Rox and Roll

A Prayer for my beloved Vermont

For five years, our family has owned a home in the woods of Vermont, in a fantastic little town called Quechee that has nearly been severely devastated by today's floods.  I don't even have words to describe the way my heart broke as I watched video of our little covered bridge being torn, plank by plank, by the raging fury of the Ottaquechee River.  Simon Pearce, the renowned glassmaking shop and restaurant, built originally as a mill and made of brick, may have to come down before it's rebuilt.  And I hear our realty agent's office, our post office, and a host of other sites are all but gone.  Neighboring Woodstock fared little better, with its Farmers Market (where, each summer, we buy the most amazing tiny little delicious strawberries) underwater, and its legendary Inn evacuated and flooded.  Over these years with whole summers spent in a small radius, I've befriended shopkeepers, waitstaff, farmers -- and oh, the farmers, what have they left? -- cheesemakers, artisans of many sorts ... and I can't get my arms around what may have happened to so many of them, to their life's work, to their homes.  Vermonters are hardy, but how hardy can they be when they call "home" a place that may no longer exist?

In 1928, Vermont native, U.S. President Calvin Coolidge, toured Vermont, addressing its citizens in part to discuss successful recovery from the last horrific floods to hit the area, in 1927.  (That's right -- there is likely to be no one alive who remembers the last floods of the proportions witnessed yesterday in Vermont.)  His words, they stick to my ribs like sustenance.  President Coolidge said, "I love Vermont because of her hills and valleys, her scenery and invigorating climate, but most of all because of her indomitable people.  They are a race of pioneers who have almost beggared themselves to serve others.  If the spirit of liberty should vanish in other parts of our Union, and support of our institutions should languish, it could all be replenished from the generous store held by the people of this brave little state of Vermont."

I choose to spend time in Vermont because of the beauty of its land and the character of its people.  The landscape will never be the same after yesterday, but the people remain.  Thank God, the people remain.  They will rebuild, and I hope to help them.  Us.  For while I do love California, my heart stays in Vermont.  It's there I would be if I could be anyplace, even today, even yesterday. 

If you are the praying kind, please join me in this one for my beloved Vermont:

Dear Lord,

Please replenish the stores of strength of the citizens of Vermont, for they are going to need plenty extra in the days and weeks ahead as they begin to rebuild.  Especially bless, keep, and help the rescuers who are working, tirelessly and selflessly, to mitigate the danger wreaked by these floods.  For those who have lost homes, loved ones, animals, their livelihood, and more, please wrap them in your love as they grieve and help them to find their way when they are ready.  Bless them with comfort and, eventually, peace, so that they can return to the best life they can craft out of this chaos.  Remind them that they are capable, brave, and, above all, Vermonters: indomitable pioneers who can always begin anew while never losing a sense of belonging to the history that will always live in these Green Mountains, a past of virtue, fierce independence, freedom, and unity that can never be taken away.  Remind the world, Lord, that Manhattan may have escaped these raging waters, but Vermont and its people did not.  Shine your light on Vermont, so that the world may see the help it needs to rebuild and to care for its people again.  God, please bless, keep, and restore to health the brave little state of Vermont.

Amen.

The day I remembered why I'm here

For the first time this summer, I enjoyed a day to myself, so I took a long, long walk -- even though it was over 90 degrees and overly humid -- and I appreciated what I heard: nothing but nature.  Nary a car passed me as I walked up and down my dirt lane.  A chipmunk stopped to say hello, and I saw fresh deer tracks.  There were birds galore: grey catbirds singing their "mew mew" songs, tree swallows, warblers, and even a couple of red-tailed hawks circling near the tip-top of our mountain.

Because I didn't have to consider anyone else's needs or wants for lunch, I took myself out for some fantastic crabcakes -- food that no one else in my family enjoys.  I shopped.  I strolled.  I read a book on a park bench until I became tired of sitting in the heat.

And then, I came home, filled a jug with water, and just sat on a rock at the end of my long gravel driveway, staring at my little red cottage in the woods.  This place, it conjures up a lot of thoughts.  What once was an affordable indulgence, a five-hour drive away from our former home in New Jersey, is now, at times, an albatross: a six-plus hour flight, plus a couple hour's drive in a rental car that is expensive to return when it's only one-way.  Worse, we can't realistically just come for a weekend; the cost of flights is just way too high.  And while we offset the expense of the place as best as we can through renting it out, we now have a way higher cost of living in California, and this cottage in the woods seems, at time, to be a weight on our shoulders that is a bit too heavy in an economy that isn't forgiving.  It's a bind in which we're lucky to be, on one hand; it's a colossal mistake, on the other.  To me, right now, it's three more weeks on the calendar, and I have to reflect on what to do: what projects, like the many fallen trees from recent storms, probably need attention; whether or not I should try to scrape and paint the flaking ski locker myself instead of the expense of hiring out the work; who to ask to look in on things during the long, cold winter which may be lucky enough to see some tenants -- or may not if the debt talks fail and the economy tanks again. 

But despite the nonsensicalness of it all, as it's a place we should not have in a place we often cannot be, we return, every summer, for as long as we can.  We return, and, when the kids are here, we hear their footsteps crashing through the forest.  We see them build forts out of sticks and rocks, and we hand them fishing nets and a paint bucket in which to catch and store frogs.  They fall asleep, some nights, to the glow of fireflies, caught and stored in a homemade lantern, waiting for parents can set them free again.  We research every bug and beetle that crosses our path.  We learn to identify birds by their song, trees by their leaves, and poison ivy by, unfortunately, walking past it one too many times.  We witness magnificent thunderstorms that shake our physical and metaphysical foundations.  We sleep hard, in the oxygen-rich air donated by the green trees that stretch on domed mountains as far as our eyes can see. 

We do all sorts of things here in Vermont that we do not do in California.

And maybe for that reason, as I sit on my rock and gaze at my house, this place feels more like home, as it lacks the distractions that make life in California seem so much more difficult.  Sadly, I have fewer friends here, blessedly less to do, and, frustratingly, little good produce to eat.  And yet, I could sit on this rock for a spot of time each day for the rest of my days, inviting friends from California to come and sit with me, especially if they come bearing fruit, as I'm feeling scurvyish.  We could take a kayak on the Ottaquechee and marvel at how still the river is and how the biggest, most beautiful weeping willow I've ever seen reflects so perfectly in the glass-like water.  We can watch the fish swim around our boat, and we can listen to the sounds of nothing: no cell phones, no car horns, no airplanes overhead. 

I can't even blog much, or e-mail much, because I can't stand the sound of the typing.

Gloria Swanson once said, "all creative people should be required to leave California for three months every year."  I think she's right.  Because it's not until I'm here, sitting on my rock, surrounded by still, quiet peace, that I realize how full my head gets of the noise of everyday life in Silicon Valley, and how much I need this reset button -- or reset rock, such as it is. 

It's not easy to be here in so many ways, and, yet, it's the easiest thing I do, because I'm more at home here than I am anywhere else. 

And thus, I remember why I'm here: it's to hear the call of "less is more."  There are ways to take this noise out of my very happy, but very loud, life out West.  I can't take a quiet hike right out of my door, but I can ride my bike to where I can.  I can take the family with me and insist that cell phones stay behind.  I can block off the time in the calendar and insist that we retreat to a place absent of distractions.  For it's in those times when we realize -- more existentially -- why we're here: to be together, to love each other richly, and to appreciate the gifts both inside and around us that can't be bought in any store. 

All that ... from sitting on a rock.

Summer Sleep-away Camp, Year Two, Part One

Last year, we sent Petunia to her first summer sleep-away camp: 7 days, 6 nights at a Girl Scout camp in the Vermont wilderness with a focus on horseback riding.  We'd heard about the camp from a good friend of hers who loved it, and, after discussing it with the friend's mom, we felt it was a good fit for Petunia.  So, we stocked up: half-chaps, riding boots, a mess kit, and what felt like a gazillion dollars later, we loaded the car and dropped her ... at a tent.  Seriously, the camp involved platforms topped with canvas tents that did not close, perched on the side of a cliff.  Since Petunia has a serious falling-out-of-bed issue, this posed some deep questions for us, such as: when she falls out of bed, hits the platform, and tumbles clean out of the tent, exactly how far down the hill will she roll before she wakes up?  And, of course, she did fall out, just the other direction, and she didn't wake up -- just slept on the floor. 

The more important pool we should've spread around the internet question we should've asked is how she'd be protected from encephalitis mosquitoes in a tent that doesn't really close at a time of year when it rains almost every day.  And in retrospect, I should've returned to the camp with a mosquito net, Africa-style, because the girl came home with 56 bites despite coating herself with Deep Woods Off regularly.  That's right: a whole lot of Deet yielded 56 welts, huge ones, as she's particularly sensitive to bug bites.  I itched just looking at her for weeks on end, because that's how long it took for some of the marks to disappear. To Petunia's credit, she was a great sport about it, but she did ask to go to a camp next year that involved walls, windows, and doors.

So, we recently dropped Petunia at Sleep-away Camp 2: 6 days, 5 nights at a co-ed former 4-H camp in the Vermont wilderness.  11 girls and 1 counselor in a filthy dirty cabin the size of my bathroom with a side of spiders much bigger than last year's mosquitos.  Fighting back tears and giving me a huge hug at the car, Petunia simply asked: "Mom, do you think I could go to a camp that's a little less rustic next year?" 

The part of me that grew up in rural West Virginia thinks that the dirt and the bugs and the overcrowding -- well, that's just summer sleep-away camp.  And this camp has an actual chlorinated pool, beyond the walled-and-windowed-and-doored cabin, so it does seem like a step up.

But the other part of me -- the bicoastal, especially NorCal part of me -- feels her pain.  She wants the time away at a place where she knows no one (that's important to her, which boggles my mind because I couldn't have done that).  She just wants it to be some modicum of clean and with fewer bugs.  Is that too much to ask?

Maybe it is, but her next sleepaway camp, in a few weeks, involves staying in a college dorm and playing tennis.  There are even bathrooms inside.  It'll feel like true luxury to her, I bet.

I plan to write Part Two of this post when Petunia returns.  I'll count the bug bites ... maybe do a year to year chart or graph?  Or launch a predictor app for next year?  I'm itchy already.

 

Vacation Brain, and BlogHer: Here I Come!

At first, I thought I'd write up a silly meme, leaving it up just to have "something new" here, using vacation brain as an excuse.  Do you know the difference between writer's block and vacation brain?   Writer's block is when you're unable to write, and vacation brain is when you're too lazy to write.  And lazy, right now, is a very good thing, even though it's not so good for my blog.  Seriously, this started out looking like it was going to be One Miserable Summer, and guess what?  It's been the best summer ever.  Ever.  And I've learned a lesson: when I fill myself with dread and fear, upset and disgust, negativity and reactivity, the only outcome is misery.  (I know: duh.)  Despite having those emotions when we left CA for VT, I decided on the airplane to dump them over flyover country, and get this: it worked!  I showed up in New England with a huge smile on my face, and it's been there pretty much since.  That's called "we reap what we sow" -- or, as my favorite boarding school teacher said, "you buy the ticket, you take the ride."  I was on a roller coaster before arriving here, but now, I'm a passenger on a gondola steered by one hot gondolier (who just returned to work today... shout out to the Guv for bringing home the benjamins!).  Anyway, the difference between the roller coaster and the gondola is amazing.  My psyche is healed.  Now we're going back to CA soon, where I'll endure a bit more tumult (no matter what I do) before settling back into real life... but guess what's nestled among here (peace), there (tumult) and a shiny happy future?  BlogHer! 

At this year's BlogHer conference, I'll have something I didn't have many of there last year: lots of friends.  Friends!  And we are going to par-tay like it's 1990-something, and we're all still in college.  I knocked the conference last year because I thought it was a drunk mommy swag fest; but, now, I've decided that I like me some drunk mommy parties, because we deserve it.  Especially after the year we've had!  So NYC, be on notice that The Mommies Are Coming.  Whoot, whoot!

Because I do go for the education as well as for the experience, this year I signed up for BlogHer's White House Project.  I don't know that I have political ambitions, but the Project educates women to advocate better for their issues of concern.  While I have a lot of concerns, as a mom, my #1 is youth safety, especially in the cyber-arena.  I'll be there with an ear to the ground for skills I can use to advocate against cyberbullying and for cybersafety.  And I'll write about the White House Project and issues of concern to parents on my new blog, Rox on a Soapbox!  I couldn't be more excited about having a home for my punditry, and it's about to have a kick-a$$ design thanks to a friend who is a very talented artist and fellow Wesleyan alum.  Stay tuned for that!

As for the rest of life, you'll notice that I don't really have a health update.  That's because I feel pretty good!  My doctor didn't think I'd have problems returning to New England, probably thanks to my nine zillion pulmonary medications, but, since this is where the ten months of hell worsened, I remained unsure.  It's nice to say "I feel good!"  Let me rephrase, James Brown-style: "WOW!  I feel good, da da dah da da dah dah..."  As for the rest of the fam, the Guv is back to work after hanging with us in the mountains, squeezing in a couple of rounds of golf including walking a "highland" (read: mountainside) golf course in 100+-degree, very-humid heat.  He takes the USGA walking pledge too seriously, but he lived, so I won't complain.  Our daughter Petunia is presently at sleep-away camp, where she's riding horses and hopefully not falling out of bed... her nickname is "Tornado," and the problem with that is that, if she rolls out, she'll fall out of the whole darned canvas/platform tent and find herself outside (as the canvas is not affixed to the platform).  As the Guv would say, "but she'll get a story out of it!"  Sigh... And Dash, he is at science camp, having been joined last minute by the only dear and sweet little friend he has here.  I am super-psyched that he has a friend with him this week, as it'll offset his missing his sister a little bit.  And, hopefully, it'll make him tired, because I've never had a week totally alone with him before.  I'm looking forward to it, but only if he sleeps.  Vegas is taking odds on that, and they're not in my favor.

Soooo... that's what's up in the world of Rox and Roll.  How is your summer going? 

The Bi-Coastal Life

I love living in Silicon Valley, and I highly doubt we'll ever live anywhere else full-time.  The energy of the place is infectious, and it seems like smart people are everywhere.  Beautiful climate + positive energy + smart people = as close to heaven as I'm going to get until I die.  I could wax poetically about the palm trees, about sitting next to Steve Jobs at Fraiche as we both enjoyed our oatmeal with blueberries, and, most of all, how the latter has come to be no big deal -- for while there is only one Steve Jobs, somewhere around me is his heir apparent.  Somewhere nearby is the next nobody with the little idea that -- overnight! -- is going to be the next Somebody with the next Big Idea to sweep the world.  Entrepreneurship is alive and well in Silicon Valley.  I've bandied about many a business idea with people over wine and pizza, knowing that we might make them happen; we're in the right place, we know the right people, and it could be huge.  (Everyone actually believing that about their own idea is what makes the place great.)

BUT...

You knew that "but" was coming, right?

It's. Always. On.  Life, that is, in Silicon Valley, doesn't take a vacation.  There is no rest.  There are always places to be and people to see ... breakfasts and coffees and lunches and coffees and dinners and yogurts and plugging people in and connections and new apps and new ventures and this event and that fundraiser and this party and that awareness-raiser and OMG-did-you-hear-the-latest-buzz and new investments and new opportunities and new friends... and that's on top of Girl Scouts, PTA, soccer, basketball, t-ball, softball, playdates, book club, life. 

And every single bit of that is absolutely, positively, unquestionably wonderful...  but it is exhausting.

I feel like my life was good in New Jersey, but, in Silicon Valley, it's nearly-perfect.  I have girlfriends, and a book club, and, for God's sake, a wood-fired pizza oven and a convertible in the family.  I got my dog, my kids are athletic and happy and friend-rich, and the Guv and I actually spend a lot of time together.  We didn't have as many of those those things in New Jersey.  We made some exceptional friends in quality but not in quantity; getting to know each other didn't come easily when it felt like everyone was from there already and hung with the crowd with whom they were raised.  Plus, the Guv's commute to work was 1+ hours each way, and that cut way into our time together.  The four-minute bike ride that replaced that time in the car is a real blessing.  (Biking anywhere in CA feels like a blessing!)

In any event, back to the "BUT": my kids don't know how to shut down.  Rephrased, my kids need to remember how "off" is okay.  For God's sake, they're only children.  I work hard in CA to make sure they have time for "free play," and I try hard not to overschedule them ... but we do require participation in a sport (for health, not competitive, reasons), and softball and t-ball season took five days per week.  Squeeze in playdates right and left (I'm not great at saying "no" to those), and, suddenly, my kids are busy.  And I get really mad at myself for that, because you know what?  I don't think kids should be busy.  I think they should be bored.  I think my boredom led me to read more books than many, which contributed to my intellectual growth and spurred my fantastic imagination, which has made me a lot of who I am.  (Some people might think that's good... some not -- lol.)  I want my kids to have to fill their time with whatever they choose (within limits, mostly when it comes to anything electronic), especially because they end up making pretty good choices after the "nothingness" stops overwhelming them.  It's kind of like my favorite "anti-coloring book" -- if all kids are given are pictures with lines in which they color, well, they never learn to color outside of the lines.  And, darn it, I want my kids to paint whole landscapes of their own creation.  So...

We leave Silicon Valley for a while each summer, clinging to a cottage in Vermont that we bought in our New Jersey days to escape the miserable central-inland NJ summers.  I hated New Jersey in the summer, and I don't ever say "hated."  So we came to Vermont, where it was cooler and crisper and a little less crowded but not a lot different from New Jersey -- friendly but distant, things to do but not too much.  We came a lot -- every long weekend, sometimes even for a quick overnight.  We lived in two places.  Now, we're back in Vermont after a ten-month absence in which we rented our house a few times.  After getting over the weirdness of someone else having been in my space, it's so nice to be settling back in to ... nothing.

Oh, how the kids have repeated that word: "Moommmmmmm, we have nothing to do..." ... "Mommmmm, there's nothing I want to eat in the cupboard" (side note: in a vacation house, mom stocks NO junk food) ... "Mommmmm, I want nothing to do with my brother/sister/dog right now..." ... "Mooooommmmmm, if I have nothing to do, I'm just going to sleep."

To all of the above, I say: GOOD.

After getting over their initial misery, they're back to what they did last summer, minus the vernal pool (there wasn't enough snow this year to fill it, so our little extra-special chunk of nature is MIA): they are traipsing through the forest, making light sabers out of sticks; they are taking walks with each other and with the dog; they are playing wiffleball, trying to figure out how to set up the badminton net, stalking chipmunks, and watching and waiting to catch the first firefly.  They're building with Legos, playing with trains, and playing loads of board and card games.  They've built Roxaboxen and lived there intermittently.  They're reading books together, reading books alone, taking naps and making breakfast in bed for me.  Sometimes we go to the pool or to the lake.  Sometimes we call friends to join us, but, mostly, we enjoy time together as a family.  Sometimes we're hermits, staying in our PJs past noon and going back to bed after lunch.

In other words, most of the time we're doing all the kid stuff that I did as a kid in the summertime ... and that we seldom have time to do during our real life back in Silicon Valley.  Like I did last year (and failed, but I'll try harder this year, I swear!), I vow once again to try harder to find that time on BOTH coasts, even when given the added complication of school.  Sadly, though, it's not as much their fault that they don't have as much of that precious kid-time, because, back in Cali, I have a to-do list that sometimes competes with theirs.  Here, the house is littler and cleaner and emptier, and all of us have few commitments.

So... this next school year is the one in which I underpromise and undercommit and, hopefully, overdeliver.  If only I could return to CA, empty out my house so that there's not as much to keep clean, keep the fun with friends and just slow it all down to where it's only wine and pizza and the really important stuff.  I have to find the midpoint between "everything" and "nothing."  It's my bicoastal balance, I guess, and I love it... once I readjust each time.

Grateful in the Green Mountains

It seems like it took a year to get here, back home in the Green Mountains.  Wait, it almost did ... it's been ten months, ten long months of health issues and wondering whether or not this beautiful place contributed to my ongoing pulmonary issues.  My doctor came down on the side of "probably not," so we're home again, breathing the oxygen-rich air and feeling so happy to see our little slice of heaven again.  And so far, so good.

It is tempting to write a blog post about the last couple of months, as they were exceptionally hard, both health-wise and with some extended family matters that have caused a great deal of stress.  I'm not going to blog about it, though, because, frankly, I'm sick of it all -- sick of being sick, and sick of drama in general.  It's in the past, dumped out of my plane somewhere over flyover country.  And it doesn't affect my future -- a future filled most immediately with a whole lot of Vermont-style relaxation and ongoing with friends who have spent a whole lot of time lately loving and supporting our family.  We especially saw a lot of that these last few weeks, as the Guv's pizza drew dozens of people to our house to break bread with us.  It looks as though some of those folks will be flying all the way out here to spend time with us, and we can't wait!  We'll show them what we love about the Green Mountains: the simplicity, the gorgeous natural surroundings, the people... I want to show them the shopkeepers I've come to know over the years, take them to taste the farm-fresh cheese, cured meats, and maple syrup -- and take them to my beloved Farmers' Diner, "Food from Here." 

There's a vibe in the earth on which I walk in these mountains, a vibe which makes me feel closer to God, closer to understanding myself (the good and the parts that need work!) and closer to my little family of four, which is pretty darned special -- and that's a whole lot more noticeable outside of always-on Silicon Valley and away from the aforementioned crap.  There have never been smiles so wide as those on both of my kids as they pulled down our long gravel drive and squealed, "We're home!"  They'll be just as excited to return to California, but, for now, they're outside, climbing some trees, looking for frogs and bugs, and living just a little bit more like I did as a farm kid in West Virginia.  It makes me proud that they have some mountain spirit in them.  It'll make them stronger, which they need to be in this world that's so much crazier than it was when I was their ages.  Here's hoping it'll make me stronger, too.  Breathing in this cool, fresh air, I feel sure that it will.  It's great to be home.

A Diner in Vermont, a Turkish Waitress, and a Mexican Family

Do I even need to write more than that title?

Last week week, I took my kids to our favorite diner in Vermont for dinner.  We're about to return to the West Coast, and I needed to pack in as much diner grub as I can since that's the one dining experience I can't replicate out West.  We ordered our usual: one plate-sized King Arthur flour-based, Grade B maple syrup-topped pancake for Dash; a ham-and-Jack-cheese omelet for Petunia; and two eggs, over medium, with home fried potatoes and maple-syrup topped pork sausage for me.  In other words, we had the combo: diabetes and heart attacks for three.

As we waited for our food, a Mexican family joined us in the dining car -- a Grandma, a Mom, and two kids (Girl, about 16; Boy, about 10).  I found myself smiling -- it was as if a reminder that I was almost back in California sat down at the next table with a ticking clock.  As the family bantered, the Turkish waitress sauntered over.  Uh-oh, I thought.  We had this same waitress on her Day One, and it was a rough experience.  A couple of months had passed, and I was hopeful.  But as her conversation with the table started, it became apparent that they'd need a translator.  I almost volunteered, but I don't know Turkish -- plus, the train wreck evolving was kind of funny to watch.  A snippet:

Waitress: "Would you like something to drink?"

Grandma: "Quiero una limonada."

Waitress: "What was that?"

Mom: "She wants a, uh, what is the thing with the water and the lemon?"

Waitress: "A lemonade?"

Mom looks at kids, who nod.

Mom: "Yes.  But she no likes azucar."

Waitress: "What was that?"

Girl: "Sugar.  No sugar."

Waitress: "Tell her the lemonade, it comes from the fountain like soda, we don't make it here.  It has sugar."

Girl explained to grandma then says, with a snicker: "She say take out sugar."

Waitress: "I can't take out the sugar, it's made in a machine.  Like soda."

Grandma was not happy.  She exchanged some dialogue with the kids, then the Mom intervened: "Bring her the cold tea.  She will like the cold tea." 

Waitress: "Iced tea?"

Mom: "Yes, iced tea."

Waitress: "Unsweetened or raspberry?"

Mom: "What is raspberry?"

Waitress: "It's fruit."

Mom and Grandma had a chat.  Grandma seemed quite puzzled at the concept of fruit tea.

Mom: "Does the fruit tea have azucar?"

Waitress: "Yes."

Grandma prayed to God.  Grandma ordered plain iced tea.

AND THAT WAS JUST THE BEGINNING.

The Girl tried to order some kind of meat with rice and beans.  The waitress didn't undertand the request, then eventually just gave up and said no.  "Some rice?"  "No."  "Some beans?"  "No."  I wanted to tell them that the kids' menu had nachos, but something told me that Tostitos with Cabot cheddar and salsa from a jar wasn't what they wanted.

Finally, the females ordered eggs in various forms.  I timed it: it took seventeen minutes for this family to order their food.  SEVENTEEN MINUTES.  There were discussions of how egss were cooked, what kind of meat on the side, and the toast -- the toast! -- oy, there are seven kinds.  

I found myself wanting to go over to the table and say to the waitress: Get someone who speaks English as a native language to save half of the frustration of this experience.  I wanted to say to the family: You are at a diner in rural Vermont.  Why the hell are you trying to order Mexican food in a location that is, on multiple levels, as far away from Mexico as you can get?  The whole situation was uncomfortable for everyone in the diner, except perhaps for my clueless offspring, who were shoveling their everything-wrong-with-the-American-diet morsels into their mouths at alarming rates of speed.

But I didn't say or do anything... I sat there, somewhat entertained, at points even agog.

And then the Boy got up to hit the head.  Passing our table, he paused, rolled his eyes at me, and said: "I can't stand going out to dinner with these people," IN PERFECT ENGLISH.  He had not said a word up to that point except to order his own hot dog and fries.  There was a translator sitting there the entire time, too busy in his pre-adolescent angst to help a meal go smoothly.

I wanted to chase the boy and smack him upside the head.  My husband is a first-generation American, reared until about that boy's age by a grandmother who spoke only Polish.  And I didn't know my husband then, but I do know this: he would've helped his grandmother where words failed her.  He wouldn't have sat there while three non-English speakers tried to conceptualize raspberry iced tea for three minutes. 

At the end of the day, I don't know if that debacle is one family's problem or a "kids these days" moment; I hope that it's the former but fear it's the latter.  At least I saw their food delivered as we paid our check, and I noticed that especially Grandma was happy with her heaping plate of cardiac plaque.  At least gastronomic pleasure transcends language barriers, in Mexico, Vermont and everywhere in between.

A great day for the wheat-free!

No, your eyes aren't deceiving you -- Betty Crocker has gone Gluten Free!  You should have seen the dance of joy I did in Price Chopper!  Let's face it -- most of the gluten-free mixes out there taste like a sandy health product.  I've tried many of them, and have generally decided that it's better to never eat cake and cookies again than it is to eat that crap.  My wheat-allergic waistline has thanked me well for that.  But every so often, a girl just needs a cookie.  Betty to the rescue!  I have high hopes that this will taste as wonderful as the highly-processed, not-Michael-Pollan friendly, Betty Crocker total junk of my youth.  If I'm eating a cookie, it better be worth it.  Betty, I'm counting on you!

I will post again after baking this decadence.  If it works, up next are the three other mixes: Brownies, Yellow Cake and Chocolate Cake... one at a time, weeks apart, for the only up-side of pneumonia is my ten-pound weight loss.  And I just bought a killer new dress at my favorite shop ever, Revolution in White River Junction VT, to show off my svelteness.  So one cookie at a time, please...