Soup Is Not A Finger Food

Escape

THINGS ARE PROCEEDING APACE here at Casa de Soup. Yesterday, the insurance adjuster came to see things. It sounds like he's willing to coordinate with the estimates provided by the restoration / repair company. Meanwhile, I have to prepare a list of contents we lost and the replacement value of each. So, I've been Googling bikes and lawn mowers and string trimmers and basketball backboards and Little Tykes sliding board and hammocks and all kinds of stuff I'd forgotten we had stored in our shed.

Today's circus includes the "duct suckers" (air duct cleaners, who just arrived), and carpet cleaners, scheduled to be here soon. Meanwhile, I have a guy from DirecTV outside who seems to be very busy reinstalling our satellite dish. Things didn't start out so well this morning between me and Parfait (that's his first name and I'm not even making this up):

HIM: I can't bury your cable.

ME: Of course you can. The last guy did it.

HIM: But I will have to charge you.

ME: Yes, that's fine, whatever it takes.

HIM: But the ground is probably frozen.

ME: Well, we can try it first and see, can't we?

HIM: I don't have a shovel.

ME: You can use ours!

HIM: OK, I'll have to charge you $100. How do you want to pay me?

ME: Can I write you a check?

HIM: I would prefer cash.

ME:

HIM: I'll give you a receipt.

ME: I don't have cash on me.

HIM: Well, when you take your son to school [which he knew was about to happen], you can stop and get some cash.

ME: Um, no, I have a lot of stuff going on today, due to the fact that my house almost burned to the ground, and I don't have time to stop. It will be easier for me to write you a check. Can you cash a check?

HIM: Oh. It's okay.

Every time I call them, DirecTV thanks me for being a loyal customer since 2004. Let me assure you, it isn't because of their stellar installation contractors, because the last time we had a guy come out we had much the same go-round. No, we have them mostly because they are the lesser of two evils, because Comcast/XFinity is operated by Satan himself. We can't get Verizon Fios where we live, otherwise we'd switch in a heartbeat.

So I have Parfait digging in the back yard and Ozzie sucking gunk out of my ducts, and who knocks on my front door but two Jehovah's Witnesses, offering me copies of the Watchtower! Fortunately they saw the work trucks in the driveway and didn't ask for time to talk. I thanked them for the copies and away they went.

Fortunately, Calgon is going to take me away from the madness, albeit briefly. In 25 hours I will board a plane, destination Ft. Myers, Florida -

 

where the forecast includes sunshine, temperatures in the '80s, plenty of wine, a float on a boat, and probably no one under the age of 70. I'm going - solo! - to visit my mom and her husband at their new home.

For the record, this little jaunt was planned before my home almost burned down, but I need it a hundred times more now than I did when I booked it earlier this month.  Big thanks to Curt for making it possible for me to clear my head of smoke and soot and replacement value and contractors and snow and all the what-ifs circulating in my brain.

Now if you'll excuse me, it looks like Parfait is done and our TV is working again. Hallelujah! He has asked me to make the check payable to a company name, not him personally, so nice try on the "pay me in cash", friend, but let's keep this one above-board.

Pitching pfennigs

IN A RECENT SEARCH FOR BLOG INSPIRATION, I was flipping through old photo albums. I came upon the scrapbook I put together of our honeymoon trip to Europe. The photographs and mementos brought back some great memories of a once-in-a-lifetime trip. However, the details have kind of... faded. After all, we got married a hundred years ago  in a land before cell phones in 1993, and the frankly, my memory just isn’t what it used to be.

Lucky, then, that I kept a travel journal of the trip, and made Curt write in it, too! (Kids: Listen to your mom when she makes you do this. My mom made us girls keep one when we took a big trip through the south, and even though I thought it was stupid then (sorry, mom), I realize now how wise it really was.) If only I knew where that one was.

Anyway. It was a grand whirlwind of a trip, including stops in Germany, Paris and England, cobbled together on the cheap, which is something at which we excel. And so it was that on Monday morning, October 4, 1993, we arrived in Frankfurt, Germany, bleary-eyed but eagery to party experience all Europe had to offer. Our good friends Jim and Beth, who had been transferred there due to Beth’s job with the Department of State, were our hosts and tourguides.

We were in Germany, after all, so naturally, we drank lots of beer, ate lots of comfort food and toured plenty of old castles. But the best anecdote from the trip happened when the four of us got a little, um, sidetracked and ended up in the middle of nowhere. Here’s how we recounted the story in our travel journal, the day after the adventure:

MEG WRITING: Finally got around after a good breakfast of cornmeal pancakes and going to the travel agent at the consultate (Beth and me, to book the train to Paris) and the bank (Curt and Jim, to get money). We ate pastries in each train station (Frankfurt and Wiesbaden) – all the pastries are top-rate around here – who’d think you could get yummy pastries in a train station?!

...and not only pastries, but also, beer. You can drink a beer in the train station! You don't have to speak German to figure out what a Trinkhalle is. 
 
Anyway, we hopped on the S-bahn train in Frankfurt to Wiesbaden and transferred to go out the Rhine Valley. Rode out to a cute little town called Lorch – all was closed for the season! [My memory says this town was quite small. More about Lorch on Wikipedia.] So we got back on the train (after causing a commotion in the train station by pitching 10 pfennig coins against the wall) to Rudesheim.

Pitching pfennigs in a German train station. See Wikipedia for more on "pitching pennies."

Here, we hit paydirt – tasted wines in three different places. It was always served in a thick, sometimes colored-stemmed glass. This was fun, especially at the third place, where Beth & Jim revealed that they got married last year before they came here!...

We tasted lots of wine in this charming, quaint village. 

We went for dinner – I had a meatloaf-like hunk o’meat with gravy and fries and Curt ate Sauerbraten. Also more wine. We were working our way back to the train station – stopped in a wine shop and to have coffee and hot chocolate; got really involved in pfennig-pitching again and followed a bunch of Germans right onto….THE WRONG TRAIN! Took us a whole stop to realize the Rhine was on the same side [of the train] as when we went out.

All of a sudden, we were BACK IN LORCH, which was still closed and not [looking] nearly as quaint as it had earlier…

CURT WRITING: …We had just about no money, no trains back to Frankfurt, no way to call a cab and no hotels within 10K of good ole Lorch. As if we’ll ever forget it – I’ll recall this night on Route 42 in backwoods Germany.

We walked along through Lorch and finally came out to the main highway. Our choices were:

1. Hitchhike

2. Place a call at the SOS box

 
I found this shot of Lorch on Wikipedia. You can see the train tracks and even the station in the bottom/left corner, running next to the highway, which is next to the river and the wee little village.

We decided, in desperation, to thumb it. It took us FIVE SECONDS TO GET A RIDE! The first car by stopped. It was some excellent long-haired dude in a tiny little Citroen. He drove us to the next town, where there were still no trains. So this guy drove us all the way to Wiesbaden where the “S” commuter trains from Frankfurt extend.

“Seth” – our Aryan hero [as we’d dubbed him – he never offered his name] – wouldn’t take any money, and just sped off into the night. [As I recall we left what little cash we had left on his backseat as a token of our gratitude.] The trip back to JimBeth’s was uneventful from Weisbaden on in. We arrived home at 1:05 a.m. with all our money, [something] which seemed totally impossible when we stood in the rain in Lorch. Moral: There is no stinking moral. This is just what can happen when you wing it.

MEG TODAY: So picture it. We were a bunch of semi-drunk twenty-somethings celebrating love and our friendship as we chugged guzzled sipped our way through the beautiful Rhine river valley on a glorious autumn day. Still giddy from the day’s fun, and a little tired, too, we piled on the train, happy to be heading back home. It wasn’t until the train had started moving that I remember Beth looking out the window and calmly saying, “Hey – wasn’t the river on our left on the way out here?” Then, three beats of silence while our brains processed this observation, after which we realized our grave mistake. We hopped off the train, it left, and… realized we'd just gotten off the last train for the night and were stuck in a tiny German town in the middle of nowhere.

As if on cue, it began to rain! I remember feeling a little wary of the hitchhiking plan, but it was like 11pm and we really had no alternative. But no sooner did we stick our thumbs out than this car shows up, and the dude driving was super-nice. We all piled into this tiny vehicle, a la clown car, totally at this guy’s mercy. Turns out, he’d spent some time in Texas, spoke great English, and was listening to some English music (was it Eric Clapton or Bruce Springsteen? I don’t recall).

I think it was Jim who dubbed him “Seth, our Aryan Angel.” Three years later, we named our first baby Seth, not after our angel, but because it was a family name on Curt’s side. It was only recently that I remembered about Seth the Aryan Angel and thought what a nice coincidence that was.

And THAT, friends, is how I ended up hitchhiking in Germany on my honeymoon!

Weekend in PA

THANKSGIVING WEEKEND for us was a mix of longstanding traditions and new experiences.  We began our favorite weekend of the year with our traditional Thursday morning drive north, complete with all 18 minutes of Arlo Guthrie's Alice's Restaurant. Thanksgiving wouldn't be Thanksgiving unless my kids suffer through this tradition!

After a fantastic mid-day dinner at my aunt and uncle's place in Lancaster PA, we swung by Curt's aunt and uncle's home for a visit before ending up at his parents' place, where we made ourselves right at home by making sure all of our stuff was strewn all over their house within minutes of our arrival.

Friday morning featured some shopping, but not the Black Friday kind of shopping. I avoid that at all costs. No, instead we visited a market run by some local Amish. While I was checking out, a nice young Amish man walked in with eight loaves of homemade bread still warm from their Amish oven. I added a loaf to my stack of goodies, and didn't protest much when my mother-in-law insisted she photograph me in front of the very horse and buggy responsible for the fresh bread delivery:

 

Later that day, we found ourselves at the fine establishment my father-in-law calls the "Hoot 'n' Holler."  While he schooled his son in the finer points of barroom pool, I made friends with the very patrons after whom the bar's delicious, handcrafted pumpkin ale was named.  Aaron and Patty were hosting some friends of theirs who'd traveled aaaaaall the way from Curacao, which is all

 
...to Central PA, which is not at all like this, which means they must have come to experience the Local Culture, which, to my pumpkin-ale-soaked brain, meant I was an AMBASSADOR! I needed to show these lovely people a Good Time! Besides, how many times do people from Curacao come stumblin' in to the Hoot 'n' Holler? (Answer: Not many.) So, we raised our glasses and sang happy birthday to the one who came all the way from the islands to celebrate turning 41, and I took lots of photos on my cell phone, none of which turned out.  But it was fun!

Saturday, I got to treat my mother and mother-in-law to lunch at The Kind Cafe in Selinsgrove, PA. What a cute place! If you're ever passing through the area, go there.  The coffee was good, the food tasty and the people were really, well, kind. Nice and kind.

Sunday morning, I made crepes for breakfast, then we gathered all of our stuff that was strewn about the house, stuffed all of it into our car, and departed. But there was one more tradition we needed to bookend our weekend: The annual cutting of the Christmas Tree at Pikes Peak Acres, owned by Curt's aunt and uncle.  And it was all

 

and all

 

and I would like to publicly thank Aunt Eleanor for providing Peezer with not one, not two but three candy canes so that he would stop freaking out after he dropped and broke the first two:

 

And so, we strapped the tree to the top of the Wagon Queen Family Truckster Suburban and headed south through heavier-than-normal traffic, past several auto accidents and the ensuing backups, to our Home Sweet Home.

THE END.

We Do Dewey Beach

WE SPENT LAST WEEK in Dewey Beach, Delaware. It was a typical beach week - I wore nothing but plastic shoes and never bothered with makeup. The kids stayed up late and slept in. We made it down to the beach each afternoon and stayed till after the lifeguards dragged their stands up to the dunes. We went out and partied every single night! We ate junk food - and also some of the best jumbo crabs any of us had ever tasted. In fact, Peezer remembered that there were a few left over and requested one for breakfast the next morning:

My kid, picking a crab for breakfast. Or more accurately, waiting for me to pick it for him. 

The surf was rough - big waves and a strong undertow, and the ocean floor dropped off causing the water to become deep really fast.  The air temperature was sizzling, so getting wet was the only way to cool off.  During one such attempt, I ventured in to about waist deep, but it wasn't long before a giant wave like the ones in my recurring nightmare and the undertow got the better of me. I went ass over teacup in a most undignified fashion. There must have been a pound of sand in my (Mom Skirt) bathing suit, but at least it stayed on. My baseball cap and prescription sunglasses, however, were lost at sea. The rest of the week, I couldn't go near the water without one of the kids yelling, hey Mom, are you gonna lose your hat and glasses again?

No, kids. No I am not.

I'm still finding sand in my ears.

What's a beach vacation without a trip to the boardwalk? Well, if you're a kid, it's no vacation at all. Me, I would rather bathe in hydrochloric acid no, really could take or leave those places, where leave equals "never go there."

One night, we ventured out to adjacent Rehoboth Beach's boardwalk. It featured a place called Funland, which I felt could not have been more ironically named. I don't love crowds, I would rather shove needles under my fingernails have no patience for waiting in lines, and I'm not a big fan of amusement rides. Funland featured all of the above... plus a couple of scary clowns, thrown in to traumatize the adults:

GAAAAH!

Why, I ask you, whyy???

I was waiting for Peezer to emerge from this giant tot climbing thing, wondering what would happen if he got eaten by that giant clown on the outside of it never came out... I was relieved to finally see him working his way back to terra firma, following a couple of girls. When the girls got out, they were shrieking EWWW, MOMMY, IT SMELLED LIKE PEE IN THE SLIDING BOARD, SOMEONE MUST HAVE PEED IN THERE! I sniffed my child when he exited; at least he didn't smell like some other kid's pee. But the germs! Ew, yuk, gaaaak, please pass the Purell.

It's no wonder I've become a curmudgeon. (Can a female be a curmudgeon, or is that a title reserved for crotchety old men?)

Anyway, I tried hard to be a good sport as I held my kids' Candy Kitchen bags and dodged double strollers and puddles of vomit wayward parents children, and you know why I suffered through it tolerated the whole thing?

Because of that smile...and also,

...and before you say anything, YES, I do have two other kids, but they were off riding some vomit-inducing gravity-defying rides, and also it's not cool to photograph your teen in public. DUH. 

The best move of the week was taking our pal Laurel to help babysit! It enabled us to party as if we were still in our 20s get out and enjoy some of Dewey Beach's finest nightlife. A live band at a beach bar? THAT's my kind of Funland.

Thanks, Laurel!

One last relaxing shot for you:

 
Aaaaaaaah. What a great week.

Childless (this week)

DON'T GET ME WRONG: I love my boys. More than words can say. With every fiber of my being; to the very depths of my core. Even the fleeting thought of something bad happening to one of them causes my heart to quicken, my respirations to increase, and a huge lump in my throat. Each of my boys is unique in his own way. They're precious gifts, blessings from God, and we are thankful every day for them.

But this week? They're four hours away, frolicking with their grandparents and their cousins, and I couldn't be happier.

Parents of school-age children know that the school week is a grind. There is homework to be kept track of, schedules to mind. There are children to be nagged reminded to do their chores / homework / get off the XBox already / go to bed / when was the last time you showered, stinky??

Summer camps are little relief. First of all, they're expensive! Second of all, it's a whole new routine you have to learn. The regular camp day is usually not as long as a regular school day, and it's likely you'll be dropping off and picking up your kid at some location that is less convenient than their school. Plus, there are lunches to pack and sunscreen to be applied and electronic gadgets to be left at home, lest they be lifted by some random camper.

So yesterday, we rendezvoused with Curt's parents at a McDonalds parking lot in south-central PA. We handed them the key to the 'Burb, with all of its precious cargo. They handed us the key to their sleek, crumb-free German sedan. We shed tears waved goodbye, then watched them head north while we giggled pointed their car south.

First stop? The Ott House Pub in Emmitsburg, Maryland. Located near the National Fire Training Academy, this bar draws trainees and other public servants from all over. They leave their patches, which get placed under the bar and tacked on the wall. Curt enjoyed the wings and we drank drafts and played pool and pinball and fed money into the electronic jukebox. For, like, a few hours. Which is not something you do when you've a five year old in tow... or, for that matter, an impatient teenager.

Then, we meandered our way south, avoiding Route 15 because the back roads are always more fun. (It's all about the journey.) We decided to stop at The Cracked Claw - someplace we've been by many times but haven't yet visited. Our bartender was great and the beer was cold, and I bet the food is good (we didn't have dinner) ... but the decor inside looks like it hasn't been updated since the first Bush administration. This site also boasts an Off-Track Betting facility, but by the time we got there it was closed. Because it was Sunday night and what are you doing haunting the bars, anyway? Shouldn't you be at home with your family??

*crickets chirping*

Soooo... we headed home and watched a baseball game on the big HDTV in the family room, which is usually showing some drivel from the Nickelodeon family of channels.  I made a pizza, but I could just as easily have eaten a bowl of cereal. We stayed up too late. We cursed like sailors, really loud. We did not have to clean up anyone's spills or dishes or wrappers. We did not have to force anyone to shower or go to bed or shush anyone whose late-night plans featured loud video games in the bedroom across from ours. It was... quiet. And relaxed. And quiet, did I say it was quiet? Because it was. Shhhhh.

And? We have the added bonus of knowing that our children are having some quality bonding time with their grandparents! They'll be breathing in the fresh country air, visiting cousins, and also? Shooting things!

Two years ago, when Seth was confirmed into the church, his grandparents commemorated this religious milestone by giving him a gun. Because nothing says "Praise Jesus!" like the gift of firearms. But it was OK - the gun stays at the grandparents' house and is only used under the close supervision of an exceedingly well-qualified Pappy.  Well, this year, The Boss was confirmed, and this year he gets his gun.  Which he will love because the kid likes to shoot. He just spent a bunch of money on a new airsoft gun.

As I write this, it's 7:00 a.m. I'm not frantically trying to finish because I have to get the Peezer up and around and drop him off and still make it to work on time. Curt is long gone. It's... quiet. Today, I like it. By the end of the week, I'll miss the mayhem. I won't miss the crumbs or sticky spills or the clutter, but I will miss the mayhem, and I will miss the kids.

But that's five whole days from now.