We did not have our usual Saturday night. And it didn't even feel like we were in Charleston. though sitting here Sunday morning, I am still smiling at the sweetness (literally and figuratively) of the evening.
Usually, we go out to a nice restaurant.
I love going to restaurants. And since moving here over a month ago (it seems so much longer, in the best sense of the thought!), we have been trying all the 'in' places to go. Prior to moving here, we had already fallen in love with Muse, McCrady's, 39 rue de Jean, Mercanto and, of course, the alter-of-the-coconut Cake, the Peninsula Grill....where we are now regulars (at 10pm for just the cake and wine, if anyone is worried about our budget!) We now have our fav bartender, Morgan, and have befriended the new and so- nice Manager/Somolier, Jacob. A few new favs have been addedas well: the Wild Olive, East Bay Meeting Inn, Monza's, Pane et Vino...but I digress.
We didn't have plans for last night. Partly because we are trying a new restaurant Monday night (Restaurant Fish, which has a half-price wine list on Mondays) and partly because we did go out Friday night and partly because I had seen banners for the last two weeks announcing the Greek festival and I am a major lover of the Gyro!!
So off we went at around 645pm, with the sun softening a bit to a manageable 93 degrees. And after paying a nominal entrance fee for the 40th ever Greek Festival at the imposing Greek Orthodox Church, we entered a big tented yard that completely reminded me of New Jersey and My Big Fat Greek Wedding! Multiple generational families, with kids running around, grandmothers stuffing lamb onto plates and awkward teenagers clustered by gender eyeing each other....loud greek music, dancing long-skirted, babushka-clad women, and yelps of 'oopa' from all around,> It was wild and made me feel totally transported from the southern south to an ethnic carnival that oozed love and family. It was wonderful!
It was clear that this was not a festival that had rides or clothing boothes. or anything other than food. Greek food. And that was fine with me! There were multiple kiosks around the large square, each offering a variation on the greek cuisine....first, there were greek pastries (why the person responsible for the schematic thought pastries should be first was beyond me, but I am not greek....), then greek wines, american sodas, greek gyros, greek souvlaki, greek salads, greek rice, and then, greek potatoes. Ummm, I thought, I don't know what that is...let's start there....
So I joined a very small line to inquire, as Bill stopped at the american soda stand to snag two diet cokes (both for him), and was soon before a smiling face of a young greek man who lit up when I asked him what greek potatoes were. "Oh, we call them elephant ears." Of course you do I thought and stared back in the universal way of saying...'yes, and what the heck are they?, but the non verbal makes it sound friendlier...and he then went into a 4 minute (no exaggeration) explanation, which my brain heard as potato, slice, vetical, fried, spiced, delicious.....so I did what any of you would have done, "perfect I said, we will definintely have an order of that." As I said that, I was vaguely aware that the line behind me had grown substantially but I justified the time I was taking because, well one, I am not greek, and two, I did order it after all!
My sweet man's smile didn't diminish when he looked at me and said: "Oh no...we are not serving them tonight...they take too long and the crowds are too big." At this point Bill had joined me and was beginning to get a pained expression that meant he was either going to have a heat stroke or I should hurry thin along because the people behind me were about to pounce. So I didn't comment, didn't ask why he just didn't said that 6 minutes ago....and said instead in a clear and succinct voice: Two gyros please, one chicken, one lamb.
The gyro was good, not great. The meat was tender, just not hot. The tomatoes were juicy, though I only got two small diced pieces and could have used 36. The tzaziki was wonderful -- full of garlic and had the tang you want. Bill picked at his and in 3 minutes, was ready to leave. I surveyed the scene, knowing I wouldn't be back for their 41st festival, and wished I had the nerve to tell him I wanted another gyro....but opted for "Where should we go for dessert?"
Most importantly, I could tell he was game. Sometimes he looks at me and I know he thinks 'we' have eaten enough....but not tonight. Wisely, he said: "Where would you like to go?" Perfect I thought....I think it is time we find out once and for all if this old-fashioned and just-plain-old looking ice cream stand that we'd been passing over and over was good, great or a deep disappointment. Bill, somewhat reluctantly, but good-naturedly, agreed.
On our 4 minute drive there, I said I thought we needed some kind of code....some easily understood expression of either "a new wonderous find vs a never-to-recommend encounter. " And having been married almost 20 years, where thelaw of short-hand language has kicked in, we quickly agreed that ours would be: "Is it OMG or is it Ludan?"
I am confident OMG is completely understood as the good, but why Ludan as the bad...A sidebar is definitely needed to introduce you to Ludan.
Ludan is a town in France where Bill and I were promised (by a really really Fench neigbor) would have amzing antiques. So, on a brief trip to Paris, we took a day, and a train, and a rental car --- in search of killer French antiques. It took forever to get there and when we arrived in the ancient city 4+ hours after leaving Paris, it was noon-ish (which proves how early we lad to leave!). The town looked like an old French villiage, but it also looked like it had been abandoned.
Seriously, at best I thought it had been evacuated; at worst, I feared a nuclear or Mars attack that left no people, animals or presence of life. (This was pre-9/11, so excuse the non-terroist reference!)
After driving through and glancing worriedly at each other, we finally spotted a sign of life. "Up there" I beseached Bill.....who then drove the little, shabby rental car toward a small alley way....there we saw a lone man, openning a back seat car door and tossing something in....and as we got closer, we saw it was a baguette and his car was idling outside a bakery where, seemingly, all the people of Loudan were waiting for their fresh baguettes (and I surmised that all the other Loudan people were at home waiting for their bread for lunch!
We then found the shop where our French French neighbor had promised fantastic antiques and saw a hand-written sign on the door saying they would re-open at 3pm. 3pm I shrieked!!! URGH>>>>and I thought much worse.
Loudanites (or is Loudanians??) must eat at home, because we could not find a restaurant....and instead, headed back to the bakery. I thought we could at least eat their bread as we waited. Of course, as the day was going, that was not meant to be....they were out of baguettes, and out of almost everything....except for a few pathetc rolls, which I gratefully grabbed....and some butter. When Bill asked if they had CocaCola light, they looked at him like he had just said a dirty word, so we sat in the yucky rental, eating rolls that weren't what I thought even bad French bakeries made and finally, finally 3pm rolled around and the antique shop openned. Or, I should be accurate and say 3:15pm.
The shopkeeper didn't seem rushed. He didn't seem impressed that we had come all the way from Paris to see him. AND HE HAD NO DECENT FURNITURE. I was dumbstruck as I walked around his tiny shop, over and over again, convinced we were missing something. In nine minutes we were back in that ____ car, retracing our steps. We didn't speak for a while. It wasn't Bill's fault I kept trying to tell myself and this adventure some ten years on will be funny I am sure....but it wasnt until we were back in Paris, eating perfecting filet of sole and downing a wonderful white burgundy, that I got my good natured self back. And that is why, when anything is supremely disappointing vs its expectation.....or just bad bad bad....we say, "It is just like Ludan>"
So, with that long sidebar (sorry), we entered the Ye Olde Cafe and Ice Cream Shoppe...did we have a OMG on our hands, or a Loudan. The physical appearnace said Loudan; the employees said Loudan; even the other customers, I am sorry to say, said Loudan.
The Ice Cream screamed OMG!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I had one they called 'banana pudding' and it had amazing swirls of vanilla wafer goodness. It was creamy without being thick; sweet without the cloying. And while I shared my flavor with Bill, I was happy he was smart enough to keep to his coffee mocca chip. Maybe my low moans gave him a clue!
So as we lfinished and walked back to the car, finally happy and happily full, I repeated OMG. Bill nodded. I knew that meant that we would be back. I knew he thought it was full of what he likes to call 'taste memory.'
I wondered if he noticed, as I surely did, that a single scoop was like three scoops anywhere else>>?? Hope not, cuz we are going back real real soon!
sending love from Charleston
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
The Jets & the Mules
For you football-oriented in my life, I am sure you think that this is going to be a story about Charleston's attempt to get into the NFL. Sorry. And I understand if you opt out of reading more, though I will say in my defense that it is a really good tale of fast planes and hybrids....c'mon, give it a chance..
This is a story about what happened when the Blue Angels came to town....and the impact to the mules and the reaction of the birds.
Lets begin with the Blue Angels. They're the Top Gun-type pilots from the Navy and Marine Corps who fly shatteringly loud and beautifully sleek jets so close to each other over cities and harbors that all on the ground end up with the same expression of wonder and fear. Everyone actually ducks, thinking they are coming in way way way too close to the earth!
These red-white&and-blue jets fly so close to each other that your eyes tell your brain there is going to be a collision. Sometimes, a single plane will be swooping over and then turns its nose up so severely that it absolutely looks like a missle. I love our military (and believe that without the politicians and head honchos, they represent the best of the USA) so watching them practice for their weekend show was an absolute thrill. And since the show was going to take place over the harbor, they were, in essence, practicing right over our house! I wish they would have landed and I could have given them a sample of my latest granola recipe!
These brave, talented, and might I add, buff pilots were, at first, the toast of the Charleston newspaper, the Post & Courier. Even the Blue Angels commander had a Charleston connection, having gone to the Citidel military academy here. (For those who don't know, the Citicdel is the West Point of the South....though now that I think of it, people here would probably reverse that and say that West Point is the Citidel of the damn North >>> but I digress.) So lets back to the contorversy that erupted.
I've come to observe, after my short time of living here, that drama is very prominant in the Southern soul. Everything seems to have the potential to get someone mad or call the police or even suggest a controversial, conspiritorial act. In fact, all three seem to happen with regularity and just minimal provocation!
So, I wasn't totally surprised to learn that the town and the Blue Angels were having a bit of a tussle...I just wasn't expecting it to involve the mules!
Yes, mules. Lets focus on the mules for a moment: Why are there mules in Charleston you ask? Turns out, they've been here since pretty much the beginning of Charleston's history (which is, if you can fathom, 1670!!) The mules, or more accurately the mules' owners, take great pride in claiming to be a major reason for Charleston's popularity.. You see, to take a tour of historic Chrleston, you can get on a bus, take a walking tour or hop aboard the most charming of carriages and saunter through the town, being pulled by a mule or two mules or even a horse.
But the mule is the best...he (or she) with the ears the size of a pyramid is the most regal of them all. Remember, a mule is, lets use the trendy word, a hybrid between a girl horse and a boy donkey and they actually get better mileage than either of their parents. Also, and I see this as a big advantage, they are infertile, so you don't have to worry about them getting pregnant. As a parent, I like that!
The South has always loved and used the mule, and resent all the talk about their supposed stubborness. Mule-lovers, and I have now actually talked to a few, say instead that..."mules have a stong sense of self-preservation. If they are overheated, overworked or overused for any reason, they stop, and they will not move.They are just trying to tell you that they are tired. Horses work til they drop dead. Why don't they get criticized for being suicidal."
I love this kind of logic. It is just not refutable. And so, to me now, the mule seems pretty darn smart! So why would they have a problem with Blue Angels? Turns out it was the politicians who couldn't leave things alone!
Whether real or imagined, the Town fathers decided that the odds that the mules would revolt or have heart attacks when the Blue Angels engines roared over head were big.
I think they envisioned the headline the next day of a tourist being thrown from the carriage or the ASPCA sueing Charleston for 'inhumane/inmule treatment'. So they banned all tour carriages using mules banned during the air show. (They banned the horses too, but no one seemed to get all worked up over that!).
Proprieters of mules argued that their mules were mellow as could be and were too cool to be spooked. But nothing could change the minds of the town politicians, whose paranoia about even a single tourist going flying out of the carriage while the other flying was going on, was clearly palpable. (They have their careers to protect after all....don't all Charleston politicians end up in Washington DC>>>???)
So, while the Blue Angels flew, the mules rested in their barns. And though I don't know this personally, I bet they actually liked having a two hour nap on a Saturday and Sunday! Irony rules!
So, the Blue Angels soared overhead. And were amazing......And clearly had power over the mules. But, they didn't have power over three pelicans who kept swooping up after the pilots were circling around....and these three pelicans, also soared, also flew in tight formation and, I swear, one of them made eye contact with me and communicated clearly as if speaking to me: "See human, we can fly too. In fact, we fly better, tighter and have the additional edge of being completely sympatico with the mules of Charleston," Good point I thought.
The Blue Angels are amazing and remind me that Afganistan, and all the 'stan' countries for that matter, don't have a chance against us, but the bird reminded me that nature, mules and birds included, is even more amazing! Here's to Monday when the birds and the mules return to rule Charleston.
sending love from Charleston
This is a story about what happened when the Blue Angels came to town....and the impact to the mules and the reaction of the birds.
Lets begin with the Blue Angels. They're the Top Gun-type pilots from the Navy and Marine Corps who fly shatteringly loud and beautifully sleek jets so close to each other over cities and harbors that all on the ground end up with the same expression of wonder and fear. Everyone actually ducks, thinking they are coming in way way way too close to the earth!
These red-white&and-blue jets fly so close to each other that your eyes tell your brain there is going to be a collision. Sometimes, a single plane will be swooping over and then turns its nose up so severely that it absolutely looks like a missle. I love our military (and believe that without the politicians and head honchos, they represent the best of the USA) so watching them practice for their weekend show was an absolute thrill. And since the show was going to take place over the harbor, they were, in essence, practicing right over our house! I wish they would have landed and I could have given them a sample of my latest granola recipe!
These brave, talented, and might I add, buff pilots were, at first, the toast of the Charleston newspaper, the Post & Courier. Even the Blue Angels commander had a Charleston connection, having gone to the Citidel military academy here. (For those who don't know, the Citicdel is the West Point of the South....though now that I think of it, people here would probably reverse that and say that West Point is the Citidel of the damn North >>> but I digress.) So lets back to the contorversy that erupted.
I've come to observe, after my short time of living here, that drama is very prominant in the Southern soul. Everything seems to have the potential to get someone mad or call the police or even suggest a controversial, conspiritorial act. In fact, all three seem to happen with regularity and just minimal provocation!
So, I wasn't totally surprised to learn that the town and the Blue Angels were having a bit of a tussle...I just wasn't expecting it to involve the mules!
Yes, mules. Lets focus on the mules for a moment: Why are there mules in Charleston you ask? Turns out, they've been here since pretty much the beginning of Charleston's history (which is, if you can fathom, 1670!!) The mules, or more accurately the mules' owners, take great pride in claiming to be a major reason for Charleston's popularity.. You see, to take a tour of historic Chrleston, you can get on a bus, take a walking tour or hop aboard the most charming of carriages and saunter through the town, being pulled by a mule or two mules or even a horse.
But the mule is the best...he (or she) with the ears the size of a pyramid is the most regal of them all. Remember, a mule is, lets use the trendy word, a hybrid between a girl horse and a boy donkey and they actually get better mileage than either of their parents. Also, and I see this as a big advantage, they are infertile, so you don't have to worry about them getting pregnant. As a parent, I like that!
The South has always loved and used the mule, and resent all the talk about their supposed stubborness. Mule-lovers, and I have now actually talked to a few, say instead that..."mules have a stong sense of self-preservation. If they are overheated, overworked or overused for any reason, they stop, and they will not move.They are just trying to tell you that they are tired. Horses work til they drop dead. Why don't they get criticized for being suicidal."
I love this kind of logic. It is just not refutable. And so, to me now, the mule seems pretty darn smart! So why would they have a problem with Blue Angels? Turns out it was the politicians who couldn't leave things alone!
Whether real or imagined, the Town fathers decided that the odds that the mules would revolt or have heart attacks when the Blue Angels engines roared over head were big.
I think they envisioned the headline the next day of a tourist being thrown from the carriage or the ASPCA sueing Charleston for 'inhumane/inmule treatment'. So they banned all tour carriages using mules banned during the air show. (They banned the horses too, but no one seemed to get all worked up over that!).
Proprieters of mules argued that their mules were mellow as could be and were too cool to be spooked. But nothing could change the minds of the town politicians, whose paranoia about even a single tourist going flying out of the carriage while the other flying was going on, was clearly palpable. (They have their careers to protect after all....don't all Charleston politicians end up in Washington DC>>>???)
So, while the Blue Angels flew, the mules rested in their barns. And though I don't know this personally, I bet they actually liked having a two hour nap on a Saturday and Sunday! Irony rules!
So, the Blue Angels soared overhead. And were amazing......And clearly had power over the mules. But, they didn't have power over three pelicans who kept swooping up after the pilots were circling around....and these three pelicans, also soared, also flew in tight formation and, I swear, one of them made eye contact with me and communicated clearly as if speaking to me: "See human, we can fly too. In fact, we fly better, tighter and have the additional edge of being completely sympatico with the mules of Charleston," Good point I thought.
The Blue Angels are amazing and remind me that Afganistan, and all the 'stan' countries for that matter, don't have a chance against us, but the bird reminded me that nature, mules and birds included, is even more amazing! Here's to Monday when the birds and the mules return to rule Charleston.
sending love from Charleston
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Winning at Baseball
I acknowledge that I have never loved baseball. It seems slow and repetitive, with only short bursts of activity, and good-looking men wasted in baggy pants. But that is just me. Millions, clearly disagree.
Nonetheless, I do think it is fun to go to a baseball stadium, every once in a while! You get to sit outside....I love that, particularly if its a warm-but-not-too- hot night. Then, you usually go with family and friends, not alone or with enemies, so the company is pretty good. Finally, and this is a biggie for me, the food options are stuff you never eat anywhere else, including hot dogs, peanuts in a shell, ice cream bars etc. (I am laughing because I've just realized that this is exactly what Bill does eat everyday at home. Please don't tell him I mentioned it.!! ha ha)
So we heard that Charleston has its very own baseball team, I was curious and the first thing I learned was that it was "Single A". And a minor team to the Yankees. AND, part-owned by the very cool/funny Billy Murray, who goes to the games often!
Now what is this Single A buniess?? Turns out, and you may already know this, there is Single A, Double A and Triple A....and which do you think is closer to being in the major league? Well I thought the purity of the Single, but no.....Triple A. So again, in Charleston, we have the Single A Riverdogs....who play in a brand new stadium, 14 minutes from the house. Of course, I wanted to get the best tickets possible, and assumed they were probably going to be less than the worst Yankee seat, which costs $80, not including parking..
When I looked online and scoured the stadium seating chart, it looked like I could get seats in row 2, behind home plate for $14. Even my baseball naivite questioned that, but the chart said what the chart said, so with a leap of faith, I committed. When we went last night, I realized the chart was wrong.....but so in our favor I burst out laughing.....it wasn't the 2nd row....Row 2 is the first row!!!! As in, right behind the umpire! I was beginning to like Single A.
Things were going well....I had smartly invited a new friend of ours, Frank, to sit with us.....one, to thank him for all the help he has been in our move and two, to give Bill someone to talk baseball with.....I am a good wife, but can't fake everything.
We were all eating our dinner....there is a waitress with these seats, and Bill had a hot dog, Frank opted for beer and peanuts and me, a bbq chicken sandwich....(total cost $12)....I was concentrating on my sandwich, determined not to stain my white pants, when Bill turned to me and said he actually thought my name was just spoken by the stadium announcer. What? Who? When? all came out of my mouth, as the corner of my eye saw a bbq dribble land on my pants....and he repeated that he really really thought he heard the announcer say: "And tonight's winner of the internet ticket contest was ______ , as in, he got your first name right and mispronounced our last name the way most people do! Could that be I wondered....I have never won anything!
Frank, being a gentleman and I think intrigued beyond, jumped up and said he was going to investigate. I continued munching on my sandwich, staring at my stained pants and wondering when the washing machine would make the renovation list.....soon Frank returned, with a triumphant gleam in his eye! He held up a single ticket and announced gleefully that I had indeed won a free ticket on any return night of my choosing.
As this all registered, I let the thought that I would now be coming back sit on the side of my brain, and realized the bigger news: How did Frank get MY prize? Frank, I asked in as nice a voice as I could muster: "What did you say about me that they presumed you really knew me and gave you my freebie ticket?" He cocked his head a touch and said, "What do you mean? I told them I was here with you and they gave me the ticket!"
I was mulling my next comment, when Bill, realizing where my head was going, started to laugh and said to Frank: "But you didn't have her power of attorney! You didn't show any I.D.! In NY, they'd never give you her ticket!!"
Frank then got our reaction, and spoke the quote of the day: "Relax, you're not in NY anymore. Welcome to Charleston>"
I nodded and realized we'd moved to a place where your name is your word, and your word is good enough! What a concept!
sending love from Charleston...
Nonetheless, I do think it is fun to go to a baseball stadium, every once in a while! You get to sit outside....I love that, particularly if its a warm-but-not-too- hot night. Then, you usually go with family and friends, not alone or with enemies, so the company is pretty good. Finally, and this is a biggie for me, the food options are stuff you never eat anywhere else, including hot dogs, peanuts in a shell, ice cream bars etc. (I am laughing because I've just realized that this is exactly what Bill does eat everyday at home. Please don't tell him I mentioned it.!! ha ha)
So we heard that Charleston has its very own baseball team, I was curious and the first thing I learned was that it was "Single A". And a minor team to the Yankees. AND, part-owned by the very cool/funny Billy Murray, who goes to the games often!
Now what is this Single A buniess?? Turns out, and you may already know this, there is Single A, Double A and Triple A....and which do you think is closer to being in the major league? Well I thought the purity of the Single, but no.....Triple A. So again, in Charleston, we have the Single A Riverdogs....who play in a brand new stadium, 14 minutes from the house. Of course, I wanted to get the best tickets possible, and assumed they were probably going to be less than the worst Yankee seat, which costs $80, not including parking..
When I looked online and scoured the stadium seating chart, it looked like I could get seats in row 2, behind home plate for $14. Even my baseball naivite questioned that, but the chart said what the chart said, so with a leap of faith, I committed. When we went last night, I realized the chart was wrong.....but so in our favor I burst out laughing.....it wasn't the 2nd row....Row 2 is the first row!!!! As in, right behind the umpire! I was beginning to like Single A.
Things were going well....I had smartly invited a new friend of ours, Frank, to sit with us.....one, to thank him for all the help he has been in our move and two, to give Bill someone to talk baseball with.....I am a good wife, but can't fake everything.
We were all eating our dinner....there is a waitress with these seats, and Bill had a hot dog, Frank opted for beer and peanuts and me, a bbq chicken sandwich....(total cost $12)....I was concentrating on my sandwich, determined not to stain my white pants, when Bill turned to me and said he actually thought my name was just spoken by the stadium announcer. What? Who? When? all came out of my mouth, as the corner of my eye saw a bbq dribble land on my pants....and he repeated that he really really thought he heard the announcer say: "And tonight's winner of the internet ticket contest was ______ , as in, he got your first name right and mispronounced our last name the way most people do! Could that be I wondered....I have never won anything!
Frank, being a gentleman and I think intrigued beyond, jumped up and said he was going to investigate. I continued munching on my sandwich, staring at my stained pants and wondering when the washing machine would make the renovation list.....soon Frank returned, with a triumphant gleam in his eye! He held up a single ticket and announced gleefully that I had indeed won a free ticket on any return night of my choosing.
As this all registered, I let the thought that I would now be coming back sit on the side of my brain, and realized the bigger news: How did Frank get MY prize? Frank, I asked in as nice a voice as I could muster: "What did you say about me that they presumed you really knew me and gave you my freebie ticket?" He cocked his head a touch and said, "What do you mean? I told them I was here with you and they gave me the ticket!"
I was mulling my next comment, when Bill, realizing where my head was going, started to laugh and said to Frank: "But you didn't have her power of attorney! You didn't show any I.D.! In NY, they'd never give you her ticket!!"
Frank then got our reaction, and spoke the quote of the day: "Relax, you're not in NY anymore. Welcome to Charleston>"
I nodded and realized we'd moved to a place where your name is your word, and your word is good enough! What a concept!
sending love from Charleston...
Monday, April 26, 2010
The Almost Perfect Grocery Store
I have to say, I absolutely love going to the grocery store. I know most people don't. But I just adore being with food Sometimes as I slowly peruse the aisles, salivating over the delicious options,I have big debates with the two sides of my brain: the 'oh-I-want-to-be-thin' lobe and the 'but-you-might-die-tomorrow' cranial section and I do spend alot of time vicariously eating each box of cookies that line the shelves. Claire is the only soul willing to go with me, and I'd like to think she has inherited this salivating trait, but I think the truth lies in her decent sense of control and her determination not just to get yogurt, not just nonfat yogurt, not just greek yogurt but peach in the two-fer packaging! But I digress....
So, given my confessed neurosis, I was not going to move anywhere where the grocert stores were not decent. And, frankly, it was a low bar because Greenwich, wierdly, doesn't have the kind of grocery stores that you tell your friends about....I think it must go back to a time where the 'help' shopped....therefore,you can imagine my trepidation about Charleston, if you get my drift!
First, we found a terrific store about 30 minutes from Charleston called Newton Farms. It was absolutely beautiful -- it reminded me of this huge farm store in Nantucket, called Bartletts. I thought well, thrity minutes for a great store isn't awful and if I had that option in Greenwich, I would have taken it in a hearbeat.
Then we found one, right in Charleston, almost in the midst of the Historic district. Finding a store so among that charm of the city was like having perfect children. Or perfect parents. It just doesn't happen!
The store was named "Harris Teeter" and the name itself made me smile. Inside the store was even better....it actually reminded me of what I absolutely consider the gold standard of grocery stores: Gelsons, in Southern California.
Beyond the physical spaciousness, with wide aisles (two large carts can actually pass each other with no one having to say 'oh, sorry') and it has the array of brand selection I appreciate -- do you want whole wheat bread, 7 grain bread, 5 grain, 12 grain, multi-grain bread, rye bread, half-rye bread, etc etc--plus a parking lot that always has decent spots, right near the entrance! But it's the Employees of Harris Teeter that elevate it Gelson's-status.
Amazingly to me, they are trained to graciously ask four questions which just make me shake my head in delighed awe:
1. When you go up to check out, the checker asks if you have easily found every thing you were looking for?
At first I was so startled that someone cared, that I simply said, yes, thank you. Then, the other day, I was too cruious to see what the response would be if I said I did not, so I said that I was disappointed that I could not find my husband's favorite lunch, frozen White Castle hamburgers. (For those of you not familiar with this delicacy, they are sold in CT either 6 to a frozen box, or at Costo, in a 24 sizer.) The checker called over the manager and before I could say, oh its ok, she did some walkie/talkie mumbo jumbo, then some Blackberry magic. She then turned to me and said in the perfect little Southern accent: "Well, I am sorry to say we do not carry that, but if you go to the Publix (a competitor) in Mt Pleasant (about 14 min away), they have both sizes.And, when you go, ask for Hunter Rockwell III...he is the Manager and is expecting you." What can you say to that except, 'thank you so much. I will go right away!'
2. They then take the groceries out of your cart and scan them.
Again, not since Gelson's days have I not had to lug all the stuff that I just put in the cart out on the conveyer belt. And the Harris Teeter people do it happily, some of them humming as they lift all those coke bottles and try to make sure all the shallots don't fall out of the flimsy plastic.
3. They ask you in the nicest most non-judgemental voice if you'd like paper or plastic.
One time when I asked for paper, I heard the bagger (a lovely woman in her 40's, too well dressed I thought to have the job), mutter under her breath....umm, umm, umm....and when I looked at her she said apologetically, "...oh I mean no disrespect Ma'am, but your soda bottles (of which I had many!) will do better in plastic....they'll jus tear the paper right through!" Well how could I argue with such logic and told her she was right and I would switch to plastic. She let out such a yelp of joy I jumped myself...turns out in her 18 years of working there, no one had ever told her she was right and I knew I had made a friend for life. (I acknowledge that it might be better to have influential friends at the DMV or the Historic Home Color Review Board vs a checker/bagger -- but you never know....I thought she had enough charm to someday run for mayor, and being a checker/bagger is probably the perfect experience for that position!
4. Finally, after they've taken your groceries out, scanned them and bagged them the way you want, they then ask, regardless if you have two bags or twenty, if you'd like help to your car! I havn't yet said yes, though I'd really love if they would offer to come home with me and put all this stuff away....I will do the trunk, if they would do the cabinets.....mayber I could put that in the suggestion box!
I wish I could end this here...leaving you with nothing but admiration for the Harris Teeter store and a bit of envy for me...but no....No, in today's world, there is always something. Some blemish which makes perfection impossible and allows Gelson's to still be atop the grocery store mantle.
You see, Harris Teeter has a slight problem with English....and the promise they proudly make that they are open 24 hours.
I don't know about you, but to me, 24 hours means they should be open every hour of every day, no matter what! But last Thanksgiving, they failed and I don't know why they did it!
We decided to bring as much of the family down to Charleston as possible ---to see if they would like it if we moved here. (I think I wanted to make sure we would get some company, as I doubted our ability to make new friends....more on that later) So, we actually flew in on the Thanksgiving Thursday and I thought it might be nice to pick a few things for the hotel. You know like peanuts, candy, cookies, bananas, coke, snapple,water...all the essentials our family needs to survive in a hotel that has room service!
We went over to the Harris Teeter, a store that promises to be open 24 hours, and found it closed.
The next day when I went back and shopped for my deprived family, I asked one of the women at the Service Counter why they had been closed teh day before when all their signage and billboards clearly and boldly say "OPEN 24 HOURS'
And here, word for word, is what she said: "Oh, we are open 24 hours if we are open. But, if we're not open, we're not open 24 hours."
You can't argue with that....but you have to know Gelson's would never, never say that to me!
sending love from Charleston....
So, given my confessed neurosis, I was not going to move anywhere where the grocert stores were not decent. And, frankly, it was a low bar because Greenwich, wierdly, doesn't have the kind of grocery stores that you tell your friends about....I think it must go back to a time where the 'help' shopped....therefore,you can imagine my trepidation about Charleston, if you get my drift!
First, we found a terrific store about 30 minutes from Charleston called Newton Farms. It was absolutely beautiful -- it reminded me of this huge farm store in Nantucket, called Bartletts. I thought well, thrity minutes for a great store isn't awful and if I had that option in Greenwich, I would have taken it in a hearbeat.
Then we found one, right in Charleston, almost in the midst of the Historic district. Finding a store so among that charm of the city was like having perfect children. Or perfect parents. It just doesn't happen!
The store was named "Harris Teeter" and the name itself made me smile. Inside the store was even better....it actually reminded me of what I absolutely consider the gold standard of grocery stores: Gelsons, in Southern California.
Beyond the physical spaciousness, with wide aisles (two large carts can actually pass each other with no one having to say 'oh, sorry') and it has the array of brand selection I appreciate -- do you want whole wheat bread, 7 grain bread, 5 grain, 12 grain, multi-grain bread, rye bread, half-rye bread, etc etc--plus a parking lot that always has decent spots, right near the entrance! But it's the Employees of Harris Teeter that elevate it Gelson's-status.
Amazingly to me, they are trained to graciously ask four questions which just make me shake my head in delighed awe:
1. When you go up to check out, the checker asks if you have easily found every thing you were looking for?
At first I was so startled that someone cared, that I simply said, yes, thank you. Then, the other day, I was too cruious to see what the response would be if I said I did not, so I said that I was disappointed that I could not find my husband's favorite lunch, frozen White Castle hamburgers. (For those of you not familiar with this delicacy, they are sold in CT either 6 to a frozen box, or at Costo, in a 24 sizer.) The checker called over the manager and before I could say, oh its ok, she did some walkie/talkie mumbo jumbo, then some Blackberry magic. She then turned to me and said in the perfect little Southern accent: "Well, I am sorry to say we do not carry that, but if you go to the Publix (a competitor) in Mt Pleasant (about 14 min away), they have both sizes.And, when you go, ask for Hunter Rockwell III...he is the Manager and is expecting you." What can you say to that except, 'thank you so much. I will go right away!'
2. They then take the groceries out of your cart and scan them.
Again, not since Gelson's days have I not had to lug all the stuff that I just put in the cart out on the conveyer belt. And the Harris Teeter people do it happily, some of them humming as they lift all those coke bottles and try to make sure all the shallots don't fall out of the flimsy plastic.
3. They ask you in the nicest most non-judgemental voice if you'd like paper or plastic.
One time when I asked for paper, I heard the bagger (a lovely woman in her 40's, too well dressed I thought to have the job), mutter under her breath....umm, umm, umm....and when I looked at her she said apologetically, "...oh I mean no disrespect Ma'am, but your soda bottles (of which I had many!) will do better in plastic....they'll jus tear the paper right through!" Well how could I argue with such logic and told her she was right and I would switch to plastic. She let out such a yelp of joy I jumped myself...turns out in her 18 years of working there, no one had ever told her she was right and I knew I had made a friend for life. (I acknowledge that it might be better to have influential friends at the DMV or the Historic Home Color Review Board vs a checker/bagger -- but you never know....I thought she had enough charm to someday run for mayor, and being a checker/bagger is probably the perfect experience for that position!
4. Finally, after they've taken your groceries out, scanned them and bagged them the way you want, they then ask, regardless if you have two bags or twenty, if you'd like help to your car! I havn't yet said yes, though I'd really love if they would offer to come home with me and put all this stuff away....I will do the trunk, if they would do the cabinets.....mayber I could put that in the suggestion box!
I wish I could end this here...leaving you with nothing but admiration for the Harris Teeter store and a bit of envy for me...but no....No, in today's world, there is always something. Some blemish which makes perfection impossible and allows Gelson's to still be atop the grocery store mantle.
You see, Harris Teeter has a slight problem with English....and the promise they proudly make that they are open 24 hours.
I don't know about you, but to me, 24 hours means they should be open every hour of every day, no matter what! But last Thanksgiving, they failed and I don't know why they did it!
We decided to bring as much of the family down to Charleston as possible ---to see if they would like it if we moved here. (I think I wanted to make sure we would get some company, as I doubted our ability to make new friends....more on that later) So, we actually flew in on the Thanksgiving Thursday and I thought it might be nice to pick a few things for the hotel. You know like peanuts, candy, cookies, bananas, coke, snapple,water...all the essentials our family needs to survive in a hotel that has room service!
We went over to the Harris Teeter, a store that promises to be open 24 hours, and found it closed.
The next day when I went back and shopped for my deprived family, I asked one of the women at the Service Counter why they had been closed teh day before when all their signage and billboards clearly and boldly say "OPEN 24 HOURS'
And here, word for word, is what she said: "Oh, we are open 24 hours if we are open. But, if we're not open, we're not open 24 hours."
You can't argue with that....but you have to know Gelson's would never, never say that to me!
sending love from Charleston....
Monday, April 19, 2010
Larry, Larry, Larry
As often happens to me when I meet new people and their dogs, I only remember the names of the dogs. So when we met Larry and his "Mom" and "little sister", I knew the only name that would stick would be his. This was easier this time for a few reasons: First, Larry is such an usual name for a dog. The only Larry I could think of was Larry David and it seemed unthinkable that this dog's personality warrented being named after the quirky star of Curb Your Enthusiasm.
But amazingly, his 'Mom' sounded exactly like Susie Green (you know, Larry David's Manager Jeff's wife>>>)....not in the spewing of profanity, but definitely in the tone and attitude. Here is what actually happened on our first encounter with Larry, his 'Mom' and his 'little sister':
Larry's Mom was walking her daughter to their car, and it was clear the little girl was being taken to school. Larry, not on a leash, was expected to simply follow across the street and two houses over. Larry was lagging and the Mom said the following...word for word:
"Larry, Larry, get in the car. Larry. C'mon Larry. Be a good boy Larry. Larry where are you? Larry, Larry, we need to go. _________(little girl's name) is going to be late. Larry, you don't want that do you Larry? Good boy Larry. RIght over here into the car. ________(little girl's name), call Larry, tell him to get in the car."
The little girl said: "Larry, Larry, come into the car. I can't be late Larry. Please Larry. Please please please Larry, come on. Oh, good boy Larry. You sit next to me Larry. Good Larry. Now we can go Larry."
I stood on the sidewalk crying from laughing so hard. Thankfully I was far enough removed from the scene that all the Mom knew was that the new neighbor was hysterically laughing. But since she had no clue as to why, my reputation of being 'unusual' was only confirmed. I could not help myself....(I am laughing now just thinking about it.)
My dogs, Charlie and WInston, looked slightly bemused and vaguely confused at hearing the same word over and over and over again. Unlike words like 'Treat' or 'Walk' or even 'No', they had no idea what the heck the word was but they stood waiting for its sound to stop. And it finally did and we went inside to bask in the silence of Larry and his family being gone. For the moment.
The next day, a Sunday, BIll and I were enjoying the paper and coffee outside on the piazza. It was another impossibly perfect 75 degrees. The birds were chirping and the sounds of church bells could be heard. (Seriously, thats what it has been like here.....beautiful birds and majestic church bells...)
Anyway, all of a sudden, we all heard crying, a dog's whimpering. Not the cry of physical injury, but the unmistakable sound of a sad canine.
Charlie's ears perked up to full attention and I could tell he was just about to start barking. That's when I turned to Charlie and said:
"It's Larry. Larry is crying. Larry's family left him to go out for brunch."
Charlie stared at me, with his oversized brown eyes. Blinked. Considered my Larry news. And his return gaze said to me:
"Oh that Larry. What an annoying dog!!!"
Sending love from Charleston
But amazingly, his 'Mom' sounded exactly like Susie Green (you know, Larry David's Manager Jeff's wife>>>)....not in the spewing of profanity, but definitely in the tone and attitude. Here is what actually happened on our first encounter with Larry, his 'Mom' and his 'little sister':
Larry's Mom was walking her daughter to their car, and it was clear the little girl was being taken to school. Larry, not on a leash, was expected to simply follow across the street and two houses over. Larry was lagging and the Mom said the following...word for word:
"Larry, Larry, get in the car. Larry. C'mon Larry. Be a good boy Larry. Larry where are you? Larry, Larry, we need to go. _________(little girl's name) is going to be late. Larry, you don't want that do you Larry? Good boy Larry. RIght over here into the car. ________(little girl's name), call Larry, tell him to get in the car."
The little girl said: "Larry, Larry, come into the car. I can't be late Larry. Please Larry. Please please please Larry, come on. Oh, good boy Larry. You sit next to me Larry. Good Larry. Now we can go Larry."
I stood on the sidewalk crying from laughing so hard. Thankfully I was far enough removed from the scene that all the Mom knew was that the new neighbor was hysterically laughing. But since she had no clue as to why, my reputation of being 'unusual' was only confirmed. I could not help myself....(I am laughing now just thinking about it.)
My dogs, Charlie and WInston, looked slightly bemused and vaguely confused at hearing the same word over and over and over again. Unlike words like 'Treat' or 'Walk' or even 'No', they had no idea what the heck the word was but they stood waiting for its sound to stop. And it finally did and we went inside to bask in the silence of Larry and his family being gone. For the moment.
The next day, a Sunday, BIll and I were enjoying the paper and coffee outside on the piazza. It was another impossibly perfect 75 degrees. The birds were chirping and the sounds of church bells could be heard. (Seriously, thats what it has been like here.....beautiful birds and majestic church bells...)
Anyway, all of a sudden, we all heard crying, a dog's whimpering. Not the cry of physical injury, but the unmistakable sound of a sad canine.
Charlie's ears perked up to full attention and I could tell he was just about to start barking. That's when I turned to Charlie and said:
"It's Larry. Larry is crying. Larry's family left him to go out for brunch."
Charlie stared at me, with his oversized brown eyes. Blinked. Considered my Larry news. And his return gaze said to me:
"Oh that Larry. What an annoying dog!!!"
Sending love from Charleston
Thursday, April 15, 2010
Pine Tree Killers
That's the way we were introduced at our first gathering with neighbors. The invite had come while I was out and when I returned, Bill said Mitzy, our neighbor to the left, had invited us for 'wine at seven pm.' seven pm I said...isnt that too late for pre-dinner and too early for after-dinner?
Thats when I got the look from Bill, which says a combo of:
1. How should I know?
2. Zip it and deal with it.
3. What did you expect me to say other than yes!
All fair questions, but still I wondered....we'd been getting into a habit of eating around that time, so I knew my appetite would be on full alert and if I didn't eat before, I'd be way too hungry. And what if she didn't serve anything...I'd be drinking on a less-than-full stomach and that couldn't be good! But since this is about us being Pine Tree Killers, let me just say that I made us BLT's (again....yum!) and we walked over right on time.
As we entered her front door, it was clear that there were already people there. And they had started drinking without us. Hmmm, I thought: Do they do cocktail parties in shifts down here or did Bill have the wrong time? I was too naive to think what I actually thought later, which was they had gathered early to talk about us. This didn't occur to me then becuase I had no idea that the day's events had been so fascinating to our neighbors.
You see, that day, we had cut down two old pine trees in our yard. The magnolia and oak trees here are the prettiest I have ever seen, and they grace each home with a certain presence that is simply nature at its best. But these were trees that looked like telephone poles and dropped so much yellow pollen that I had actually felt like I might someday qualify for a lawsuit on bad air! The so-called trees had no branches, no leaves, nothing but the look of a totem pole without the totems. So, we hired some professional tree guy, had the contractor confirm no permits were needed and went ahead with a part of the plan to make our small garden look as spectacular as possible. Who knew that it would cause such a fuss.
Mitzy 'kiddingly' introduced us as the "new people from the New York area who cut down the trees today and caused some of the neighbors such grief they called the police."
I have been introduced a few times in my day, and that one had me absolutely thunderstruck. Given I had no voice anyway from the bad pine trees, I simply looked to Bill for our retort. A witty one I hoped. Bill's response, very much in keeping with him being the nicer of the two of us, was to ignore the bizarreness and launch into a toast about how happy we were to be there in Charleston.
Later, our hostess assured us that she did not hold any ill will, but couldn't speak for others.
I realized right then that my hope of having neighbors turn into new friends was probably not going to happen. (I also realized that I was right in eating before as no food at all was offered.) I did know that I had found the quote of the day, but it was not a happy or funny one....though its impact lingered into the following day and then I did laugh.
The next day I went through box after box looking for my stationary. It seemed I should write a note to the neighbor who was the most offended by our taking down two telephone poles, and it was clear that my personalized and engraved stationary was in order. After 30 minutes searching, time I really didn't have, I found it and wrote a nice note. Or I thought it was nice....I didn't apologize for the tree cutting (see how I wrote cutting vs killing....), but did express regret that it caused her such pain. I also assured her that I have a good track record with neighbors (I even considered soliciting testimonials from my former/normal neighbors in Greenwich but felt that was overkill...excuse the expression). My note ended with a hope to meet soon! All in all, it seemed pleasant and cordial and I thought it would put things back on an even keel.
Alas, that wasn't how she took it.
I dropped off my note in her mailbox at about 10am and felt fortunate when, around 5pm, I saw her as I was about to take a late day walk with the dogs. She was standing at her doorway, which here means 14 steps away. I waved and started to navigate the dogs her way so I could extend my hand and introduce myself. She clearly saw me and clearly had seen me come from the "Pine Tree death house'.
So I put on my best 'hello' smile as she stared at me. Then, she turned and walked into her own house, leaving me at her doorstep alone.
This actually happened! And it wasn't just a turn now that I think of it...it was a pivot!! An actual ballet-step pivot that is meant to broadcast to your partner or to the audience that this body is changing course and direction. And I have to say, it made me laugh. I had just been dissed. A Southern dis.
While I knew my Mom would have been appalled that I found it funny, I did....and laugh about it to anyone and everyone I tell. She may think me the Pine Tree Killer, but she is the Human Being Rejector and I personally think that is alot worse!
Sending love from Charleston....
Thats when I got the look from Bill, which says a combo of:
1. How should I know?
2. Zip it and deal with it.
3. What did you expect me to say other than yes!
All fair questions, but still I wondered....we'd been getting into a habit of eating around that time, so I knew my appetite would be on full alert and if I didn't eat before, I'd be way too hungry. And what if she didn't serve anything...I'd be drinking on a less-than-full stomach and that couldn't be good! But since this is about us being Pine Tree Killers, let me just say that I made us BLT's (again....yum!) and we walked over right on time.
As we entered her front door, it was clear that there were already people there. And they had started drinking without us. Hmmm, I thought: Do they do cocktail parties in shifts down here or did Bill have the wrong time? I was too naive to think what I actually thought later, which was they had gathered early to talk about us. This didn't occur to me then becuase I had no idea that the day's events had been so fascinating to our neighbors.
You see, that day, we had cut down two old pine trees in our yard. The magnolia and oak trees here are the prettiest I have ever seen, and they grace each home with a certain presence that is simply nature at its best. But these were trees that looked like telephone poles and dropped so much yellow pollen that I had actually felt like I might someday qualify for a lawsuit on bad air! The so-called trees had no branches, no leaves, nothing but the look of a totem pole without the totems. So, we hired some professional tree guy, had the contractor confirm no permits were needed and went ahead with a part of the plan to make our small garden look as spectacular as possible. Who knew that it would cause such a fuss.
Mitzy 'kiddingly' introduced us as the "new people from the New York area who cut down the trees today and caused some of the neighbors such grief they called the police."
I have been introduced a few times in my day, and that one had me absolutely thunderstruck. Given I had no voice anyway from the bad pine trees, I simply looked to Bill for our retort. A witty one I hoped. Bill's response, very much in keeping with him being the nicer of the two of us, was to ignore the bizarreness and launch into a toast about how happy we were to be there in Charleston.
Later, our hostess assured us that she did not hold any ill will, but couldn't speak for others.
I realized right then that my hope of having neighbors turn into new friends was probably not going to happen. (I also realized that I was right in eating before as no food at all was offered.) I did know that I had found the quote of the day, but it was not a happy or funny one....though its impact lingered into the following day and then I did laugh.
The next day I went through box after box looking for my stationary. It seemed I should write a note to the neighbor who was the most offended by our taking down two telephone poles, and it was clear that my personalized and engraved stationary was in order. After 30 minutes searching, time I really didn't have, I found it and wrote a nice note. Or I thought it was nice....I didn't apologize for the tree cutting (see how I wrote cutting vs killing....), but did express regret that it caused her such pain. I also assured her that I have a good track record with neighbors (I even considered soliciting testimonials from my former/normal neighbors in Greenwich but felt that was overkill...excuse the expression). My note ended with a hope to meet soon! All in all, it seemed pleasant and cordial and I thought it would put things back on an even keel.
Alas, that wasn't how she took it.
I dropped off my note in her mailbox at about 10am and felt fortunate when, around 5pm, I saw her as I was about to take a late day walk with the dogs. She was standing at her doorway, which here means 14 steps away. I waved and started to navigate the dogs her way so I could extend my hand and introduce myself. She clearly saw me and clearly had seen me come from the "Pine Tree death house'.
So I put on my best 'hello' smile as she stared at me. Then, she turned and walked into her own house, leaving me at her doorstep alone.
This actually happened! And it wasn't just a turn now that I think of it...it was a pivot!! An actual ballet-step pivot that is meant to broadcast to your partner or to the audience that this body is changing course and direction. And I have to say, it made me laugh. I had just been dissed. A Southern dis.
While I knew my Mom would have been appalled that I found it funny, I did....and laugh about it to anyone and everyone I tell. She may think me the Pine Tree Killer, but she is the Human Being Rejector and I personally think that is alot worse!
Sending love from Charleston....
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Fort Sumter
So here it was, our first night to stay in our new 1840 Charleston home. We had been in Charleston for two whole days, but given the moving chaos, opted to stay in a hotel.
Amidst boxes and boxes, we carved out a civilized space in the living room where I served my best BLT (our friends Branwen and Steven had send us a wonderful gift basket from Ted's ButcherBlock, which contained some amazing artisinal bacon) and glasses of our favorite wine (La Vieille Ferme....$15.00 for a screw top 2 liter bottle that rivals, I am serious, most good Pinot Noirs around) but I digress>
As Bill literally beamed, viewing the sunset over the water right out our living room window, he said what I deemed the quote of the day: "I am awestruck that I live in viewing sight of Fort Sumter."
I was so happy for him. A long-time Civil War buff with, if truth be told, tremendous sympathies not for the cause but for the misjudged and valiant struggle the South endured. He was now in a house that had lived through the war. And, given the age of the house, we pondered what that family who were here the very first night of April 12 did and thought when their view of Charleston harbour clearly revealed the battle that started the terrible Civil War. I was silent as I watched his face think about it. Being silent comes very hard to me, and lord knows many retorts came to my head, but I am old enough to know that sometimes, regardless of my self-loving wit, keeping quiet is the best for Bill. And too, I was filled with pleasure that we could arrange our lives so he could experience this.
Then, another look overtook his face. One of horror. I said, "What? What's wrong", though panic did not set in. I"ve been married to him long enough (almost 20 years) and know that you never know how big or how small the issue that might be to case this face. It could be that he senses a leak in the gutter or it could be that he has a premonition of worldwide famine. So, again I waited. (You have to wait with Bill, because sometimes the brain/computer is on just a bit of the delay mode and if you interupt or ask again, you risk unravelling the whole thought. I have learned that patience for the electricity to flow is usually rewarded with the response. This was one of those times.)
He said, a tad bereftly, "Oh no. I misspoke. That is not Fort Sumter that we are looking at at all. No. Oh my gosh. How could I have been so wrong. It is Fort Moultrie."
Whew I silently thought. But 'whew' I didn't say. That would have been a mistake. Instead, I took his head in my hands and gently told him that 99.9% of the family and friends who will visit us will never know the difference and that it was still an incredible view." He agreed, though I could tell he was a bit dissapointed. Luckily, that passed quickly and his mood brightened as he realized that he was still only twenty steps from the ocean and that was a visual gift he would have daily. Plus, twenty more steps and he would indeed be viewing Fort Sumter!
And so, it seemed to me, that he still deserved the quote of the day and we wnet to sleep in our new/old Charleston home!
Sending love,
Amidst boxes and boxes, we carved out a civilized space in the living room where I served my best BLT (our friends Branwen and Steven had send us a wonderful gift basket from Ted's ButcherBlock, which contained some amazing artisinal bacon) and glasses of our favorite wine (La Vieille Ferme....$15.00 for a screw top 2 liter bottle that rivals, I am serious, most good Pinot Noirs around) but I digress>
As Bill literally beamed, viewing the sunset over the water right out our living room window, he said what I deemed the quote of the day: "I am awestruck that I live in viewing sight of Fort Sumter."
I was so happy for him. A long-time Civil War buff with, if truth be told, tremendous sympathies not for the cause but for the misjudged and valiant struggle the South endured. He was now in a house that had lived through the war. And, given the age of the house, we pondered what that family who were here the very first night of April 12 did and thought when their view of Charleston harbour clearly revealed the battle that started the terrible Civil War. I was silent as I watched his face think about it. Being silent comes very hard to me, and lord knows many retorts came to my head, but I am old enough to know that sometimes, regardless of my self-loving wit, keeping quiet is the best for Bill. And too, I was filled with pleasure that we could arrange our lives so he could experience this.
Then, another look overtook his face. One of horror. I said, "What? What's wrong", though panic did not set in. I"ve been married to him long enough (almost 20 years) and know that you never know how big or how small the issue that might be to case this face. It could be that he senses a leak in the gutter or it could be that he has a premonition of worldwide famine. So, again I waited. (You have to wait with Bill, because sometimes the brain/computer is on just a bit of the delay mode and if you interupt or ask again, you risk unravelling the whole thought. I have learned that patience for the electricity to flow is usually rewarded with the response. This was one of those times.)
He said, a tad bereftly, "Oh no. I misspoke. That is not Fort Sumter that we are looking at at all. No. Oh my gosh. How could I have been so wrong. It is Fort Moultrie."
Whew I silently thought. But 'whew' I didn't say. That would have been a mistake. Instead, I took his head in my hands and gently told him that 99.9% of the family and friends who will visit us will never know the difference and that it was still an incredible view." He agreed, though I could tell he was a bit dissapointed. Luckily, that passed quickly and his mood brightened as he realized that he was still only twenty steps from the ocean and that was a visual gift he would have daily. Plus, twenty more steps and he would indeed be viewing Fort Sumter!
And so, it seemed to me, that he still deserved the quote of the day and we wnet to sleep in our new/old Charleston home!
Sending love,
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Charleston, South Carolina
We, to my surprise, actually moved to Charleston, South Carolina on March 31, 2010. Actually,we really started moving here three years ago but I digress....
About three years ago, husband Bill (William to me; Bill to everyone else) pondered aloud where we would move after our Corporate careers were 'over'. Since I didn't intend for mine to be over for many years to come, it seemed like a fun exercise in 'what if'....and I found that I was oriented toward LA and ACK and he was thinking east coast but warmer...and when we played the game of what it you want in your dream place, he had the folowing list: warm, hisotic, less expensive, close enough for the kids to come, a place the kids would want to come, buying an old house would be nice and one in need of repair and renovation would be even better. Well, a few months later, on a lark Thanksgiving trip to Charleston with Claire (daughter extraordinaire), we knew we had found 'the place' or he did and I think that was enough for me. So, the seed was planted, the Greenwich house was put up for sale and we began to look at Charleston houses.
To Bill, there was just a 6 block area that fit his sensibilities....and we actually found the house that seemed to have our name written all over it about 6 months ago. In the intervening 2 and 1/2 years, much had happened. My adored parents both died, we had a fantastic wedding in our backyard for Claire, and our creative and funny daughter Nik had moved back to Greenwich....all a bit conflicting pieces....but this house in Charleston, which needed such care and renewal seemed to call us. It was small, about half the size of what we knew, and the yard was, as Bill calculated, 1/10th the size of what the dogs (Westies: Charlie and Winston) were accustomed to....but it had the potential, we thought, to be a jewel.
And on a cold day in February three events came together as if they were pre-planned and pre-ordained: I graduated from a ridiculously rigorous masters couse in Bread Baking, our home in Greenwich was rented to a wonderful London family for two years and the divorcing couple in Charleston finally put their differences aside and sold us the house we were meant to have at a price it should have been months earlier. And, before I could say, holy bread flour, we were packing (and packing and packing and packing) and got in the car and drove here. We stopped to see Johanna (my wonderfully generous sister, who always supplies us, among other things, with the best salted oatmeal cookies and a ton of loving support) and made the 14 hour trip in just two days!
About two hours out of Bethesda, a funny thing happened....the sun came out, the temperature rose to a perfect 74 and for the past 14 days we have lived what seems like a vacation. A vacation in terms of sunny weather and fun restaurants....as well as a Chevy Chase saga of mishaps.....a Seinfeld collection of characters....and plenty of signs of the Money Pit. So, I decided to try and write down the highlights.....and since they seem to make me laugh, to share it....I still hope to bakemeacareer....just now sure how yet and know that the next six months will be more renovate than innovate....more looking for that positive perspective than having perspective....so check in with me if you'd like and I will keep you apprised of our progress, or regress, whatever happens! What I do know is that Bill has not seemed this happy since the wedding.....the one in 1990!
sending love
About three years ago, husband Bill (William to me; Bill to everyone else) pondered aloud where we would move after our Corporate careers were 'over'. Since I didn't intend for mine to be over for many years to come, it seemed like a fun exercise in 'what if'....and I found that I was oriented toward LA and ACK and he was thinking east coast but warmer...and when we played the game of what it you want in your dream place, he had the folowing list: warm, hisotic, less expensive, close enough for the kids to come, a place the kids would want to come, buying an old house would be nice and one in need of repair and renovation would be even better. Well, a few months later, on a lark Thanksgiving trip to Charleston with Claire (daughter extraordinaire), we knew we had found 'the place' or he did and I think that was enough for me. So, the seed was planted, the Greenwich house was put up for sale and we began to look at Charleston houses.
To Bill, there was just a 6 block area that fit his sensibilities....and we actually found the house that seemed to have our name written all over it about 6 months ago. In the intervening 2 and 1/2 years, much had happened. My adored parents both died, we had a fantastic wedding in our backyard for Claire, and our creative and funny daughter Nik had moved back to Greenwich....all a bit conflicting pieces....but this house in Charleston, which needed such care and renewal seemed to call us. It was small, about half the size of what we knew, and the yard was, as Bill calculated, 1/10th the size of what the dogs (Westies: Charlie and Winston) were accustomed to....but it had the potential, we thought, to be a jewel.
And on a cold day in February three events came together as if they were pre-planned and pre-ordained: I graduated from a ridiculously rigorous masters couse in Bread Baking, our home in Greenwich was rented to a wonderful London family for two years and the divorcing couple in Charleston finally put their differences aside and sold us the house we were meant to have at a price it should have been months earlier. And, before I could say, holy bread flour, we were packing (and packing and packing and packing) and got in the car and drove here. We stopped to see Johanna (my wonderfully generous sister, who always supplies us, among other things, with the best salted oatmeal cookies and a ton of loving support) and made the 14 hour trip in just two days!
About two hours out of Bethesda, a funny thing happened....the sun came out, the temperature rose to a perfect 74 and for the past 14 days we have lived what seems like a vacation. A vacation in terms of sunny weather and fun restaurants....as well as a Chevy Chase saga of mishaps.....a Seinfeld collection of characters....and plenty of signs of the Money Pit. So, I decided to try and write down the highlights.....and since they seem to make me laugh, to share it....I still hope to bakemeacareer....just now sure how yet and know that the next six months will be more renovate than innovate....more looking for that positive perspective than having perspective....so check in with me if you'd like and I will keep you apprised of our progress, or regress, whatever happens! What I do know is that Bill has not seemed this happy since the wedding.....the one in 1990!
sending love
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Let them Eat Cake
The day began with a plastic bucket falling on my head, breaking the skin on my nose. Despite my obvious bleeding, no one paid any mind, and I was forced to soldier on. The day ended with yet another raw baguette dough calamity that had Chef Amy looking at me like I was the biggest klutz that ever walked into her classroom....but, in between, class today was ok.
Not fun. Not happy. Not exuding the joy that baking bread is supposed to bring, but so much better than yesterday that I was able to laugh at myself.
And, it didn't hurt that the French guy, let's call him Guy, made a major mistake in weighing his team's flour. And, it also helped that one the better bakers in the room was called out for 'slashing too shallowly.!"
During the day, there are many conversations that happen between the twelve students and the two chef teachers. Some are banal, as in "...did you hear that Chef Roger won an award for scoring in Las Vegas" to fearful, like "...did Chef Amy tell us to fold or not fold the dough?"
But today, I overheard the New Girl tell the French guy Guy, as we were mixing the brioche, that she has always loved the Marie Antoinette story about this dough. The version where Marie Antoinette said that the poor should eat brioche, though for many years, in many books, it has been mistranslated as cake. Guy, the French guy, looked at her puzzled and said, "Non. Zat iz not true. She said cake and meant cake."
Trying to keep my eyes on the two of them and still feed the mixer 'cold but pliable butter' was not easy, but I was determined. I heard the New Girl repeat the Marie Antoinette story is if Guy did not understand. But he did understand, rolled his eyeballs and muttered something in French under his breath. Then his weighing error was discovered and we all feigned compassion....when really, we were all just SO relieved that it was not us!
Tomorrow we make fogasses...which I hope is better than it sounds!
sending love....
Not fun. Not happy. Not exuding the joy that baking bread is supposed to bring, but so much better than yesterday that I was able to laugh at myself.
And, it didn't hurt that the French guy, let's call him Guy, made a major mistake in weighing his team's flour. And, it also helped that one the better bakers in the room was called out for 'slashing too shallowly.!"
During the day, there are many conversations that happen between the twelve students and the two chef teachers. Some are banal, as in "...did you hear that Chef Roger won an award for scoring in Las Vegas" to fearful, like "...did Chef Amy tell us to fold or not fold the dough?"
But today, I overheard the New Girl tell the French guy Guy, as we were mixing the brioche, that she has always loved the Marie Antoinette story about this dough. The version where Marie Antoinette said that the poor should eat brioche, though for many years, in many books, it has been mistranslated as cake. Guy, the French guy, looked at her puzzled and said, "Non. Zat iz not true. She said cake and meant cake."
Trying to keep my eyes on the two of them and still feed the mixer 'cold but pliable butter' was not easy, but I was determined. I heard the New Girl repeat the Marie Antoinette story is if Guy did not understand. But he did understand, rolled his eyeballs and muttered something in French under his breath. Then his weighing error was discovered and we all feigned compassion....when really, we were all just SO relieved that it was not us!
Tomorrow we make fogasses...which I hope is better than it sounds!
sending love....
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Willy Wonka
Day 4 is over and there were no disasters today, either created by me or anyone else, though I am telling you there is something about the New Girl that just does not add up!
Overall, I will say that what I thought was so is not. Like I've entered a Willy Wonka world, where former execturives who got paid oodles to advertise Kleenex are now sentenced to hard, physical labor; or nice people who thought they were going to be taking an intensive baking class find themselves on their feet for eight hours a day, in a scratchy uniform, and afraid of ovens.
More examples ?
-This is called a Master Bread Program...sounds hard and highly intellectual...not one where you are actually responsible for 130 baguettes a day...baguettes that are actually consumed by unsuspecting human beings?
-The word 'retarder' is used a lot, and my politically correct ears always cringe. Turns out, it's a refrigerator where you put dough you want to proof on a very slow timeline. And, speaking of ears, the expression also heard multiple times daily, "try and slash your bread to get ears" actually sense to me now!
-The concept of culture is oft discussed. In my old life, it was usually about the anthropological nuances in the world, or at least teen behavior....here in this world, it basically means old dough. As in, add 435 grams of culture to your pate fermentee.
I can only hope and pray that Friday really means Friday to these people!
sending love....
Overall, I will say that what I thought was so is not. Like I've entered a Willy Wonka world, where former execturives who got paid oodles to advertise Kleenex are now sentenced to hard, physical labor; or nice people who thought they were going to be taking an intensive baking class find themselves on their feet for eight hours a day, in a scratchy uniform, and afraid of ovens.
More examples ?
-This is called a Master Bread Program...sounds hard and highly intellectual...not one where you are actually responsible for 130 baguettes a day...baguettes that are actually consumed by unsuspecting human beings?
-The word 'retarder' is used a lot, and my politically correct ears always cringe. Turns out, it's a refrigerator where you put dough you want to proof on a very slow timeline. And, speaking of ears, the expression also heard multiple times daily, "try and slash your bread to get ears" actually sense to me now!
-The concept of culture is oft discussed. In my old life, it was usually about the anthropological nuances in the world, or at least teen behavior....here in this world, it basically means old dough. As in, add 435 grams of culture to your pate fermentee.
I can only hope and pray that Friday really means Friday to these people!
sending love....
Monday, March 8, 2010
The New Girl
Well, the day started with my new Canal St. umbrella snapping up and exposing my head and clothes to an amazing amount of rain. This was an umbrella that I loved. I loved it because I had bargained hard for it, and wasn'teven swayed when the man at the kiosk told me, "...good umbwella, yell made!" No, I kept bargaining. Now I believe the $5 I paid was too much to spend on an umbrella that lasted 43 seconds! But it was a Gucci!
By the time I got to school, I was completely wet and remembered a high school experience that taught me that damp clothes sitting in a locker for hours on end is not a good thing,,,,,but I digress.
The good news today is that class was better....SO much to do, and a ton of pressure to do it quickly and right. (I think I could master speed or accuracy, just not both!) But again, others made mistakes which, I hope, took the attention away from my fumbling: Team 2 must have weighed the wrong amount of flour and had to restart a huge batch of baguettes .....and all I could think, was thank heavens I am on Team 1!
Though lest you think I had a perfect day, hardly. A wooden board of raw baguettes, which I was trying to slide onto the proofing rack, slipped a notch and when I heard the sick sound of a 'plop', I knew I had dropped one...but again, trying to put this day in context, I did not slip and fall as someone on Team 3 did>
BUT, the big news today was that one of our classmates quit. hmmm....I think its amazing more of us did not!
So, today, the new girl joined us.
I admit I was a bit paranoid from the start. After all, how did they find someone so quickly? When she was asked to share a bit about herself, she said "...I used to work in advertising and orange is my favorite color." Wow I thought, perhaps this is a kindred spirit, someone who could help me tunnel out!
But my friends, there is something amiss about this new girl...she seems to know too much and is way too confident!
She has two less days of experience than the rest of us, yet she wasn't at all afraid of the ovens or the peels and could hoist the 50lb bags of flour like she'd been doing it for years. Then, right at the end of the day, she started taking pictures of some of the breads we all made. My pal, the surgery assistant (lets call him Mike) said...."Did she just take our picture??" I am grateful for all my practice during my marriage of zipping my lip and accomplishing not laughing even thought it is very, very tempting!
I am not saying she is a ringer or a spy, but I am going to keep an eye on her!
Friday, please get here soon.
sending love....
By the time I got to school, I was completely wet and remembered a high school experience that taught me that damp clothes sitting in a locker for hours on end is not a good thing,,,,,but I digress.
The good news today is that class was better....SO much to do, and a ton of pressure to do it quickly and right. (I think I could master speed or accuracy, just not both!) But again, others made mistakes which, I hope, took the attention away from my fumbling: Team 2 must have weighed the wrong amount of flour and had to restart a huge batch of baguettes .....and all I could think, was thank heavens I am on Team 1!
Though lest you think I had a perfect day, hardly. A wooden board of raw baguettes, which I was trying to slide onto the proofing rack, slipped a notch and when I heard the sick sound of a 'plop', I knew I had dropped one...but again, trying to put this day in context, I did not slip and fall as someone on Team 3 did>
BUT, the big news today was that one of our classmates quit. hmmm....I think its amazing more of us did not!
So, today, the new girl joined us.
I admit I was a bit paranoid from the start. After all, how did they find someone so quickly? When she was asked to share a bit about herself, she said "...I used to work in advertising and orange is my favorite color." Wow I thought, perhaps this is a kindred spirit, someone who could help me tunnel out!
But my friends, there is something amiss about this new girl...she seems to know too much and is way too confident!
She has two less days of experience than the rest of us, yet she wasn't at all afraid of the ovens or the peels and could hoist the 50lb bags of flour like she'd been doing it for years. Then, right at the end of the day, she started taking pictures of some of the breads we all made. My pal, the surgery assistant (lets call him Mike) said...."Did she just take our picture??" I am grateful for all my practice during my marriage of zipping my lip and accomplishing not laughing even thought it is very, very tempting!
I am not saying she is a ringer or a spy, but I am going to keep an eye on her!
Friday, please get here soon.
sending love....
Sunday, March 7, 2010
Day Two
Day Two was not fun. I am not sure I can take this for the 40 days I just realized I will have to to survive this course. I made three big mistakes today. Mistakes that were evidence of no natural talent and overall stupidity. Mistakes that were called out to the entire class:
1. I used the scale that has weights and is an abacus-type apparatus from the 1490's completely, entirely, thoroughly backwards, prompting Chef Amy to call out "_____(my name)< Why are you using the scale that way?"
2. I folded my baguette dough the wrong way, and I mean big time, the wrong way. You are supposed to end up with a 22 inch baguette (not 21 or 23 for you slackers, just 22). In order to achieve that, in the pre-shape (this may be too much info, but it is pertinent I promise), you must roll the dough in the lengthwise way. I forgot that, being so tired my fingers could barely feel the dough at all, and heard Chef Amy say, "____(my name)< Why are you rolling that way?"
3. When I put some baguettes in the oven,I was too aggressive and bashed five so hard against the back oven wall, they came out looking like "C's". (I wonder what I feel aggressive or angry about? hmm...) This promtped Chef Amy to say "_____(my name), Why would you use the ovens that way?
Obvously, all these so-called questions were rhetorical, and her way of alerting everyone to stay away from me. If our grades are interdependant on our fellow classmate, and they are, this was a warning that I was not a smart choice for a team....which SO reminded me of not being picked for the basketball, baseball, even handball teams....but I digress.
So, looking on the bright side (and one has to!!)< I was NOT on the team that forgot to add salt to the baguette dough, making 30 baguettes inedible. AND Chef Amy dropped a hot baguette as she was taking six out of the oven AND, while I may be repeating myself, I take tremendous pride in the fact that I did NOT cut myself nor lose a limb to the giant mixer nor burn any part of me getting too close to the scary ovens today!
sending love...I am off to take a bath, have a good cry and try to think of how this all could possibly be funny.
1. I used the scale that has weights and is an abacus-type apparatus from the 1490's completely, entirely, thoroughly backwards, prompting Chef Amy to call out "_____(my name)< Why are you using the scale that way?"
2. I folded my baguette dough the wrong way, and I mean big time, the wrong way. You are supposed to end up with a 22 inch baguette (not 21 or 23 for you slackers, just 22). In order to achieve that, in the pre-shape (this may be too much info, but it is pertinent I promise), you must roll the dough in the lengthwise way. I forgot that, being so tired my fingers could barely feel the dough at all, and heard Chef Amy say, "____(my name)< Why are you rolling that way?"
3. When I put some baguettes in the oven,I was too aggressive and bashed five so hard against the back oven wall, they came out looking like "C's". (I wonder what I feel aggressive or angry about? hmm...) This promtped Chef Amy to say "_____(my name), Why would you use the ovens that way?
Obvously, all these so-called questions were rhetorical, and her way of alerting everyone to stay away from me. If our grades are interdependant on our fellow classmate, and they are, this was a warning that I was not a smart choice for a team....which SO reminded me of not being picked for the basketball, baseball, even handball teams....but I digress.
So, looking on the bright side (and one has to!!)< I was NOT on the team that forgot to add salt to the baguette dough, making 30 baguettes inedible. AND Chef Amy dropped a hot baguette as she was taking six out of the oven AND, while I may be repeating myself, I take tremendous pride in the fact that I did NOT cut myself nor lose a limb to the giant mixer nor burn any part of me getting too close to the scary ovens today!
sending love...I am off to take a bath, have a good cry and try to think of how this all could possibly be funny.
Friday, March 5, 2010
My First Day
Hello world. Today was definitely not what I expected. I am one tired student baker. I now know why bakers often are red cheeked and grouchy....it hot near those big, scary ovens and your feet burn after 8 hours on your feet!!
I am going to take a hot bath and try to calm down, but I thought I should try and go on record with the high points (just an expression, there weren't any) of the day:
-The course vs the Saturday bread class I took here have nothing in common. Repeat, nothing. I now learn that this is called a "Professional" course of study and that was a "Recreational" class. They are as different as a medical doctor trained in intensive care medicine vs a bad actor who plays a doctor on TV>
The Class began and within the first 18 minutes, the teacher, a rather stern woman named Amy (not her real name, but I am afraid of our litigious society) who we were intructed to call Chef Amy, (again, she didn't say 'Amy", but just go with me on this) used these words: "....If you graduate." WHAT???????
How could that be? I paid (big) money for this....they can kick us out? Then, when I realized that happens all the time college and thought, wholly hell, I could be the family's first flunk out!
To better understand my day, here is some perspective on my new world order:
-My fellow classmates total 12 and we have 2-3 chef teachers depending on the hour. The class included many young women who just graduated the six month Pastry program and seem to have that carefree confidence of those who know the ropes. I can't tell if they are friendly and will share the scoop, or will leave me dangling so that I flunk out and they don't. The guys, brave souls five, are much more diverse: A Frenchman who owns a restaurant in Manhattan, a former cop who looks like he came from the set of the Sopranos, a medical assistant who works in the emergency room and a cute 20-something well built guy lets call Lyle. Lyle had my favorite response to the quesion we all had to answer: "Why are you taking this course?" He simply said, "I like fermentation"...and since no one could top that, or had the guts to ask what in god's name he meant, we all just nodded in agreement.
-We have one guy who is as big as my son-in-law, with a wingspan as wide as five baguettes. Unfortunately for him, unlike my very coordinated son-in-law, this guy's thumbs are as unruly as a Saint Bernard's paw, and he stayed after school to practic baguette rolling. Apparently his touch was so heavy that the school is worried patrons at the restaurant would think they were being served flatbread when they were expecting good baguettes. Amazingly, ridiculously, we in this novice class are responsible for baking bread for a pulic, legitimate, licensed restaurant. Are they crazy??
-Some favorite words/ expressions of this incredibly long day include: friction kills germs; if you can't lift a 50 lb of flour, maybe you should get out of the class now; the craggly piece on top of a baguette is called an ear, and it a very good thing. There is lame, bagel board, speed rack and couche. Pater Fermente means fermented dough, but you could call it a culture, a poolish, old dough, and my personal favorite, the mother.
So, I am beyond happy that the day is over. And, I am proud to report that I didn't cause blood to come out of my fingers nor lose a limb in the huge mixer. But this class is way hard, nutty scary, and I wish I had let my kids quit piano or college when they begged....since I wouldn't let them, I can't and that just makes me weepy.
sending love
I am going to take a hot bath and try to calm down, but I thought I should try and go on record with the high points (just an expression, there weren't any) of the day:
-The course vs the Saturday bread class I took here have nothing in common. Repeat, nothing. I now learn that this is called a "Professional" course of study and that was a "Recreational" class. They are as different as a medical doctor trained in intensive care medicine vs a bad actor who plays a doctor on TV>
The Class began and within the first 18 minutes, the teacher, a rather stern woman named Amy (not her real name, but I am afraid of our litigious society) who we were intructed to call Chef Amy, (again, she didn't say 'Amy", but just go with me on this) used these words: "....If you graduate." WHAT???????
How could that be? I paid (big) money for this....they can kick us out? Then, when I realized that happens all the time college and thought, wholly hell, I could be the family's first flunk out!
To better understand my day, here is some perspective on my new world order:
-My fellow classmates total 12 and we have 2-3 chef teachers depending on the hour. The class included many young women who just graduated the six month Pastry program and seem to have that carefree confidence of those who know the ropes. I can't tell if they are friendly and will share the scoop, or will leave me dangling so that I flunk out and they don't. The guys, brave souls five, are much more diverse: A Frenchman who owns a restaurant in Manhattan, a former cop who looks like he came from the set of the Sopranos, a medical assistant who works in the emergency room and a cute 20-something well built guy lets call Lyle. Lyle had my favorite response to the quesion we all had to answer: "Why are you taking this course?" He simply said, "I like fermentation"...and since no one could top that, or had the guts to ask what in god's name he meant, we all just nodded in agreement.
-We have one guy who is as big as my son-in-law, with a wingspan as wide as five baguettes. Unfortunately for him, unlike my very coordinated son-in-law, this guy's thumbs are as unruly as a Saint Bernard's paw, and he stayed after school to practic baguette rolling. Apparently his touch was so heavy that the school is worried patrons at the restaurant would think they were being served flatbread when they were expecting good baguettes. Amazingly, ridiculously, we in this novice class are responsible for baking bread for a pulic, legitimate, licensed restaurant. Are they crazy??
-Some favorite words/ expressions of this incredibly long day include: friction kills germs; if you can't lift a 50 lb of flour, maybe you should get out of the class now; the craggly piece on top of a baguette is called an ear, and it a very good thing. There is lame, bagel board, speed rack and couche. Pater Fermente means fermented dough, but you could call it a culture, a poolish, old dough, and my personal favorite, the mother.
So, I am beyond happy that the day is over. And, I am proud to report that I didn't cause blood to come out of my fingers nor lose a limb in the huge mixer. But this class is way hard, nutty scary, and I wish I had let my kids quit piano or college when they begged....since I wouldn't let them, I can't and that just makes me weepy.
sending love
Thursday, March 4, 2010
Starting School
It began as so many 'first days' of my life, with my heart both excited and nervous, my stomach full of butterflies and nausea. Or at least that is how I remember 1st grade, my date with David Soul and starting graduate school. To say nothing of my wedding day. But I digress.
Today, I began my life as a baker of bread. A real baker. A professional bread baker who, if I wanted to, could sell the bread I bake to you and your family. That's why I am here...I want to know how to do it right and feel confident when the panel of the Farmer's Market stares at me and asks whether I know what I am doing, I don't look too sketchy. And, I'd like to look legit without wearing this ridiculous baker outfit I had to wear all day. Lets talk just briefly about that uniform.
What I know so far is that the uniform i am being asked to wear meakes me feel less professional than I have ever felt. In fact, it makes me feel like I have regressed into a world of such bad fashion taste, that my mother would have curled her lips and said, trying to be positive, "Well, let's just hope that your classmates look as bad."
But I am excited. I have chosen this particular school becuase it is in New York City, tightly associated with many Food TV chefs, and has a program that is solely devoted to bread...no pastry, no cookies or cakes, nothing that does not have yeast! I know myself well enough to know that I don't have the parience or eye/hand coordination to create wedding cakes or roll fondant to that perfect and perfectly even height. I do think I have an instinct for flavor, a curiosity for why the bread I made at home tastes like leaden hockey pucks and am eager for a new intellectual adventure.
So, join me...its eight weeks, five days a week, seven hours a day. I will be as honest as i can. Let's see if i can learn how to bakemeacareer. And, lets see if I can be amusing at the same time!
sending love
Today, I began my life as a baker of bread. A real baker. A professional bread baker who, if I wanted to, could sell the bread I bake to you and your family. That's why I am here...I want to know how to do it right and feel confident when the panel of the Farmer's Market stares at me and asks whether I know what I am doing, I don't look too sketchy. And, I'd like to look legit without wearing this ridiculous baker outfit I had to wear all day. Lets talk just briefly about that uniform.
What I know so far is that the uniform i am being asked to wear meakes me feel less professional than I have ever felt. In fact, it makes me feel like I have regressed into a world of such bad fashion taste, that my mother would have curled her lips and said, trying to be positive, "Well, let's just hope that your classmates look as bad."
But I am excited. I have chosen this particular school becuase it is in New York City, tightly associated with many Food TV chefs, and has a program that is solely devoted to bread...no pastry, no cookies or cakes, nothing that does not have yeast! I know myself well enough to know that I don't have the parience or eye/hand coordination to create wedding cakes or roll fondant to that perfect and perfectly even height. I do think I have an instinct for flavor, a curiosity for why the bread I made at home tastes like leaden hockey pucks and am eager for a new intellectual adventure.
So, join me...its eight weeks, five days a week, seven hours a day. I will be as honest as i can. Let's see if i can learn how to bakemeacareer. And, lets see if I can be amusing at the same time!
sending love
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