A Colombian culinary conspiracy and DEEP-FRIED OREOS

It's fair season, kids!

As usual, the fam gathered up and went to the Deerfield Fair. And it was great having Little Brother and his wife, Ligia, up to visit.

We did the usual stuff, like check out the arts and crafts.

Funny, really, how I can take such a bad picture of such a good picture. I'm special.

 We learned about a new (to us) genre of art: egg shells

"Marge, seriously. No more damn omelets. I'm sick of eggs."

"Sorry, dear. Almost done with my masterpieces for the fair."

Truly. Who has this kind of time?

This guy was cross stitching AND talking about watching soccer in Ireland.
I thought that was everything I might want in a man. Funny. Not turned on in the least.

As Little Brother aptly stated, "Everyone needs a John Wayne pillow." It's true.
And Christmas is riiight around the corner

Painting #1 by my elusive artist boyfriend, Ted Nichols.

And painting #2 by TN. I love this one. Especially how you can see right
through the house in the window second from left. Sigh.

I think blogging about Ted Nichols three years in a row technically puts me in a stalker category. The fact that it's 2012 and I can't find him online tells me he probably doesn't want to be found. I know you're out there, Ted. I will wait for you.

We people watched. I care about you, so I'm only posting nonoffensive pictures. But there were so many offensive sights. The woman whose belly waved hello from under her shirt and over her pants comes to mind. Especially her belly button piercing. I mean, someone got up in there to do that. I'm not a small gal, but I like to keep my business covered up. 'Cause no one wants to see that shit. That was no ordinary muffin top.

We saw a dinosaur, because, well, I always find dinosaurs.

Are we in Virginia?

Soon we were onto the food portion of our fair trip. This is where things become questionable.

Us: Hello, sir. Spears or chips?
Him: Spears today. Maybe chips later in the weekend.

What happened after this, gives me pause over the pickle situation. Long-time readers know that we find deep-fried pickle spears abhorrent. Only chips will do. So we were hungry. We needed sustenance. And only a moment later, we came upon this:

Paella? At the fair? It's pretty and all, but this is different... I see vegetables.

Jorge's paella, huh? Ligia jumped on this like no one's business.
And check out the look on Jorge's face. I smell conspiracy. And saffron.
Like his eyes, in Spanish, are saying, "You know what to do, little one. Feed them..."

And that's exactly what this sassy little Colombian minx proceeded to do.

Even the crankiest members of the family were eating paella goodness.

That smile! That cute little accent. She had us in the palm of her hand.

Churros? Paella? Arepas? I was on to her. Ligia has totally turned this redneck, white trash event into a Latino technicolor culinary dream.

We managed to escape from her hold long enough to eat onion rings, fries, a corn dog, and DEEP-FRIED OREOS. Sorry, only block caps will do for that. Seemingly innocent, DEEP-FRIED OREOS start as a lot of batter with an Oreo stuck somewhere inside. But they quickly become a subtle sweetness that feels like LOVE IN YOUR MOUTH. We may have bought two orders. And I may have been so smitten that I forgot to take a picture. Totally let you down on that one, folks. My bad.

When Ligia wasn't conspiring for Latino fair domination, she posed with me in all the face cutouts. Best. Sister in law. Ever. Ligia, you can totally go on a Canadian road trip with me anytime.

I was excited about these face cutout pics until I started seeing them on Facebook with people's children in them. Whatevs, people. I'm thirty-blah, and I like face cutouts. Sue me.

There were, of course, many animals to pet and admire. For those of you just here for my wit and charm, feel free to sail through this section.

Sweet!

Slightly intimidating

Yer funny lookin'

I love how mammoth the oxen are. And still such sweet eyes.

This guy did not like me. In fact, he tried to charge a couple times. I, like a jackass,
stood there taking pictures and baby talking to him. "Whassamattah? You don't like me? Show me your angry face."

me mE ME ME ME Me meeeeeee

I've just kissed a girl named Mariaaaaa

I have a bone to pick with the Deerfield Fair. As the self-appointed sheep whisperer, I have two concerns. First, there's a specific breed of sheep that no longer shows up for the fair (hell if I know what the breed is--can't find it online). Second, All the damn sheep were being sheared. After shearing, all sheep are dressed in a very KKK-like hooded robe. So the sheep barn looked more like a klan rally, and I couldn't take many tasteful pictures. Dear shepherds, please figure these two things out. In the meantime, I took very lackluster pictures of the sheep. But I got kisses from one, so my day was complete.

This is the breed I miss--Shetlands?

Would you believe me if I told you that as soon as I snapped this, the little guy got up
on his hind legs, gave a dramatic wide-mouth yawn, and then settled back down? No? Didn't think so.

So let's be clear about one thing: I have only love for animals. Except for alpacas. These things are all wrong. I don't trust them at all. They look like they stepped out of a Dr. Seuss book.

Of course my stepfather would totally dig a beast that freaks me out.

That shit just ain't right.

Yes, Kelly. That is eff'd up.

So, another year at the fair. Another night of antacids to follow it up. All good stuff.

Whatever you do, don't do that.

xo

All I wanted was a crummy book

I'm going to take a wild stab and state that we probably both thought I wouldn't have anything to say on here for a while after marathon blogging in July. But then the gods all got together and presented fodder for your reading pleasure.

My idea of a fun Saturday night is going to a bookstore. While you all wipe your brow in relief that you are not my life partner, I'll regale you with this evening's events at the local chain bookstore.

As per usual, I put 276 books into a small shopping basket and lugged it up to the cafe, where I could open each book at a 14-degree angle and consider it over tea. And up there, I can look out over the store and read the topic headings and warmly think about how I want to read allll of the books: new biography, Civil War, cultural studies, teenage paranormal romance (what?) . . . So many books, so little time.

And then I hear this:

Loud woman peering into cafe food case: All you have is the spinach artichoke quiche?
Counter guy: Yes
Loud woman: No Mediterranean?
Guy: No, we don't carry that anymore.
Woman: Only spinach artichoke . . . So you don't carry the Mediterranean anymore?
Guy: No, not anymore.
Woman: Oh . . . Do you have bagels with cream cheese?
Guy: No, only what's in the case.
Woman: Oh . . . So is that the last slice of spinach artichoke quiche, or is there more out back?
Guy: No, we only have what's in the case.
Woman: Oh . . . It's just that, it's a corner, ya know?
[pause]
Woman: I'm not really into that is all.
[three people are now behind her]
Woman: I'll have the berry tart.
Guy: Okay [moves toward case]
Woman: Can I change that?
Guy: Sure.
Woman: Can I get a blueberry muffin? . . . Toasted? . . . With a pat of butter? . . . and a fork?

That guy deserves a humanitarian award for not jumping over the counter and shaking her like a bad baby.

She then promptly sat down next to me and spilled her tea. And I sat there, with a pile of unused napkins in front of me, knowing that my options were to offer napkins and become the next conversational victim or remain silent and wait for karma to hit me later. I chose door number one. "Did you see how full he filled the cup?!" she started out . . .

Meanwhile, I had been perusing this little number:

I'm guessing the sad tulips are supposed to be my ovaries.
Thanks, Dummies folks. I needed that.

So, yeah, I have this condition. And we don't need to get into the details, except that the TOC was fabulously uplifting:

Side effects

• Hormonal effects
• Fertility problems
• The battle of the bulge
• Fatigue and exhaustion
• Digestive disorders
• Insulin resistance
• Type 2 diabetes
• Metabolic syndrome
• Skin changes
• Acne and oily skin
• Hair in all the wrong places
• Other potential symptoms

Psychological symptoms

• Emotional manifestations
• Depression
• Irritability, mood swings, and other psychological symptoms

Really? Nothing about pants-shitting or having both gender parts? A third eye? I just can't understand why I'm single. Excuse me while I go crawl under a rock.

I narrowed my shopping basket down, finished my tea, and headed to the front register. I stood waiting while two girls behind the counter talked, until one of them said, "Oh! Right here! I'm open!"

Her: I'm sorry. She was just explaining who Nicki Minaj is. [turns back to other girl] So she's the one with all the colors in her hair, but she's mulatto? [beeps the books] Eh, there's probably a better word for it; I'm sure that's racist or something.
Me: [quietly leaning in] I think "biracial" is preferred.
Her: [rolls eyes and speaks more loudly] Oh yeah. Well, you know that's like [air quotes] "African American." [I stop punching in my PIN and look up at her--did she just use air quotes?] I have two black friends, and they're like, "Don't call me 'African American'; I'm black!" And then I'm here and I tell people I have [air quotes] "black" friends, and they're all [horrified face], "It's 'African American'!" [I start to take my bag and back away slowly, smiling at the third woman, who is doing the same.] I mean, then when people call me "white," I want to be all like, "I'm not white; I'm 'Caucasian'!" Your receipt's in the bag. Have a good night!

These conversations would never happen in an independent bookstore. I'm sure of it.

xo

When lighthouses mock you, it's time to go home

Day 7: Saint John, NB, to Newmarket, NH
Total mileage at end of trip: 2,151.2

It's official: I got to my last pair of underwear. So it was time to go home.

I hit the Maine border at 8 a.m. ADT (7 a.m. EST). I was tired and dirty and hungry. And right before the border is the Chocolate Museum. It was, of course, closed. That made me feel all

 

And a little while after that, I whizzed through Perry, ME, and past The Red Sleigh, a shop owned by a friend I met this past spring. Because the world was still asleep, it was closed, and I felt all

Originally, I thought I'd go down to Lubec and then come back to the Perry/Eastport area. Then I drove to Lubec and appreciated the distance and felt all

 

You get the idea.

Lubec, however, is the gateway to Campobello Island! The summer home of FDR and Eleanor. I've been wanting to check this out for a long time.

Nice, ahem, "summer cottage."

There was a similar stove in the house where I grew up.
Also, that turkey must be hella old.

That was all well and good, but when I had stopped by the visitor center, the ladies there said, "If you're feeling adventurous, you can go all the way out to the lighthouse and walk over during low tide." Well, I was feeling all pro about walking the sea floor during low tide, so I hurried my hiney right out there.

Saw this on the way--a cove full of broken boats. Eerie and awesome.

The East Quoddy Lighthouse is at the northern tip of the island, and it looks out over Fundy Bay. The kind guy at the stand in the parking lot accepted my $5 and smiled as I walked down a pleasant little trail. There were artists out painting and raspberry bushes almost ripe for picking.

Well, this looks peaceful. I immediately saw a seal swimming by, eating fish.

Ohhh, that little sandbar must be what the ladies meant by "feeling adventurous." Meh, no problem.

Wait. What the hell is this business?

C'mon, Kel! Don't be a wuss.

Wait. Did the lighthouse just mock me? I slowly made my way down and walked over the "sandbar." It was actually really slipper rock. Then I saw this.

Dude, this is bullshit. The staircase is still wet and slimy from the ocean.
And this thing is all rotted through...

I managed to get up the staircase and thanked all the gods that no one was there to see. I walked along a path lined with beach roses and found my happy place again. And then saw this

And made the mistake of looking down.

Yawwwwn. Whatevs, you weak American.
Go home if you can't handle it. Did I just see a whale pass by?

What? This is so cruel. Doh. I can do this. I must be over the worst part. 

Apparently not. Are you kidding?

At this moment, I thought of all the times my family and friends said, "Be careful!" thinking that something bad might happen up in the wilds of Cape Breton. Little did they know I was about to die on a completely vertical staircase in the hopes of . . . of what at this point? What did I have to prove? 

"Did I just hear a blow?"

Huh? I looked over and saw a man walking over the slimy rocks below, coming toward the stairs. He was referring to hearing a whale in the bay.

Me: Are you teasing me? Or are there really whales here?

Him: No, there are whales. Some minke whales went by a little while ago.

Me: Is the bay deep enough at low tide? (thinking I'm all boss now that I've been on a whale watch)

Him: It's 300 feet deep in this bay.

Oh.

Then he bounded up the stairs. Bounded up the vertical stairs. A younger guy followed suit. They moseyed along and left me standing there.

Again, for emphasis.

With white knuckles and no pride, I slooooowly inched my way down the stairs. And just in time to hit the bottom and see the two guys come back, holding several boxes each, and go down the stairs without even holding on. They are doing work at the lighthouse. "You get used to it," the guy said when he saw my face. I decided they must have super powers.

The bottom here is a very narrow path over slimy rocks and sea "stuff."

Looking back at hell.

Oh, fer chrissake. Are you still bitching? Just move your ass already.

Once I got to the lighthouse, the scene was worth it. Typical rocky shores, lots of birds, the occasional seal. And then I saw it--whales from shore!!! Yes! A small pod of pilot whales very close to the rocks. At that moment, I knew my trip was complete. 

Yeah, yeah. Take a bow.

The only problem was that now I would have to go back. I won't lie. I was pretty nervous about the stairs. And as I got closer, I saw this

This poor woman was stuck at the top of the stairs. Her husband and son had left her behind and were telling her over their shoulders to just walk down the stairs. But she was paralyzed. And they were annoyed. I felt for her. I completely understood. 

I took a deep breath and inched my way back up the stairs. It was very unpleasant.

At the top of the stairs, I saw the woman, sitting on a rock and feeling frustrated with herself. So I asked if I could sit with her a while. They were up from Pittsburgh, and had never been here before. And when she got to that staircase, she just couldn't do it. All she needed was someone to understand that she had hit a limit she wasn't ready to challenge. So we just looked out at the water and talked about travel for a while--they were headed further north; I was heading south/home. When my heart had stopped pounding and rejoined my chest, I thanked her and was on my way. Then to each person I saw struggling on the first staircase, I helpfully said, "Oh, it only gets worse." with a big smile.

After Campobello, I was a little lost. Not geographically, but my sense of adventure had waned. I was six hours from home. And as I drove south, I kept thinking about my bed, my shower, my kiddos. It was raining on and off (I had no idea severe weather was on the docket), and I couldn't stand the thought of finding a place to camp so early in the day when I could be home by dark. I forged ahead and got to NH by 6:30.

Stella promptly fell asleep in my backpack.

And Finn was all tuckered out after biting me repeatedly.

So while it was an excellent adventure, doing this,

 

it's very good to be home to this

xo