The mind's camera

Do you ever do this? 


I don't have kids (obvsly) ... but there are times and places where I stop myself - and enjoy the moment and take mental pictures ... because I never want to forget.

For me - they usually center on light and music.

Like I have all these internal pictures of my childhood bedroom ... and how the sun would pour through a window ... and splash off the tile window ledge ... and the tile would sparkle ... and the room would have a special glow ... and you could see the dust motes dance. And if it was a Saturday ... the jazz my dad was playing would come through the air vents ... and I could hear the pots and pans banging around in the kitchen as he made breakfast ...

And I always thought to myself, "this! this is the perfect hour. Never, ever, ever forget this. The light, the sounds, the feel of this time."

I have those stored up from camping in tents at Buck's Lake and Plumas Eureka ... and the places I lived in Arizona - and my house here .... to Meg and Lee's house  - their porch ... the kitchen - the family room ... and Heather and Tom's old house (my friends in Az) ... from London and McGehee Arkansas to San Francisco and Boone, NC ... the Grand Tetons ... Amsterdam ... Blue Wing Teal's home in Abington, PA ... the Sink's place at Atlantic Beach ... the Farm House on the Saint Lawrence, light on the limestone road cuts in Indiana on the way to Ferdinand, Ind; the living room in Monterey, Louisiana, Grandpa and Grandma's cabin at Huntington Lake  .... all the best places. (and there are about 100 more that are not listed here). 

Terry Clark - Mumbles

My brother sent me this piece of music. He saw Terry Clark down at UOP when he was in high school and has always remembered the performance.

Today I am mumbling 'cause of several things I've found out. But they shall remain mumblings. 

The weekend was fabulous. There were so many "highlights" - but I think the biggest for me was meeting Randall Kenan. I had no idea he was at the festival - nor that he'd be speaking at the lecture about "Writing Food". I only knew that he'd written the book called "Walking on Water: Black American Lives at the Turn of the Century" that I'd purchased in 1999 after hearing a radio (or maybe TV) interview with him. It's one of my all time favorites - and I still gush about it to this day. Anyway - he was there to talk about food with Kelly Alexander. Kelly recently published, Hometown Appetites, a chronicle of the columns and life of Clementine Paddleford.  The panel was moderated by Dr. Marcie Ferris who teaches a course at UNC on "Cooking Up a Culture". 

Randall had the FUNNIEST pieces about food. One was about bar-b-que. And you know - as an outsider - I appreciate most styles of 'cue. But when you're from someplace that HAS a style - look out Lordy! There are definite opinions on the animal (beef or pork), the cut of meat, the cooking method, and the sauce. As someone who grew up in Chinquipin, NC, he identifies strongly with EASTERN North Carolina bar-b-que. As a former professor at the University of Memphis he had a lot to say about living among the "heathens". I LOVED IT. He also read a short piece that centered on Howard Hughes eating butter beans and ham hocks for the first time. I could identify!

As I sat there - there were a couple of thoughts that continuously ran through my mind. The main one was, "There are college courses that STUDY FOOD AND CULTURE and writing???" If I'd only known this back in 1984 - or even in high school - I wonder what path I might be on today. 

I also wish that we'd had an author or two come into a Freshman or Sophomore English class back then.  One who would have talked about the link between the passion of reading and writing. And that writing WASN'T about spelling, grammar, sentence diagramming or parts of speech. That those were just the nuts and bolts. But writers - and authors - were people who told stories. Stories that had a purpose. I never got that out of school. I just loved to read - and I liked reading to learn/experience new things. 

And honestly - that's where my love of food and sense of adventure in eating came from. I read about Jews in New York - and gefilte fish, and the south and grits, and Texas and beans, hard tack, and cornbread - and I wanted to taste it all. But I always thought "writers" were English Lit majors who read dusty old "classics" and talked about imagery and subtext - or wrote poetry that was vague and required careful analysis and study to figure out what the hell they were trying to say. (I hold "The Jabberwocky" as exhibit A in this aspect.)

Anyway - besides that little bit of regret - overall the weekend was inspiring, encouraging, uplifting, and thrilling. There were many other great moments - and maybe during the week I'll revisit some of them.

This week is again busy. Writing class tonight. Tomorrow my writing instructor is on a panel discussing the difference between "moderated" critique groups and "peer selected" critique groups - and I'd like to go and hear the discussion and support her. Wednesday night is a "Writing towards Wellness" workshop (free) hosted by another writing group I belong too - and I am looking forward to attending that. Finally on Thursday I turn in the three cooking/food proposals (I have two completed, one to go) - and then Friday I'll go down to the coast with my Sunday Night Dinner Group. We'll spend the weekend at one of the couple's homes on Atlantic Beach. It's a spectacular home - and we always have a great time because there's good food and great wine/vodka/gin/whiskey - and laughter!    

Now I better get busy - lots of writing for class - and resume stuff to brush up on.

Duke Ellington - Perdido

Donna will get this one immediately.

Perdido, I look for my heart it's perdido

High was the sun when we first came close
Low was the moon when we said adios

Perdido, since then has my heart been perdido
I know I must go to Torido, that yearning to lose perdido

For years, (it seemed) at some point during the year I'd join my Arkansas friends, Kevin and Donna, at the place in Perdido Key. Where I am this weekend is quite different than the Florida keys. However, who can go wrong, sitting here looking at the salt marsh? (That I can't show you because I left my battery charger back in Raleigh, aggghghg)

Yesterday was a lazy day. 3 mile walk in the morning (where I ended up with 3 blisters from my new tennis shoes), a trip to the grocery store - then nothing. Well, there was a pedicure to do, and lunch to nibble at. My hosts took a nap - and I found recipes for dinner.

Plus - lots of porch sitting and a little bit of writing.

These are some "close to the real thing" pictures of where I am.

In fact - that is the bunker to my left.

And this is just beyond the green of the 12th tee which is where our porch is ...

There are birds and muscles and lots of peace and quiet.

Today, we'll go to the Tidewater "Private Beach Pavilion". Some of the group might walk or sunbathe. I plan on sitting under the oscillating ceiling fans and reading.

Tonight we're having chuck roast in wine, roasted carrots, crisp green beans with garlic and almonds - and some lovely quinoa pilaf.

I hope your Saturday is full of relaxation and amazing moments of peace too.

And here's Sarah Vaughan - singing loosing her heart in Perdido. Mine might be lost - but this is a good second home.

Only the Best

Anytime you bring a group of people together, the opportunity exists for there to be clashes. Anytime you make plans, there’s a possibility none of them will come to fruition. Sometimes though, the mixture is just right, the plans align and at the end you find yourself confirming with those you’ve come together with that “NOTHING COULD HAVE BEEN MORE PERFECT”. Not one thing went wrong, nothing could have been better; nothing needed to be added or subtracted. That was this weekend (excluding the Whiz on my Cheesesteak and Frreenie cheating and arriving a day earlier than me).

My plane departed and left on time. I landed, exited the plane, jumped in the car with Frreenie and Blue – and within minutes we were at Pat’s eating a ‘wich wit. After our close to midnight repast, we drove by City Hall the 30^th Street train terminal, up Chestnut Hill, and found ourselves at our hosts lovely house.

Seated in the deep leather couches in the living room the three of us did our catching up Friday night. We discussed music, families, children (well, they did, not me as I am my own kid), and business. Before I knew it, it was quarter ‘till one and WAY past bedtime. I trundled up to the princess room, tucked myself into bed and headed to slumber land.

I call it the princess room because it was pretty impressive. In just a month or so, it went from a college teenage boy’s room to a guest room. It was thoughtfully appointed with lovely art work, a small desk to hold a computer, and reading material ranging from the architectural wonders of Philadelphia to the history of bathroom design. (Do you see the bouquet there on the desk? Totally full of herbs from the garden!)

Just as anticipated, Saturday morning dawned sunny and beautiful. Frreenie, the first one up was in the kitchen – starting the coffee as I padded downstairs. Within moments we were curled up in the family room with fresh roasted and brewed coffee, the NY Times, and classic jazz. (and my secret lover)

Soon our host joined us. Perusing the editorial page we discussed our world while making our plans for the day. By ten o’clock we were loaded up in the “cash van” and headed back to South Philly and the Termini Brother’s Italian Bakery. We picked up a few things for dessert – ate our free sample Cannoli – and then headed out for the Italian Market.

We stopped at Fante’s where we treated ourselves to a few essentials; mircoplanes, manual coffee grinders, and cookie cutters. Further into the district we hit a spice store, a cheese shop, the green grocers, and a Mexican grocery store. Leaving South Philly behind, we drove through Chinatown and headed to Reading Market where we scored some Salumi, Capicola, Olive and Thyme bread, sharp cheddar and Pecorino cheese, and few different types of olives for our lunch.

Fully satiated, we went truckin’ over to the Penn State campus and caught the R. Crumb retrospective. Crumb introduced such characters as Fritz the Cat, Schuman the Human, Mr. Natural, and Angelfood McSpade into hippie iconography, as well as the catchphrases as "Keep on truckin'”. Although we aren’t particularly fans of Crumb's politics and humor, we are of an age to remember it appearing in our adolescent lives. Most striking of all was the mastery of his drawings. Seeing a 6 or 9 box comic strip laid out on a 9x12 sheet, a pen and ink drawing – full of cross hatch shading – and miniscule details, with no (or hardly) any white out was amazing.

Finishing up the retrospective, we looked at our watches and realized it was time to get home and begin cooking our feast. The cooking preparations began on Thursday when Frreenie and Blue made the famous tomato dipping sauce from the Santore Roma tomatoes.

They’d also been to the Korean market – where they bought squid, baby octopus, and shrimp. Blue marinated octopus and squid in a secret concoction and then readied the brazier When he was done with the secret sauce and cooking we had this on for our appetizer spread

Each weekend visitor contributed “something from home and a skill” towards the weekend’s repast. Frreenie brought lump crab meat from his business meeting in Baltimore which we turned into crab dumplings,

I diced and chopped onions, garlic, and peppers for the shrimp curry and put together the Middle Eastern carrot fritters. Just as we finished our prep work – and began to nipple on the appetizers, JOTS arrived with the wine – and the most incredible Chincoteague oysters.

Standing around in the kitchen we slurped down the oysters, dipped rustic Tuscan bread in the Sanatore Romano dipping sauce and swilled Prosecco. I don’t think there’s a better combination than the salty brine of oysters and the sweet bubble of the Italian Wine.

It took us about an hour to graze through the appetizer course – then it was time for the main meal. Sitting around the table we couldn’t believe our bounty. Fragrant Shrimp Curry, spicy carrot fritters, the dumplings and brown rice.

As we ate, we had the liveliest of conversations covering politics, guns, wine, cooking tips and food secrets (JOTS is a bread maker, Mit doesn’t like peanut butter, Blue won’t eat cilantro, and Frreenie’s extended family is sure he was trying to kill them one holiday with rosemary and garlic!).

After dinner we adjourned to the fire pit where JOTS serenaded us with his guitar and classic rock/folk repertoire. It’s impossible to sit around a fire and not talk about childhood memories, Boy Scouts, and family outings. If you’d have been the neighbors you’d never know this was a first time meet up.

Too many of our experiences and pasts overlap for there to be any cracks of uncomfortableness (is too a word!) or quietness.

Besides the talking and the singing there were desserts from Termini’s and matching wines (JOTS IS AWESOME!!) to accompany them. Before I knew it, it was one o’clock in the morning. Quickly I gathered up my dessert dish, wine glass and departed for the princess room. Sweet slumbers quickly engulfed me – and the boys all found their way to their respective beds sometime later.

Sunday morning was what ALL Sunday morning’s should be. French press coffee, biscotti, jazz, comfy leather couches, the New York Times and three handsome men. At our leisure we enjoyed the morning, and once again gathered around the table. There we consumed French toast made with the left over Tuscany bread and North Carolina “country ham” (please read VERY, VERY salty ham). With groaning stomachs we took showers, did dishes, packed suitcases and sat for our portrait.

With hugs, back-slaps, and plans to meet up again we bid goodbye to Frreenie.

Then JOTS, Blue and I headed downtown for the Gee’s Bend Quilt exhibit and the Calder Jewelry display at the Philly Art Museum. With sadness , as the afternoon shadows lengthened, we bid goodbye to JOTS, which left Blue and I alone until my plane departed. Of course … we had to go EAT!

Although Philly isn’t my town, Blue asked if I had any ideas of where I’d like to have dinner. Immediately I suggested the White Dog Café was a huge supporter of the “Eat Local” movement – and since we’d spent breakfast talking about gardening, sustainable and responsible agriculture, Michael Polland’s two books, “The Omnivore’s Dilemma” and “In Defense of Food”, shouldn’t we go there to eat?

It was a great choice for many reasons. It was right next door to the Penn/Drexel campus’ where we’d already been, it was on the way (more or less) to the airport, and Blue had eaten there in the mid-eighties, when it was a ground breaking idea to combine food and activism. We had a great meal – and it’s nice to know that the White Dog hasn’t rested on its laurels – or become slack with success and abandoned its earliest passions.

Our meal began when we split a Panzanella Salad (Lancaster County Heirloom Tomatoes with a Red Wine Vinaigrette toasted Metro bread, Genovese basil and shaved pecorino cheese). It was followed by Blue’s entre of Mustard Grilled Lamb with an Oregano-Ramp Pesto, accompanied by a Middle Eastern chickpea stew and organic spinach sautéed with zucchini. I shared my Seared Breast of Guinea Hen with Local Potato, Wild Garlic, and Pulled Leg Hash and braised sweet peas with spinach and Madeira hen jus. I think the Snaggletooth Red Rhone blend enhanced my enjoyment of the food, company and setting. It certainly helped me avoid thinking of the inevitable ending that was drawing ever closer.

As the sun set, Blue dropped me off at the airport – and in the darkened Philly sky – Southwest airlines carried me home to North Carolina. It’s always nice to come home, and this homecoming was sweetened with the memories of the wonderful friends and times so recently shared with the Men of Mit.

A Few Fine Things

A question that nags at the back of my mind, “What is authentic and what is kitsch?” Where does “environmental design” end and “fakery” begin? Being here in Santa Fe it’s hard to avoid these comparisons. What’s “real” adobe and true Santa Fe design and what is the “Santa Fe Style” brought to you by “Schmaltzy Retailers Plus”?

I love the “real” southwest, the blend of Hispanic and Native American sensibilities and ethics. Their designs are simple, clean, uncomplicated, and organic. I hate the tacky “reincarnation” of these designs. I’ll throw up if I see one more cheesy Kokopelli sign or one more “yard shadow” of a leaning cowboy silhouette.

I’d only selected four galleries to visit today because I didn’t want to overwhelm myself with images and schlock. I can’t tell you how I chose the four – it was a web search – and they were the ones that looked most intriguing. Boy did I choose well!

After a wondrous breakfast at Horseman’s Haven where I consumed Huevos con Chorizo covered in the most divine Green Chilie sauce, I headed downtown. My first stop was the Gerald Peters Gallery.

As I turned into the crushed gravel parking lot I knew I’d hit a jackpot. The building was adobe – it had a large veranda – fired Mexican tile – and pots of blooming desert plants leading to the entry. One step inside and this vast landscape greeted me.

All the tension left my body. This is the desert I know and love. THIS is authentic. Not some stylized over worked color scheme.

The artist is Arturo Chevez. This is the first time I’ve seen his work, but he is beyond talented. I was struggling to figure out why his work spoke to me so much. In reading a little bit about him, I realized the word I was searching for was “authentic”. He paints the way I hope I write, with careful attention to detail and realism.

There were several other artists whose work I also enjoyed. Two pieces by William Shepherd attracted my attention. The first, Roaring Judy, would fit in perfectly with Blue’s project, “Collected Horizons”. The second (which I cannot find an image of) was titled, “Surface Events”. It is something Talla Paula would fall in love with – and her daughter wouldn’t be far behind. This is one set of rocks that I wouldn’t mind having in my home. Here’s a similar piece.

G. Russell Case was the final artist to capture my heart at this gallery. There were a few of his pieces hanging in a small room with a decorative tin ceiling and old, worn leather chairs – that invited one to sit down and sink into the moment. I did just that, staring at his vistas and the other cowboy art hanging on the white washed wood walls. The chairs – classic in design – worn with years of comfortable sitting – are what I’ve always envisioned in “my library”. Sitting there – soaking in the experience I wished I had my laptop, some Bob Wills and The Texas Playboys playing in the background while I sipped some bourbon or scotch. I can’t imagine a more peaceful place to let my mind wander down the roads of creativity.

Leaving the PG Gallery, I headed next door to the Nedra Matteucci Galleries. Here was another sprawling building. Room among room tucked in here and there, with the occasional doorway opening out onto a garden full of water features, sculptures, and trees with leaves making music as the wind blew through the leaves. Clicking on these links will show you why I instantly lost my heart here.

I thought I was safe and would be able to keep my lust under control – until I stepped into a room full of William Matthew’s work. This image, (Snowy Day #26) stopped me cold. Here are the men (#3, 7, 21, 25, 27) and landscapes (#6) I dream about.

As I thought about art – I thought about writing. Am I drawn to these types of paintings because they tell a story I understand? Or do the images allow me to create my own stories? Is this really “my” world – or just the one I’ve absorbed through osmosis. Pondering these thoughts, I came to this painting.

It’s a great illustration of what I want to learn in this craft called writing. Having the skill to frame my tales so that some of the story is just outside of what I tell. To draw images so strong that I can leave out a detail or two – like the cow’s head – and yet still have it be a complete scene. Or maybe – what this picture really represents is a good ending, one that allows the reader to continue the story in their minds after I’ve ended my part.

As I left Nedra’s a light rain began to fall. I decided I’d seen the best, so I headed back to the hotel. How decadent to take an afternoon nap, maybe find a wi-fi café and surf the net when I wake up, before heading out to dinner.

This is the life, a few fine things, savored and memorized.

Soul Tonic

Woo-hoo! I just found a "Fluff-n'-Fold" laundry service. So now I don't have to waste time doing laundry!!

Going to drop off the laundry, have breakfast at Horseman's Haven, then go hit the photo and art galleries.

Wanna see where I'm going? Click here!

View Larger Map

I'll let you know how the adventure unfolds. But I can tell you - already I feel 100 times better than I have in weeks and weeks and months. I think mentally this desert is a tonic for me. More on that topic later.

xoxo - Mit

At Caerdydd cerddasom

which roughly translates into “we don’t speak English like they do”

- OR -

“and we traveled to Cardiff”

(take your pick)

Leaving Edinburgh, Dilly and I boarded another train to Wales. This train wasn’t nearly as nice as the first one. There was no internet, no plug in for my laptop, and no table to sit at.

BUT the trip was great! We left Edinburgh and six hours later arrived in Cardiff. Now, what can you do for SIX hours on a train? You can squirm in your seat, you can stare out the windows, you can long for fun passengers, read a book – OR!

Or you can work on your writing, and your very good friend can listen to you read your stories and offer helpful insights and suggestions.

The first short story I read out loud to Dilly was “The Flume Tender’s Cabin”. This story was submitted for my class, but I didn’t have any critiques back yet (at that time). Sooner (or later) it will appear here. Dilly and I had fun reading it.

Then we ate! When we were in Edinburgh, we'd stopped at this Cheesemonger’s (see picture) and selected some great cheese for our lunch on the trian. I (being a non-vegetarian) had some aged salumi. We had fruit. Crusty bread. A beet salad. Dilly had some fizzy water, I had wine. Scottish shortbread cookies were our dessert.

After lunch, I started in on my other “work-in-progress”.

(IT’S STILL A WORK IN PROGRESS. I don’t know if it will EVER be done. I’m happy with it (because I am not a critical reader) but the READERS don’t seem to be GETTING THE STORY … so … re-write, submit, re-write, stew, get mad, re-write … and see. SOME DAY you might all get a glimpse of “Fish Out of Water and Other Forms of Torture” … which at this point has been renamed, “Departure”. OR, you may not.)

But DILLY is a great listener. And she laughed at all the funny spots. And she GOT the story. As I read this (slightly) risqué story, I couldn’t help but giggle at those around us.

“Mr. Steven’s, those two Americans, sitting in front of us. Did she really just say, “that”??” I imagined the London-Fog clad, white haired, refined matron, sitting behind us saying to her retired University Don husband.

“I don’t know Mildred. With those funny accents it’s hard to tell.” The Don responded.

As I continued to read the story, and the words , "bullwhips", "cage", and "pony-play" were uttered, I could just hear them muttering, “What IS she reading?”

Before I knew it, I was done with the story and we were pulling into Cardiff. Most of the other train stations we’d been in were “pretty” or at least architecturally interesting. Cardiff? Not so much.

But we weren’t there for the architecture. We were there to meet our friend Binooby, and her husband. He picked us up from the train station. I was feeling rather sorry for him. Here he was, playing taxi for two of his wife’s friends and going to be stuck with a houseful of women for the night. I'm sure he was thinking, "What the heck am I going to do?" Thankfully, he’d met Dilly before, so we weren’t COMPLETE strangers, but still. Of course, what I’m NOT mentioning (well, until this moment) is that he’s a Baptist PREACHER. Just graduated from seminary a year ago May.

Now I just want those of you from the south to throw out EVERYTHING you know about SOUTHERN Baptists.

THAT? Is not this man. (This, is this man, in his youth!)

After a quick drive (thank goodness! A car! No walking! No tube! No bus!) and quick tour of Cardiff, (I hadn't looked up Cardiff at all. I thought we were coming to some sleepy little Welsh town. It is a BIG CITY!) we arrived at the ‘Noob’s house.

Mrs. Noobs and the 3 dogs met us at the door. In no time we were installed at the kitchen counter drinking tea (yes, it was hot) and eating CROSS BUNS. (NOM-NOM-NOM)

When we finished the buns, we (Mr. Noobs and myself) moved onto beer. And talking. And talking, and talking, and talking! Oh, he is a delightful man, Mr. Noobs.

Meanwhile, as we discussed salvation, world history, music, theology, philosophy, and discovered we’d both participated in the Alpha Course, Dilly and Mrs. Noobs were across the kitchen from us dicing and slicing, stirring and simmering and roasting.

They finally pressed Mr. Binooby and I into service, and we set the table and opened the wine. (SEE! Soooo NOT a Southern Baptist!)

As we sat down to dinner – salad, sweet potatoes, white potatoes, a chard and broccoli casserole … and this YUMMY, YUMMY cream sauce to pour over it all. Did I mention the wine? (which MIGHT be why the dinner details are so bare.) Plus, I was trying to speak "prop-er-ly". (Humpff)

“How do you say that thing you look in and see your reflection?” Mr. Binooby asked.

“Mir-er”? I replied.

“Ha! It’s a Mir-or! And you bloody say you speak English! What about this stuff that you drink? That comes from the tap?”

Wise to his ways, I carefully said, “Wat-ter”.

“Dilly asked for Wa-der, the first time she was here. I had NO IDEA what she wanted,” he enthused.

“And when you cook! I bet you say everything wrong there too, don’t you!”

Me, “blink, blink”.

Inside I was thinking, “I wish (or maybe I don’t) that Talla Palla (aka tp) was here to hear this conversation. This is a family game we frequently play. It’s called, “How do you say …” Only? Sometimes, if you DON’T KNOW THE WORDS (or are dyslexic) it’s not such a fun game (unless you are asking other people to say “Neal”, aka “Nil”, or “Corn-Beef-and-Hash” sometimes referred to as “Corned (pause) BeefHash”.)

“This! What do you call this!” he said, holding up a broad green leaf, common to Italian cooking.

Venturing a guess I said, “Baaaa-sil”? (like a sheep would say)

“Yes! It’s “BAAAA-SIL”, not “Bay-sil”. I bet you say “Or-ray-gan-oh” too, don’t you?” he crowed.

“Let me guess, it’s really “Or-ah-gan-oh”, isn’t it?”

It was an AMAZING feast. And Mrs. Noobs and Dilly finally joined (or got a word in edgewise) with Mr. Noobs and me!

And may I say? Mrs. Noobs' cullinary skills are PAR EXCELLENT! She trained as a caterer – which has served her well – as she has some dietary restrictions.

THE DESSERT we ate. SO YUMMY I cannot tell you what it was.

But YUMMY – and GONE!

In like TWO SECONDS.

THEN! It was GIFT TIME!!

Mrs. Noobs is the BEST GIFT PICKER-OUTER on the planet.

As all visitors do, I received my “Binooby Family Tiara” (tee-ar-ah).

Plus a red-feathered choker ...

(I’m sure it was meant to cut off my airway, so I’d be easier to stuff into the freezer, BUT! I bulged out my neck and saved my life!) ...

And there was a red furry “opera-clutch” style purse, a small teakwood broach … and the BEST, MOST BEAUTIFUL, WOVEN pashmina /muffler EVER. (It appears in almost EVERY PICTURE following our visit).

In return, I gave them a CD of the North Carolina Chocolate Drops.

After the three of us posed with Erica , I crept upstairs to bed.

The next morning we departed for a quick tour of some Charity Shops (do not take Dilly – she is a “touchy-feely” person. Unless YOU like shopping! Then? She is a shopper EXTRODANAIR!) … where I found a smashing brown chocolate, shawl-collard sweater for Dilly – and joked around with Mr. Noobs some more.

All too soon, it was time to meet back up with Mrs. Noobs (who’d had an mid-morning appointment), drink a cup of …"CAW-FEE" … and head to the train station.

And now, more than a month gone by – I still dream of sitting at that table.

I LOVE, LOVE, LOVE THEM!

Not to mention their outstanding hospitality … IN THE MIDDLE OF HOLY WEEK!

Get it? A minister – and we were crashing at their house … the week of Ash Wednesday, Maundy Thursday, Good Friday … AND EASTER SUNDAY.

Talk about being great hosts.

Mrs. and Mr. Noobs. High, high on the list!

ps: Mrs. Binooby has a great smile too.

Meeting the World

In Ed'n-bra. Or if you’re American, and butcher everything, Erinburg.

So, Dilly and I returned from our delightful experience at Glenturret – to the city of the castle.

And there, in the dark of the night, someone had the great idea to walk back to the flat. Because we’d been told by reliable sources, “It’s just a short walk. Right over there.” (imagine a hand wave)

Only? One of the someone’s eyes were having problems with their contacts – and the other someone - who had been VERY CONTENT to NOT be the navigator (VERY, VERY, HAPPY), suddenly had to make heads and tails out of a travel guide map. One of those stupid things that DO NOT have a sign saying “You are here” - and also was bisected by the “End of the Page” and “See D-3” just at the part of the map where we needed to go! The red-head someone, who foolishly suggested this – SHOULD HAVE KNOWN BETTER. But still. A little extra walking. *shrug* It’s not like I wasn’t WALKING TO HELL AND BACK on this trip ANYWAY.

After purposely *cough* viewing a few extra blocks, we found our way back to the big church that was on the corner of our street. And back to the flat. We quickly cooked a dinner of Blue Cheese and Fig Tortellini in a creamy peppercorn sauce – changed our clothes and then CALLED A CAB to take us to The Brass Monkey.

Now – some of you know the bigger picture of this trip. But many of you, remain in the dark. And I guess I must reveal more of my life, least the rest of this travel log make little, if no sense. Of course, one of the purposes of the of the trip was to see all these wonderful countries/cities/towns. But the BIGGER reason – was to meet a whole slew of friends I’ve made over the internet on a “social networking” site. Indeed, that was the purpose of the visit to the Brass Monkey. There were about nine people gathered there, waiting to meet Dilly and I!

The night before, two of the gang, known as CraigWA (from nearby Livingston, Scotland) and TiggerWoman (who came from Exeter, England), came by the flat and joined Dilly and I for some wine and conversation. Actually, they supplied both wine and nibbles – and we lightly supplemented their efforts. It was a great time of chatting – and getting to know each other better.

SO – walking into the Brass Monkey, was not so intimidating – because I knew Dilly (obviously) and CraigWA and TiggerWoman. The very first person, to greet me was 70s Child (who flew over from Norwich, England) . She claims I was the first female friend she made on the site. It was so wonderful to be engulfed in her hug and spend the night chatting with her.

Next – bounding up to me – barely able to contain her excitement, was Pink Princess (from Manchester, England). She had a great little gift for us – tiny pink tins of mints – that had a mirror cleverly hidden in the lid. Next in line for introduction? Rob3000 (from Dundee, Scotland), followed closely by LazySod (who is actually Edinburgh born and bred!).

I think one of the best things about the venue – cleverly picked by TiggerWoman – was the arrangement of couches. There was this great U of three leather couches that we overtook. The brilliance of this arrangement was that all night, we were able to switch seats every so often, and sit in the midst of some other grouping.

Because of this, I got to spend time talking to Pink about music and singing, and Lazy Sod about being a System Admin – and looking at p0rn sites visited by co-workers - ALL IN THE NAME OF WORK, PEOPLE!

I know I spoke with Rob. What about? The sun and the moon – life and death? Or maybe an entirely different set of topics.

There was a non-on-line person who also joined us – and I TOTALLY loved talking to her. I wasn’t sure why … until after about 10 minutes. When it struck me how GREAT I was becoming at understanding these accents. And then, I paid a little more attention, and had to ask Kim the question. “Where ARE you from?” Only to learn that, “NO I had not suddenly become amazingly acclimated to other accents” … but that she was from CANADASTAN! Which is almost America.

In amongst all this talking – 70’s and I continued to clutch each other and grin. And talk about … well, lots of things. But I’m pretty sure almost every other sentence was about The Horse!

Just as I was beginning to think I had a handle on everything, in walked a cyclone. A green cyclone of Frogs and Peas to be exact (citizen of the world, and refuses to be pinned down about his location!). I was quite pleased. We sat and talked – about creativity, and life, what to do with life, and what could be left out.

His friend, Russ, an Englishman, completely captured Dilly’s heart by calling her “full of daft” – and so, I can only assume he is equally charming.

About mid-night, the smart people of the group decided to go home. I thought about going home too. But figured, “This is Edinburgh. This is why you’ve made this trip. To meet these people and talk to them. Why go sleep?” And so, it was sometime after 2 am, we found ourselves having a “real Edinburgh” experience.

We walked the streets of E’burgh to a small restaurant that serves Belgian Waffles and ice-cream at two o’clock in the morning. It was, the icing on top of the cake. And so I continued to tell myself as I dragged my tired body into the flat at three o’clock knowing there was no way I’d be attending church the next morning.

The next morning, was another beautiful sunny day (it’s because I was in town. None of these places EVER has sunshine they tell me, yet … we had sun almost every day). After we recovered from our night, we walked a few blocks from the flat, to have brunch and meet up with some more friends.

Chasing Cactus, his girlfriend, and daughter joined Dilly and I, TiggerWoman, CraigWA, Kim, 70s. Brunch was at this great “Gastro-Pub”, Hamilton's or known simply as H:. This is where I had my first “proper breakfast”. Besides eggs, I had Blood Sausage, Haggis, and a Grilled Toe-mah –toe. It was good. (well maybe not the Toe-mah-toe, but then again, Mit doesn't like Toe-May-toes either.)

Many hours and laughs later, we left and hit this cheese shop for food for our trip to Cardiff on the following day.

Edit to Add: And we also walked, and walked, and walked that afternoon. It may be called "The Royal Mile", but I think I'd rename in the "Royal Never-ending Mile of 'Stuff' and 'More Stuff' no-one needs to buy. The church looked lovely - and it's too bad we didn't have time to poke around the grave yard.

But taking the bus to Leith, for dinner at The Shore was a top notch experience. My first taste of "Mushy Peas" and Fish and Chips. Both were exceptional. And now, I'm at ...

The End

The Angel's Share

The train trip up to Edinburgh was pretty spectacular. I figured it would be the apex of my trip. Then, we went to Glenturret. Now, if you click on that link, it will take you to the Famous Grouse’s web site. And if you are me, you’d turn your nose up. Because Famous Grouse is a blended Scotch Whisky. I had a customer outside of Memphis who once bought a bottle of Famous Grouse for me when I visited his home. I was a snob. I drank some, but inside I was thinking “SWILL”, because you see, I drink single malt whisky. When Dilly booked us a tour of their distillery – I was politely interested. Here she was, going out of her way, to do something for me – and only for me, as she isn’t a scotch drinker, and I was being difficult.

Early on Saturday morning (as we go through the trip, you'll begin to notice this is a common refrain), we caught a cab to the bus station, and boarded a bus to Perth. There we caught another, local bus, into Crieff – and then we asked them to drop us off at the bottom of the hill, where the distillery was located. Although it was only 58 miles from Edinburgh to Crieff, it took us four and a half hours to get there. At the bottom of the hill, this sign greeted us. Internally I was all <puke> blended scotch and a stupid grouse sign. Dilly insisted on a picture. You can see that EXTERNALLY, I wasn’t looking too thrilled either. In fact, you might say I was "grousing". (If you're a member of the Mitter family, right at this very moment you are saying, "Look! It's Mitter's vacation smile!")

But when we got there, and paid for the “Warehouse No. 9 Experience”, I was beginning to think maybe I’d have to change my tune. First, there were only four other people on this particular tour. They only do it once a day. They’re the only distillery in Scotland to be doing “warehouse” tours. And? The Assistant Managing Director, Richard, was giving the tour. I was slightly more hopeful at this point.

We were slightly early for the tour – so we wandered around the grounds – and through the gift shop. It was here, that I first began to realize that “Famous Grouse” is the Mother Ship of their branding empire. But ALSO part of this empire was Glenturret, Highland Park, and Macallan single malt Scotches. I was slightly more interested. When we met the four men who’d be accompanying us – I was even more intrigued. Turns out three of them were from France, one was from England. Shortly after arriving at the door of No. 9, we introduced ourselves, and that’s when I learned the oldest man from France was celebrating his 70^th birthday … and the other three men? The Englishman and two other Frenchmen? They were his sons-in-law.

To say they were all charming and lots of fun, would to be very understated and English about the whole thing. Stepping into the dark warehouse, I had no idea what was in store for us. A quick, deep breath in, and air, redolent with the perfume of Scotch, aisled my nose. Walking in slightly further, we could hear tinkling water – and see some staked casks. Slowly Richard stepped forward, and with a torch (flashlight), he illuminated a table that had six bottles on it. Slowly, he moved each bottle on the table to a specific position, and a spotlight, would highlight a whisky barrel. A 12 & 15 year old Glenturret, a 18 and 21 year Highland Park, and finally, a 25 and 30 year Macallan!! (The Granddaddy of Scotch - awarded the "Best Malt in the World Award, 2004)

I couldn’t determine if I was breathing deeply because of the fabulous aroma – or because I knew that soon – heaven would be sliding down my throat. After discussing the process of malting oats, using and not using, peat fires, and what types of barrels Scotch is aged in, Richard turned to the other side of the room, grabbed a small snifter, and opened the tap on a small cask. “You can have as much or little of each of these as you wish,” he said handing one to each member of the group. "If you don’t like one, you don’t have to drink it. We’ll taste in stages." Just like a wine tasting, the education began.

Look at the color, warm the base of the vessel in your hand. Nose the whisky. What do you smell? In some cases it was young, just-ripe oranges, mature sun warmed oranges, pineapple, cinnamon, cloves, even lavender. For me, this was one of the most fun parts. I don’t think I have a particularly good nose, but as he asked what we were smelling, I was the one who said pineapple first – and also apricots, and cloves – which pleased me, because maybe I sense more than I realize!

After the sniff, we watched the “legs” form. This is the alcohol that runs down the side of the glass once it’s been swirled. The higher the alcohol content, the slower these legs are to form, and the more they bead, than run. It was interesting to see them gather quickly in the 12 year old stuff, and have to wait and be patient for the 25 and 30 year old stuff to display.

Finally – taste. Notice that the younger, slightly sweeter, Scotches hit the front of your tongue, the middle ones – with a slightly salty taste the sides, and the oldest – those with the smoothest – and longest finish to develop are tasted at the back of your mouth.

After the first taste of the 12 year old Scotch, he discussed how people like to drink their elixir. Some, just like we had, straight up. Others, prefer a dash of water – or an ice-cube or two. And with that, one more spotlight came on – and there, pouring out for a granite fountain, was water from the spring-head of Loch Turret. "Splash a little in, see what it does to the aroma, the legs, and the taste," he encouraged. It was interesting to see how the whiskies opened up – and developed into something slightly different. The best way to drink them? The way you like them best!

Mindful that we were starting this experience at noon – and with only a bus pastry and cup of coffee to start the day, I went slow. After the first taste, Richard confessed, he rarely drank more than that first sip, until he got to the 30 year stuff. And then said, "Here’s the secret." And with that – off in a dark corner of the warehouse, he dashed the remaining 12 year old scotch onto the wood floor and granite walls of the building, set down the glass, picked up another one, and prepared us for our next sip of heaven.

Evaporation is something that occurs to all liquids housed in permeable vessels. Here, at Glenturret, the 100 liter casks (26.4 US gallons), will evaporate approximately ½ of their liquid in 30 years time. This share, just as in wine, is known as the “Angels Share”. I’m telling you, if I make it to heaven, and God assigns me to Angel duty – it better be over the workers at a Scottish distillery.

Besides the great tasting, the tour, and our guide, I cannot fail again to mention how charming our companions were. It is possible, and very uncharacteristic of me, that I might have flirted. But come on, shouldn’t all Gallic 70 year olds be kissed on the cheek by a red-head? I’ve always been told it’s good luck. *grins slyly* Or at least that’s what I TELL them! After we finished the tasting in No. 9, we rejoined the public tour (those poor, poor souls), where we walked through the actual distilling process, and then ended up in yet another tasting room. It is also possible I flirted outrageously, and made wildly suggestive comments to one of the French sons-in-law. True, I don’t speak much French, but it appears tone of voice, a quick smile, and sudden laugh can convey a lot.

At the end, Dilly and I headed back down the hill to the town of Crieff, where we at the lunch we brought along – and then took the buses back to Edinburgh. I was tempted to tell her THIS IS THE HIGHLIGHT of the trip. Nothing can be better – but, I knew in a few hours I’d be meeting my Scottish friends, and so I merely told her, over and over again, THANK YOU. That was wonderful. A once in a life-time experience. THANK YOU for making sure it happened. THANK YOU for figuring out all the buses and times tables. THANK YOU for being my friend.

Next story – the Edinburgh meet up – or OMG – DO THESE PEOPLE NEVER SLEEP??

Returned

I have safely arrived in the land of my birth.

It was an amazing trip. Later today I will start writing the stories.

Thank you to everyone who made this possible. Thank you to everyone who traveled to meet me.

<3, each and every one of you. Edit to Add: This is what happiness looks like in Amsterdam!

Traveling Karma

I’m not sure how it works, but it seems to me, if you’re an interesting traveler, you meet other interesting people. Such is the case for me on a regular basis. The trip to Edinburgh is no different.

Early Friday morning, Dilly and I left her charming flat on our pedicured feet – and took the tube to the train. Our train reservations found us sitting, facing forward in a section of the car that has tables. Side by side, four seats each. For the first two stops we sat alone. Dilly gazing out the window – me glancing up now and again from the laptop to catch the passing scenery. At the third stop – a party of six, three young men and three young women entered our car. They were calling back and forth to each other and seemed to be full of holiday cheer. Immediately I was intrigued - and my traveling company dismayed. “Oh, I hope they don’t sit near us,” she said, having experienced rowdy, young, drunken seat-mates in the past. “Oh – they look like fun, I hope they sit here,” I said at the same moment.

And down they sat – across the aisle from us, one young man and the three women, and across our table the other two young men. Shortly after everyone was sorted out – Dilly went in exploration of train sustenance, while I stayed behind to make friends. As I eased-dropped on their conversation – hoping to pick up a story or two, I gathered they were talking about cooking. One of the men was telling about making Bacon & Tomato sandwiches at eleven o’clock the night before for the trip. Within minutes, a small soft-sided insulated cooler was removed from the luggage rack, and out came tin-foil wrapped torpedo shaped sandwich after sandwich. Passed around, the tin-foil was peeled back to reveal crusty rolls, with what looked like grilled ham. My first sight of English bacon. Admiring the sandwiches – and being impressed that a early-thirty something male would be up the night before a trip, making sandwiches for the group, I listened in closer. Soon, the youngest of the group was discussing ingredients procured in the past month, brought home for free, and used in amazing meals. Prime ribs, standing rib roasts, and lobsters were all mentioned.

As I tried to piece together what restaurant he worked for, out came another shopping carry-all. In the top section was a Tupperware container approximately the size of a shoe box. Nestled in it, under a scattering of lemon wedges, was a side of salmon. My first thought was – “How brave to travel with raw salmon and no refrigeration.” My next thought was – “That’s going to be the most amazing dinner.” My thoughts, on both accounts were incorrect. The salmon wasn’t raw, and it wasn’t for dinner. Soon, it was removed from the container and placed on a cutting board. Following it were cucumber spears, diced beets, horse radish crème fraische, and little Bellini’s, all neatly spread out. This is the sight that greeted Dilly upon her return from the café car.

Amid much laughing and teasing, our gastronomic friends began to slice the salmon and put together their repast. Unable to ignore the glorious feast being prepared before our eyes, we began to question our seatmates. We discovered two of the men were brothers, and on Monday, St. Patrick’s day, they’d be celebrating the oldest one’s birth. The younger brother worked for Sky TV’s Market Kitchen, and the third was their childhood friend and next door neighbor. There are many other little things we learned along the way, a few that would, “Make Daddy Proud”. For instance, the brilliant coloring of this salmon? Is because it was soaked in shredded beet-root after the brining process. Within sort order four plates appeared, and one of them was placed before a speechless and amazed Mit and Dilly. Now this, is the way to travel!

Rounding out the gastronomic event were pomegranate and champagne cocktails. Fully sated, we continued our journey north, spying sheep, the Angle of the North, and glimpses of the North Sea. It seemed that all too soon we were pulling into Waverley Station and waving goodbye to our newest friends.

Gaining a cab, we piled in and journeyed to the flat of the humming landlord and the beginning of the water torture in the UK experience.

Our flat was perfect in every way – and indeed, in the midst of each pronouncement, as the landlord showed us through it, he’d stop to hum, mid-sentence. “You flip this switch … hum-dee-hummm … to turn on the microwave. And in here …la-de-da-de-da… you’ll find extra towels and such.” Not sure how to take this interactive humming, we just continued to make appreciate noises, and ask general questions. It did seem to me he was staring at each one of us closely, but then maybe he was trying to understand our American English. Only that wasn’t the case. Just before his departure he said, “I must ask. Which one of you is the Nun?” “Nun? Nun?” I started to say, when Dilly interrupted with a laugh. “Oh, it’s me. I sign myself “Sister” when I make reservations, since the title box won’t allow you to leave it blank. Ms., Miss, and Mrs. are all so boring – so I chose a different title each time. Sometimes Lady, sometimes Duchess and this time “Sister”! Clearly thinking he’d leased his flat to a pair of crazy people, he none the less took his leave and left us to our own devices.

Those devices do not always translate into smoothly operating the bathroom fixtures that employ water. Our first hurdle as to figure out how to flush the toilet. It seems you have to keep the handle down – AND give the bowl time to recover from the previous flush. The following morning – in my over-sleeping rush, I couldn’t figure out how to turn on the shower. Nor could the resourceful Dilly. Thankfully we had two in the flat, and one held no secrets. It wasn’t until that night, when two friends came to the flat, and we discussed the mysteries of UK showers, that we heard about the on/off switch, sometimes located out in the hallway. It worked like a champ on Sunday morning.

And this is where I’ll leave the tale now. Still to come, the “Warehouse Experience” at Glenturret, meeting up with our friends at the Brass Monkey, the journey to Wales, returning to London and dinner at Hot Stuff with the freshly arrived Blue!

Today (Wednesday) we are doing laundry and getting ready to head out for the Tate Museums, a “Photographer’s Experience” walk, and a stop by the local bookstall. The sun is shining – so – as the saying goes, “Off to make hay while the sun shines!” Ta!

Total Score

On my flight over here, I had booked a window seat. Not because I wanted to look out at the dark night sky, but because I knew I’d want to lean against it – and try and sleep. But EVEN better than the window seat was ending up with an empty seat next to me!

The flight was uneventful, I landed 30 minutes early, got through customs in about 15 minutes, found my way to the South Terminal, self-purchased a single train ticket – and ended up at Clapham Station and Dilly found me!

We took the 37 bus to her apartment – and now, the living is easy.

Ps: Talla Paula – this is how you pack for 10 days.