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quislibetLast night I worked at the Athenaeum for a bit and tried to tune out the writers' workshop, which almost never works. Before it got going I chatted with one regular, a woman of about 40 who writes Napoleonic-era naval stories. As I had seen some of the writers at the Peter Murphy show and thus talked to them about it previously, she asked if I had seen the "Holy Smoke" tour. I hadn't. She seemed disappointed, as she has not been able to find many witnesses to the fact that Peter pulled her up on stage and sang a song to her.
Alas for that.
I later discovered at bedtime that the upstairs of our apartment had managed during the evening to become well supplied with little spiderlings. I slept poorly, with uncomfortable flashbacks to a childhood incident involving the presence of scores of spider hatchlings on the ceiling, sleeping in a top bunk, and suffering lots of itchy bites.
This morning I went to the drivers' class. I grow tired of the trio of teen lads who sit in the corner behind me (we do not, in fact, have assigned seats, but it seems to work out that way. I myself choose to sit near the restroom because I am elderly). I am nearly convinced that one of the boys suffers from something like Tourette's Syndrome, or just wishes he does, as he keeps a staccato shouted commentary going throughout the three-hour course each day.
We watched, of course, more tacky films from, at the latest, the early 90s. One was a collection of "The World's Worst Drivers" caught on police video, aired on TLC at some point ca. 1995 or so, to judge from the dates on most of the videos. One man so immortalized had run out of room in his trunk while packing camping equipment and so packed the rest under his hood, including the full canister of propane.
There was a fire.
Continuing this:
On the morning of the 5th we drove to Lewiston for squeaky cheese and French-Canadian baked goods. Alas, "Say Cheese!", the source of fresh cheddar cheese curds and (less tastily) poutine (cheese and gravy fries), had shut down as a restaurant and are open only three days a week now for cheese. The 5th wasn't one of them. We decided to come back on Sunday if we had a chance. A trip to Grant's bakery followed for a second breakfast course and the purchase of a pork pie for later. Then we discovered that Labadie's bakery, the Auburn/Lewiston area's prime source of whoopie pies, was not on the street we thought it was on -- not a big deal, unless you've put it in a book coming out in a couple of months. (Fortunately there was still time to correct it, you'll be relieved to hear.)
Our food tourism adventure took us next to Sabbatus for a stop at Jillson's farmstand for maple taffy and a block of maple sugar (for making French-Canadian sugar pie, someday), then to Lisbon Falls to the Kennebec Fruit Co., a corner store specializing in all things Moxie. The owner is also the organizer of the yearly Moxie Festival, but alas, that's next weekend, and we won't be in attendance. After unexpectedly spending some money in a nearby blanket factory store (which would have been unthinkable in the heat of the day before). (Incidentally, the blanket factory is believed by some to be the successor to Area 51.)
It was at about this point that we realized that our Labadie's whoopie pies had melted somewhat in the heat of the car.
After we left Lisbon Falls we randomly chose a nearby peninsula to explore, going down through Phippsburg to a fairly cool fort from the Civil War era. It's apparently also the site of an English colony established a few years before Plymouth, although we didn't know that at the time. We walked along the adjoining beach and harvested a few mussels, because we could.
The next peninsula over took us to the apparently rather dull Boothbay Harbor, where we ate decent lobster and then walked around discovering the local dullness. We returned to camp for mussels and French-Canadian pork pie. And, of course, snowpeas, and the most painful salad ever (we had brought peppery greens like arugula and so forth but had forgotten the basic lettuce). Alas, the mussels were too gritty to eat enjoyably, and so we didn't eat more than one each, but as we were only out a few minutes' harvesting time, half a cup of white wine, and a clove of garlic, we counted it a theoretical success. The pork pie was tasty but, naturally, could not match J's father's family recipe.
Sadly, by that night we had acquired neighbors (why are state park campsites often so close together?) in the form of a Vermont couple. The woman spent most of her time bonding with their dog, while the man Quested For Fire, apparently on a mission to discover the wettest, greenest wood he could find, including freshly ripped branches, for making a smokey bonfire. The couple did not seem otherwise to interact with one another, and we looked upon them sadly as we played a rousing game of The Minister's Cat and toasted marshmallows: never let it be said that J. and I do not know how to par-tay.
Alas for that.
I later discovered at bedtime that the upstairs of our apartment had managed during the evening to become well supplied with little spiderlings. I slept poorly, with uncomfortable flashbacks to a childhood incident involving the presence of scores of spider hatchlings on the ceiling, sleeping in a top bunk, and suffering lots of itchy bites.
This morning I went to the drivers' class. I grow tired of the trio of teen lads who sit in the corner behind me (we do not, in fact, have assigned seats, but it seems to work out that way. I myself choose to sit near the restroom because I am elderly). I am nearly convinced that one of the boys suffers from something like Tourette's Syndrome, or just wishes he does, as he keeps a staccato shouted commentary going throughout the three-hour course each day.
We watched, of course, more tacky films from, at the latest, the early 90s. One was a collection of "The World's Worst Drivers" caught on police video, aired on TLC at some point ca. 1995 or so, to judge from the dates on most of the videos. One man so immortalized had run out of room in his trunk while packing camping equipment and so packed the rest under his hood, including the full canister of propane.
There was a fire.
Continuing this:
On the morning of the 5th we drove to Lewiston for squeaky cheese and French-Canadian baked goods. Alas, "Say Cheese!", the source of fresh cheddar cheese curds and (less tastily) poutine (cheese and gravy fries), had shut down as a restaurant and are open only three days a week now for cheese. The 5th wasn't one of them. We decided to come back on Sunday if we had a chance. A trip to Grant's bakery followed for a second breakfast course and the purchase of a pork pie for later. Then we discovered that Labadie's bakery, the Auburn/Lewiston area's prime source of whoopie pies, was not on the street we thought it was on -- not a big deal, unless you've put it in a book coming out in a couple of months. (Fortunately there was still time to correct it, you'll be relieved to hear.)
Our food tourism adventure took us next to Sabbatus for a stop at Jillson's farmstand for maple taffy and a block of maple sugar (for making French-Canadian sugar pie, someday), then to Lisbon Falls to the Kennebec Fruit Co., a corner store specializing in all things Moxie. The owner is also the organizer of the yearly Moxie Festival, but alas, that's next weekend, and we won't be in attendance. After unexpectedly spending some money in a nearby blanket factory store (which would have been unthinkable in the heat of the day before). (Incidentally, the blanket factory is believed by some to be the successor to Area 51.)
It was at about this point that we realized that our Labadie's whoopie pies had melted somewhat in the heat of the car.
After we left Lisbon Falls we randomly chose a nearby peninsula to explore, going down through Phippsburg to a fairly cool fort from the Civil War era. It's apparently also the site of an English colony established a few years before Plymouth, although we didn't know that at the time. We walked along the adjoining beach and harvested a few mussels, because we could.
The next peninsula over took us to the apparently rather dull Boothbay Harbor, where we ate decent lobster and then walked around discovering the local dullness. We returned to camp for mussels and French-Canadian pork pie. And, of course, snowpeas, and the most painful salad ever (we had brought peppery greens like arugula and so forth but had forgotten the basic lettuce). Alas, the mussels were too gritty to eat enjoyably, and so we didn't eat more than one each, but as we were only out a few minutes' harvesting time, half a cup of white wine, and a clove of garlic, we counted it a theoretical success. The pork pie was tasty but, naturally, could not match J's father's family recipe.
Sadly, by that night we had acquired neighbors (why are state park campsites often so close together?) in the form of a Vermont couple. The woman spent most of her time bonding with their dog, while the man Quested For Fire, apparently on a mission to discover the wettest, greenest wood he could find, including freshly ripped branches, for making a smokey bonfire. The couple did not seem otherwise to interact with one another, and we looked upon them sadly as we played a rousing game of The Minister's Cat and toasted marshmallows: never let it be said that J. and I do not know how to par-tay.
