I forgot that the spoon had slipped into the sauce container. I am now washing my hands very thoroughly. Also, I'm very glad that I cleaned the toilet earlier today.
6:14
The timer has rung! <opens oven> Whoa. It's ready. The moment is come...
CODA:
Neutral Observer here. After reading and hearing the numerous past tales of pizza-making woe, I agreed to witness this attempt, and was happy to serve as stenographer during some of the stickier moments. I learned a few things today, which I shall now succinctly summarize:
1. I thought that anybody could cook or bake just by following a recipe. I don't think this anymore. Some kind of additional technique is involved at just about every step, which I guess some people have more naturally than others.
2. The chef here was up against some pretty weighty obstacles, including not having enough bread flour (a key component that has compromised some of my bread machine dough in the past), and this, quite honestly, crappy sauce recipe. But how could he have known that close to 2 cups of liquid added to 6 oz of tomato paste is never going to yield anything more than herbal soup?
3. The chef tries really hard. None of this was exaggerated or stretched for comedic effect.
4. In spite of the dough-stretching and "coating" exercises, the pizza actually tasted pretty good. The dough had a nice texture and the cheese melted evenly over the top. There were a few bites that were just about all garlic, but these could be overlooked for the sake of what can easily be called the greatest triumph of the chef's endeavors. He shall be kissed tonight (if he desires) for his efforts and improvement.
Now! On to the dishes!
Saturday, July 12, 2014
Once More Into the Breach
A little tyrant stirs within his quarters dark
The tune of piping voice my ear doth hark
He makes him ready out to traipse unto the lawn
And ask a dozen times whither the tractor's gone
My hours three of leisure have been quickly spent
When down I laid him quickly to my room I hent
And read a book with head upon a pillow soft
Which to my liking would I do so ever oft
This morning he had stormclouds gathered on his brow
And never did we see such congress of his wrath till now
When forth he let high shrieks and pounded tiny fist
Because we would not give him chocolate cake he wist
We took him to a company of gentle folk
And there we would in manners pleasing stayed and spoke
On matters sundry and made pleasant mirth
Except the tyrant raging for to split the earth
We took him high to fragrant slopes we know
Upon Mt. Wegmans where he list to go
And though an off'ring cookie we did make
He still would not forgive his lacking chocolate cake
And now from blessed naptime would he waking rise
That time thrice bless'd to parents for to prize
And I must suffer wrath of malcontented Bear
Who knows there's chocolate cake and knows exactly where
The tune of piping voice my ear doth hark
He makes him ready out to traipse unto the lawn
And ask a dozen times whither the tractor's gone
My hours three of leisure have been quickly spent
When down I laid him quickly to my room I hent
And read a book with head upon a pillow soft
Which to my liking would I do so ever oft
This morning he had stormclouds gathered on his brow
And never did we see such congress of his wrath till now
When forth he let high shrieks and pounded tiny fist
Because we would not give him chocolate cake he wist
We took him to a company of gentle folk
And there we would in manners pleasing stayed and spoke
On matters sundry and made pleasant mirth
Except the tyrant raging for to split the earth
We took him high to fragrant slopes we know
Upon Mt. Wegmans where he list to go
And though an off'ring cookie we did make
He still would not forgive his lacking chocolate cake
And now from blessed naptime would he waking rise
That time thrice bless'd to parents for to prize
And I must suffer wrath of malcontented Bear
Who knows there's chocolate cake and knows exactly where
Friday, July 11, 2014
At the Zoo
"What would you think about taking James to the zoo?"
J's father asked me this on Monday morning as I sat in my pajamas in their kitchen. To my own surprise, I thought it was a great idea. Normally when we visit her parents in Pennsylvania it's over some three day weekend or school break, and I've been performing like some sort of gigging and teaching ping-pong ball for the past two months. We look forward to our Pennsylvania time like a retreat to some remote hideaway where we can sleep in, take naps, stay in our pajamas, and hand off childcare duties. After a month of driving through snowstorms at midnight on the way back from Christmas run-out shows or the week after an quintuple service morning on Easter, all we want to do is REST.
This is why I was sort of pleasantly surprised when I was able to tell J's dad that "Yes, I think that's a great idea!" He is a great outdoors-man and one of my favorite people, so his idea of relaxing is to climb every single mountain on the east coast while building log cabins from scratch on top of poisonous snake-pits. And then maybe a trip to the museum in the afternoon.
I actually have a great time whenever we go climbing or hiking together, but sometimes when I've been looking forward to a couple days off all month it's hard to work up any excitement about changing out of my pajamas. I asked J what she thought, and she also thought it was a great idea. We'd tried to take James to our local zoo a few times before, but something (usually weather) had always gotten in the way. Putting on our most excited parent faces we told James the big news:
"James, guess what? We're going to make a trip to the ZOO tomorrow!"
He didn't look that impressed.
"There will be giraffes! And elephants and monkeys?"
"I wanna see a giraffe."
"You will! And guess what? We're going to ride a train to get there!"
"Oh! I wanna ride Thomas the train."
"Well, I don't think it's going to be Thomas. We're going to ride the Metro."
"Okay, I wanna ride Percy."
The plan was to visit the National Zoo in Washington, DC. Between the chance for a train ride and the free admission, it was the decided winner. Uncle Tim (who James has decided ought to be called Aunt Tim, refusing all dissuasion) came with us, and we set out early in the morning. James asked us multiple times "Where the zoo be?" When we pulled into a local gas station in a small town in Maryland he clapped his hands in excitement and declared. "Yay, it's the zoo!!!" He was wrong, but it was good to know he was getting excited.
I worried that we'd all be in for a cranky day when he threw a temper tantrum about being put in his stroller ("I NEED GET OUT OF THIS STWOOOLER!") as we walked to the Metro station, but after a good cry and a ride up the escalator he settled down again. A few minutes later we were on the platform and boarding the red line. I asked him if he'd like to sit on my lap and look out the window, but he informed me that he needed to stay in his stroller.
We received a running commentary on everything the train did for the next half hour--train is going, train is stopped, doors are opening, doors are gonna close, doors are closed, train is gonna go, train is going--and eventually arrived at the zoo stop.
Dad humored J and I for a Starbucks/bathroom stop, and a barista got smitten with James and gave him a cup filled with chocolate whipped cream. We then finally set out INTO THE ZOO, and the hot sun beat down on us as we walked the opening pavement. (This is not the best way to drink a cup of hot coffee.) We looked for kiosks, and James smeared whipped cream on his face.
Our first animal of the day was a cheetah, but it was hiding in a shaded corner of its pen, and I don't think James ever saw it. I took him out of his stroller so he could get a better look, and he promptly wiggled down. "Daddy, I found a stick!"
Good to know we came all the way to the National Zoo to find a North American Common Stick.
"I'm gonna carry my stick. I'm gonna tap for maple syrup."
He did see a zebra (mildly interesting) but the real magic hit when we saw the elephants. He was transfixed, as I think we all were. They are such graceful animals...how can something that big be that elegant in its movements and carriage? We stayed there awhile (it was air-conditioned) and then made our way to the small mammals, and the monkeys. We saw a placard about how dragonflies mate (see sweetie, that's not pervy, it's NATURE) looked at some enormous tortoises, watched seals swim by in an underwater display, saw some highly evil and shiver-producing venomous snakes, and even saw a couple of bears. There were no giraffes. James didn't mind.
After about an hour an a half he was completely cooked. The heat was oppressive and the zoo got more crowded as the day went on. We were very fortunate to have the stroller. He perked up a bit when we got back on the train (he got his own seat this time) and as we drove back we made an ice cream stop and then all fell asleep.
"How was the zoo?" asked Grandma when we finally arrived back.
"I rode the train!"
"What animals did you see?"
"I had my own seat on my train!"
"Did you see a giraffe?"
"I wanna go back to the TRAIN station!"
And that was how we saw the North American Common Metro Train at the National Zoo.
J's father asked me this on Monday morning as I sat in my pajamas in their kitchen. To my own surprise, I thought it was a great idea. Normally when we visit her parents in Pennsylvania it's over some three day weekend or school break, and I've been performing like some sort of gigging and teaching ping-pong ball for the past two months. We look forward to our Pennsylvania time like a retreat to some remote hideaway where we can sleep in, take naps, stay in our pajamas, and hand off childcare duties. After a month of driving through snowstorms at midnight on the way back from Christmas run-out shows or the week after an quintuple service morning on Easter, all we want to do is REST.
This is why I was sort of pleasantly surprised when I was able to tell J's dad that "Yes, I think that's a great idea!" He is a great outdoors-man and one of my favorite people, so his idea of relaxing is to climb every single mountain on the east coast while building log cabins from scratch on top of poisonous snake-pits. And then maybe a trip to the museum in the afternoon.
I actually have a great time whenever we go climbing or hiking together, but sometimes when I've been looking forward to a couple days off all month it's hard to work up any excitement about changing out of my pajamas. I asked J what she thought, and she also thought it was a great idea. We'd tried to take James to our local zoo a few times before, but something (usually weather) had always gotten in the way. Putting on our most excited parent faces we told James the big news:
"James, guess what? We're going to make a trip to the ZOO tomorrow!"
He didn't look that impressed.
"There will be giraffes! And elephants and monkeys?"
"I wanna see a giraffe."
"You will! And guess what? We're going to ride a train to get there!"
"Oh! I wanna ride Thomas the train."
"Well, I don't think it's going to be Thomas. We're going to ride the Metro."
"Okay, I wanna ride Percy."
The plan was to visit the National Zoo in Washington, DC. Between the chance for a train ride and the free admission, it was the decided winner. Uncle Tim (who James has decided ought to be called Aunt Tim, refusing all dissuasion) came with us, and we set out early in the morning. James asked us multiple times "Where the zoo be?" When we pulled into a local gas station in a small town in Maryland he clapped his hands in excitement and declared. "Yay, it's the zoo!!!" He was wrong, but it was good to know he was getting excited.
I worried that we'd all be in for a cranky day when he threw a temper tantrum about being put in his stroller ("I NEED GET OUT OF THIS STWOOOLER!") as we walked to the Metro station, but after a good cry and a ride up the escalator he settled down again. A few minutes later we were on the platform and boarding the red line. I asked him if he'd like to sit on my lap and look out the window, but he informed me that he needed to stay in his stroller.
We received a running commentary on everything the train did for the next half hour--train is going, train is stopped, doors are opening, doors are gonna close, doors are closed, train is gonna go, train is going--and eventually arrived at the zoo stop.
Dad humored J and I for a Starbucks/bathroom stop, and a barista got smitten with James and gave him a cup filled with chocolate whipped cream. We then finally set out INTO THE ZOO, and the hot sun beat down on us as we walked the opening pavement. (This is not the best way to drink a cup of hot coffee.) We looked for kiosks, and James smeared whipped cream on his face.
Our first animal of the day was a cheetah, but it was hiding in a shaded corner of its pen, and I don't think James ever saw it. I took him out of his stroller so he could get a better look, and he promptly wiggled down. "Daddy, I found a stick!"
Good to know we came all the way to the National Zoo to find a North American Common Stick.
"I'm gonna carry my stick. I'm gonna tap for maple syrup."
He did see a zebra (mildly interesting) but the real magic hit when we saw the elephants. He was transfixed, as I think we all were. They are such graceful animals...how can something that big be that elegant in its movements and carriage? We stayed there awhile (it was air-conditioned) and then made our way to the small mammals, and the monkeys. We saw a placard about how dragonflies mate (see sweetie, that's not pervy, it's NATURE) looked at some enormous tortoises, watched seals swim by in an underwater display, saw some highly evil and shiver-producing venomous snakes, and even saw a couple of bears. There were no giraffes. James didn't mind.
After about an hour an a half he was completely cooked. The heat was oppressive and the zoo got more crowded as the day went on. We were very fortunate to have the stroller. He perked up a bit when we got back on the train (he got his own seat this time) and as we drove back we made an ice cream stop and then all fell asleep.
"How was the zoo?" asked Grandma when we finally arrived back.
"I rode the train!"
"What animals did you see?"
"I had my own seat on my train!"
"Did you see a giraffe?"
"I wanna go back to the TRAIN station!"
And that was how we saw the North American Common Metro Train at the National Zoo.
Wednesday, July 9, 2014
Road Trip
It was a painfully long trip to Pennsylvania.
Over the years we've become quite efficient in our travels to and from the great state of Pennsylvania--or, as I refer to it, a barren wasteland almost completely devoid of civilization as measured by Wegmans locations (J gets a kick out of this every time)--and we can count on exactly how long it will take us to make the trip. We know every landmark--the I-86 split at Corning, the big bridge over the Tioga reservoir, Mansfield (our usual lunch stop), Williamsport, Lewisburg, Selinsgrove, The Nipple, and the 581 shortcut. We know where the speed zones are, especially the nasty traps they have set about Littlestown. We are professional Route 15 drivers, which is why last Sunday was so frustrating.
The day didn't start off particularly well. I tried to download an update to my phone before church, and my whole phone died. I needed the ancient laptop to restore everything, and that wouldn't turn on, so we ended up leaving without a functional iPhone. Now I know that we made this trip for years without an iPhone of any sort, but we've come to be quite dependent on that phone. We use my phone to check traffic patterns, to stream music through the car stereo (and by music I mean "Imperial March on a continuous loop lest James freak out") to look up true and scientific information on Wikipedia thereby validating my correct opinions on whatever topic we are having a Very Friendly Marital Discussion, and of course to provide the non-driving parent (J) with access to facebook.
So we started out, phoneless, practically travelling by covered wagon. We weren't completely devoid of luxuries, though. We were driving in our mostly new Toyota Yaris, which comes with the notable features of 1) Air Conditioning and 2) not overheating whenever you idle at a light for more than 90 seconds. As it turned out, both of these features would be very important for getting through our day.
I should also note, before I begin whining in earnest, that James was FANTASTIC. In what turned out to be an 8 hour car trip he never complained once. He was chatty and cheerful, and was completely content to banter with Mommy and watch episodes of Curious George on her iPad.
Everything went pretty smoothly until Williamsport. We gassed up in Lawrenceville, and didn't stop again until we found a Dunkin Donuts. James had soaked through all his clothes, so we had to change him in a sleazy bathroom. He was cooperative, and I ordered a coffee and then asked him what he wanted. "I wanna TIMBIT." "They don't have timbits here. They have donut holes." "I wanna BLACK timbit." The waitress thought he was cute and gave him two donut holes. He was pretty happy. On our way out of Williamsport we ascended the mountain and ran into a bit of slow traffic. The road had been shut down to one lane in this spot as long as we could remember, so we didn't expect it would be a long delay.
How wrong we were.
We inched along the hot pavement, going a few feet at 5 miles an hour and then stopping again. Some traffic would move ahead of us, and space would open up. I'd accelerate to 10 or 15 miles an hour only to push the brakes harder when the truck in front of us stopped. We heard tractor trailers groaning as they stopped and then strained up the hill again.
Minutes passed by. Half-hours turned by. The half-hours turned to hours and days and weeks. The seasons came and went, and still we were trapped in an eternal traffic jam between Williamsport and Selinsgrove.
Okay, it wasn't that bad, but it felt pretty miserable. We passed countless overheated cars steaming by the side of the road, we heard horns honking in frustration, and every time we'd come to a brief two lane stretch our hopes would be dashed again when we bottlenecked back to a single lane several hundred feet later. There was never any accident that we spotted. As far as we can tell it was just two hours of heavy congestion exacerbated by the inability of trucks to get up the inclines under stop/start conditions.
J and I passed the time by coming up with a list of our favorite 99 things that we'd either bought, built or acquired. My iPhone, unsurprisingly, was pretty near the top of the list. Also, my french press, winter coat, the mailbox holder, her stereo dock, and many other worldly possessions. Perhaps the Lord was smiting us for being so materialistic. At one point her iPad (also on the list) made a notification sound (how's that possible? we have no internet...) and an app told her that she'd entered a new week of pregnancy.
"WE'VE BEEN IN THIS CAR FOREVER!!!!"
We eventually called her Dad and got Google's opinion on the traffic jam. Yes, it would clear up after we got through Selinsgrove. No, there were no alternate routes available to us from our position.
The southern stretch from Selinsgrove to Marysville is usually one of the "long parts" of the trip for us. There's about 45 minutes with no significant landmarks and without particularly notable scenery. This time around we blessed the highway and the hamlets as we whizzed along at 65 miles an hour. How glorious to be travelling at the speed limit again!
We passed through Harrisburg and began dreaming of the picnic that would be laid out for us when we arrived. We'd originally hoped to make it before 5:00, but now it looked like we'd be more than two hours late. Once J called her mother to let her know where we were she predicted that we could make it "by 7:11." We sped down the final stretch of Route 15 and got ready to make our exit onto Baltimore Street.
And then, 7 miles away, we hit another traffic jam.
We inched along for about two exits and then managed to get her Dad on the phone again. We got off the highway and managed to find our way around the northern part of Littlestown with his help, and finally made it to the Davis home about 7:30.
We have so much to be thankful for. James was great, the car was great. And GK Chesterton says that an inconvenience is only an adventure wrongly considered.
POSTSCRIPT
We had another adventure today in the form of the trip back North. It took much longer than our usual 5.5 hours, but by no one's choice but our own. We stopped at Starbucks and got some really good coffee drinks. (The baby did a tap dance inside of J.) We had a leisurely dinner stop in Mansfield. James took a great nap and was generally angelic. And now we are home safe.
Over the years we've become quite efficient in our travels to and from the great state of Pennsylvania--or, as I refer to it, a barren wasteland almost completely devoid of civilization as measured by Wegmans locations (J gets a kick out of this every time)--and we can count on exactly how long it will take us to make the trip. We know every landmark--the I-86 split at Corning, the big bridge over the Tioga reservoir, Mansfield (our usual lunch stop), Williamsport, Lewisburg, Selinsgrove, The Nipple, and the 581 shortcut. We know where the speed zones are, especially the nasty traps they have set about Littlestown. We are professional Route 15 drivers, which is why last Sunday was so frustrating.
The day didn't start off particularly well. I tried to download an update to my phone before church, and my whole phone died. I needed the ancient laptop to restore everything, and that wouldn't turn on, so we ended up leaving without a functional iPhone. Now I know that we made this trip for years without an iPhone of any sort, but we've come to be quite dependent on that phone. We use my phone to check traffic patterns, to stream music through the car stereo (and by music I mean "Imperial March on a continuous loop lest James freak out") to look up true and scientific information on Wikipedia thereby validating my correct opinions on whatever topic we are having a Very Friendly Marital Discussion, and of course to provide the non-driving parent (J) with access to facebook.
So we started out, phoneless, practically travelling by covered wagon. We weren't completely devoid of luxuries, though. We were driving in our mostly new Toyota Yaris, which comes with the notable features of 1) Air Conditioning and 2) not overheating whenever you idle at a light for more than 90 seconds. As it turned out, both of these features would be very important for getting through our day.
I should also note, before I begin whining in earnest, that James was FANTASTIC. In what turned out to be an 8 hour car trip he never complained once. He was chatty and cheerful, and was completely content to banter with Mommy and watch episodes of Curious George on her iPad.
Everything went pretty smoothly until Williamsport. We gassed up in Lawrenceville, and didn't stop again until we found a Dunkin Donuts. James had soaked through all his clothes, so we had to change him in a sleazy bathroom. He was cooperative, and I ordered a coffee and then asked him what he wanted. "I wanna TIMBIT." "They don't have timbits here. They have donut holes." "I wanna BLACK timbit." The waitress thought he was cute and gave him two donut holes. He was pretty happy. On our way out of Williamsport we ascended the mountain and ran into a bit of slow traffic. The road had been shut down to one lane in this spot as long as we could remember, so we didn't expect it would be a long delay.
How wrong we were.
We inched along the hot pavement, going a few feet at 5 miles an hour and then stopping again. Some traffic would move ahead of us, and space would open up. I'd accelerate to 10 or 15 miles an hour only to push the brakes harder when the truck in front of us stopped. We heard tractor trailers groaning as they stopped and then strained up the hill again.
Minutes passed by. Half-hours turned by. The half-hours turned to hours and days and weeks. The seasons came and went, and still we were trapped in an eternal traffic jam between Williamsport and Selinsgrove.
Okay, it wasn't that bad, but it felt pretty miserable. We passed countless overheated cars steaming by the side of the road, we heard horns honking in frustration, and every time we'd come to a brief two lane stretch our hopes would be dashed again when we bottlenecked back to a single lane several hundred feet later. There was never any accident that we spotted. As far as we can tell it was just two hours of heavy congestion exacerbated by the inability of trucks to get up the inclines under stop/start conditions.
J and I passed the time by coming up with a list of our favorite 99 things that we'd either bought, built or acquired. My iPhone, unsurprisingly, was pretty near the top of the list. Also, my french press, winter coat, the mailbox holder, her stereo dock, and many other worldly possessions. Perhaps the Lord was smiting us for being so materialistic. At one point her iPad (also on the list) made a notification sound (how's that possible? we have no internet...) and an app told her that she'd entered a new week of pregnancy.
"WE'VE BEEN IN THIS CAR FOREVER!!!!"
We eventually called her Dad and got Google's opinion on the traffic jam. Yes, it would clear up after we got through Selinsgrove. No, there were no alternate routes available to us from our position.
The southern stretch from Selinsgrove to Marysville is usually one of the "long parts" of the trip for us. There's about 45 minutes with no significant landmarks and without particularly notable scenery. This time around we blessed the highway and the hamlets as we whizzed along at 65 miles an hour. How glorious to be travelling at the speed limit again!
We passed through Harrisburg and began dreaming of the picnic that would be laid out for us when we arrived. We'd originally hoped to make it before 5:00, but now it looked like we'd be more than two hours late. Once J called her mother to let her know where we were she predicted that we could make it "by 7:11." We sped down the final stretch of Route 15 and got ready to make our exit onto Baltimore Street.
And then, 7 miles away, we hit another traffic jam.
We inched along for about two exits and then managed to get her Dad on the phone again. We got off the highway and managed to find our way around the northern part of Littlestown with his help, and finally made it to the Davis home about 7:30.
We have so much to be thankful for. James was great, the car was great. And GK Chesterton says that an inconvenience is only an adventure wrongly considered.
POSTSCRIPT
We had another adventure today in the form of the trip back North. It took much longer than our usual 5.5 hours, but by no one's choice but our own. We stopped at Starbucks and got some really good coffee drinks. (The baby did a tap dance inside of J.) We had a leisurely dinner stop in Mansfield. James took a great nap and was generally angelic. And now we are home safe.
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