LA FOOD--PART 2

I would never have heard of Cassoulet had it not been for the "Wall Street Journal" Weekend Edition's propensity each fall to devote one page to the praises of cassoulet, featuring a large and carefully staged photo of this rather complex and complicated dish.  The recipe generally takes up the lion's share of the page.  It involves several  trips to the grocery store for duck parts and various cuts of pork, plus other less common ingredients.  A successful cassoulet will also involve at least two days of preparation because one must prep, slice and dice; sauté and chill; sauté again, soak beans, boil; chill again...it goes on forever.  It is not a dish for the weak-hearted in either the preparation or the eating--due to the large amount of duck fat, duck skin and pork skin required for a successful product.

I have been rather taken with cassoulet for the last two years simply because it looks absolutely delicious in its heavy, specially shaped cassole.  I've never made cassoulet, or even thought about making cassoulet.  It is far, far above my meager kitchen credentials.

So, as I was reading Rick Steves' guide to the Languedoc area of France, I noted that cassoulet is the regional dish of that area--the very place we would be visiting.  As luck would have it, cassoulet was on the menu of a charming, tiny restaurant located in the historic fortified city of Carcasonne on the day of our visit.  It was the only cold, wet and windy day of our trip but, in all honesty, that added the perfect atmosphere to the medieval castle and city we were exploring.  In addition, what perfect weather for a steaming bowl of cassoulet! 

 

What can I say?  We were tucked on the second floor of a picturesque restaurant, seated at a tiny table that looked over the gray stone castle and old city.  We ordered wine and slowly began to remove our waterproof ponchos and jackets as the luscious red began to do its work.  Our waitress (the one who was not happy at having to stay late to serve us and the six people who followed on our heels--restaurants close at 2:00 p.m.) carried our heavy, hot bowls up the steep, narrow stairs to our table.  She managed some semblance of a smile, then hurried back downstairs.  We sipped our wine, and gingerly ate our steaming cassoulet.  We finished with a luscious crème brulee and rich chocolat.  Revived, we visited a few shops before our drive back to Amelie.

 

All was well until shortly after bedtime.  The extreme indigestion came on slowly, but quickly gathered speed, strength and intensity.  The extreme indigestion continued for most of the night--for all four of us.  Fortunately, Gaynor's vacation home has two toilettes--magnificent foresight on her part. 

 

We were very quiet and subdued the next day.  We ate dainty bits of bread but not much else.  We spoke in quiet tones and occasionally crept to the patio for the warmth of the southern French sun.  Some blamed the cassoulet while others weren't sure.  In all honesty, we don't know, but the cassoulet was a common denominator.  We were chastened and chagrined and five pounds lighter--each.  And that is all I will say about that.

 

So, dear friends.  Yes, the food was very good.  Portions were generous.  Meats we don't generally eat in the United States are common in France.  Vegetables are much more important here.  Fruits taste completely different than in the US--much better.  I like the food and love the lifestyle that surrounds it.  We could learn a lot from the French.

 

 

Amen!

     

LA FOOD--PART 1

I have to say that France was absolutely wonderful.   I would like to wax much more poetic than that, but I'm at a loss for words.  I know that when I begin to talk about the trip, I smile and my whole body relaxes.  That has to be a good sign.  France actually exceeded my expectations in every aspect of our time there, and today I'm beginning to sort through our experiences so that you can share them with us.  I decided to begin by highlighting French food.  Not because it was the most important part of our trip, but because questions about food are the first my friends seem to ask. So, let's take a look:

Other than a quick potty break along the Spanish Motorway, this little boulangerie, located very near Amelie les Bains was our first stop.  Linda, our co-hostess, pulled into a miniscule parking area and we climbed out of our cute little French Hyundai which, fortunately, spoke GPS English.  The most wonderful smells filled the air.  Fresh bread--the just baked, non-preservative kind--was close at hand.  I fell in love with  France in that parking lot.

Gaynor, our hostess, and a regular here, began ordering our breads in what impressed me as very respectable French.  A couple of warm baguettes were popped into thin paper bags and then croissants--large croissants.  Now, for a selection of breakfast breads.  We chose small raisin rolls (I'm sure they had a name, but I never learned it), and then a croissant-type bread that had been rolled around chocolat bits--which, next to strong coffee, turned out to be my favorite starter of the day.  With our order selected and paid for--the euro challenge begins--we carefully placed our bags of goodies into the car.  I had just learned that a stop at the boulangerie or patisserie means we're very close to home.

 

That evening, we opened a lovely red wine from the area and enjoyed Gaynor's Coq au Vin.  She wanted our introduction and welcome to include the quintessential French meal.  In our case, it might have been titled Coq au Vins, as I definitely saw more than one type of vin being poured into that gorgeous Le Crueset pot on her stove.  That dinner was the first of many evenings around a table filled with conversation, laughter, delicious food, and generous wine pours.  It was the perfect beginning to our week.

 

A day or so later--recovered from jet lag--we drove, in less than thirty minutes, to the Mediterranean for a walk on the beach and a relaxed lunch.  The Med was quiet that day--tourist season is winding down--but the area was especially beautiful as the nearby  mountains seemed to grow out of the shoreline itself.   As we wandered through the town, we found an outdoor café near the marina.  Denise and I are about to meet our first Galette. 

 

 

A galette (per my Wikipedia research) is a thin buckwheat flour pancake that is most often garnished with egg, cheeses, meats and/or vegies.  The traditional galette, I believe, contains an egg, ham, and cheese.  Similar to an Egg McMuffin perhaps, but oh, so different.  We each ordered a galette--they looked fairly small in the photos--and I chose this beauty containing chicken and mushrooms in a sauce layered with crème fraiche.   The egg is always part of the galette package.  The galette was much larger than this picture would indicate and very, very good.  I would say the galettes were a success.  If you're in France studying a menu that includes no English, do not fear the galettes.

 

We often spent a portion of our afternoons walking into the village of Amelie les Bains to window-shop, followed by people watching from a café where we enjoyed coffee, wine or hot chocolat.  Dogs of all shapes and sizes are not only allowed at the restaurants, but welcomed.  Many sit at the table with their owners, while the larger and older canines snooze at their feet.  Cafe's were our source of Wi-Fi--or wee-fee as it is called in France--and, much to my surprise, I found I missed the constant communication my iPhone provides.  The little devil has me hooked!

 

On one particular afternoon, we made reservations for a late dinner at a small hotel restaurant nearby, and began our stroll up the hill...the long way home. 

 

To our surprise, the small hotel specialized in very large dinners.  I think I could have avoided this over-sized situation had I been able to speak French just a little bit better or, perhaps, to have been able to speak French at all.  As it was, it seemed the better part of valor to simply smile gratefully and begin to work my way through this over-flowing bounty.

I ordered steak here because I am afraid of snails and unknown seafood.  I know, it's not the way I have presented myself.  I have tried very hard to maintain the persona of a gastronomic traveler who waves away the menu and simply requests, "Surprise me."  It has all been a lie.  I always read a menu carefully and choose judiciously.  Especially now that I have begun to experience occasional heartburn after an evening of late overindulgence.

But, back to the subject at hand.  This textbook-sized steak is probably a skirt steak.  (I have some background in beef parts.)  It is not a particularly tender cut of beef such as we Americans are used to, but the French have a marvelous way of ensuring that it is perhaps one of the tastiest steaks you will encounter in your lifetime.  It is accompanied by the French version of French fries.  These were absolutely wonderful--even after the ratatouille juices beginning to ooze under them.  The ratatouille?  Deserving of it's own movie.  The pureed carrots?  Surprisingly good.  The green salad?  Nicely dressed and a most refreshing finish to this obscenely gigantic meal.

Which brings me to another issue with French food.  Where are the smallish portions I had expected to see that keep French women from getting fat?  Is that simply a myth?  Or, even worse, could it be that French women aren't fat because they have an immense amount of will power and really do take only one bite of their meal?  I don't know the answer...yet.

NEXT:  In which we learn the Delights and the Dangers of CASSOULET.   

SEPTEMBER TRAILS

Our next venture led us to Jerome, a quirky little town, rather precariously perched on the side of Cleopatra Hill which is part of the Black Hills of Arizona.  Who knew?  Jerome was originally a mining town with population estimates as high as 10,000 souls, but today it's home to a few hundred individualistic and hardy folk co-existing with an historic and haunted hotel, trendy restaurants, one of a kind shops, and panoramic views of the Verde Valley far below.  It's located about 100 miles north of Phoenix, which makes it perfect for a day trip or (even better) a more relaxed overnight stay.

Jerome earned National Historic Landmark status in the late 1960s and promptly began labeling their buildings as to provenance.  This led us into Nellie Bly, a wonderland of kaleidoscopes.  Large, small, elaborate, plain, expensive and...less expensive.  And, to make it better, the shopkeepers require us to touch, photograph, and play with every one of the little marvels.

BC loves kaleidoscopes and wanted to spend the afternoon.  The fun, of course, is finding the end of the rainbow where you least expect it.

I mentioned historical in relation to  the Nellie Bly.  Well, the Nellie Bly building (as you can read below) was originally a brothel--actually three brothels as Jerome kept burning down in the late 1890s.  I think of myself as upright, but I am a little fascinated by the historical Madams.  The stories they could tell and the secrets they kept...  They knew more about the inhabitants of Jerome than anyone...and made money in the process.  What a business plan!  Apparently, in some cases, big money, as the sign reveals that Jennie was the wealthiest woman in the Arizona Territory when she was...unfortunately, murdered.  Historical signs are so antiseptic.  Excuse me, we'd appreciate the details on that one.   

 

I read in Wikipedia that Jerome was named "the wickedest town in the west" by the New York Sun in 1903.  Doesn't that just sound like something the New York Sun would have done?  I take exception, however, being a native of Dodge City, Kansas--Queen of the Cowtowns.  I believe, at one point--the 1880s--after a particularly egregious trespass from the law, Dodge City was seared into the conscience of the nation as "The Sodom of the West."  Now that, my friends, is wicked.

Jerome is definitely an entertaining pause in your travels.  Everyone is friendly, welcoming, ready for a bit of conversation, happy if you buy, but gracious if you don't.  It's a nice time.

   

And, finally, an appropriate greeting from our travels:

Amen.

A PERFECT AFTERNOON

 

GREAT FRIENDS!
GREAT WINE!
GREAT GOUDA CHEESE!

 

After a leisurely breakfast, we drove to Cottonwood and turned left, anticipating our wine tasting at Alcantara Vineyards and Winery.  After one or two confusing instructions, our faithful GPS made sense again and, rather emphatically ordered another left turn.  "Now!  Now!"  Actually, the "Now! Now!" was me in the back seat.  I love wine tastings and will accept no excuse to miss one.

We were in the high desert of Arizona, and with our final turn lost sight of any civilization that might have been close by.  We spotted another sign, turned left again onto a yet more narrow road that dropped quickly and a bit steeply into a lush valley where Oak Creek and the Verde River meet.  This Tuscan beauty lies at the end of the road.  

I believe the Alcantara vineyards encompass about twelve acres of grapes and then import others from California to blend and round out their offerings.  The result is a nice variety of reds and whites, perfect for every taste.  Although the tasting room itself is quite large and "living room cushy chairs" comfy, we opted to sit outside and enjoy the slight breeze and panoramic view.

Tasting wine like this can last a couple of hours, with good friends free with their conversations and laughter, plus a beautiful selection of cheeses with all the extras.  Alcantara wines are fresh and young and just happen to fit perfectly in our little wine cooler, ready for the next special occasion.

Thanks, Alcantara.  We had a wonderful time! 

CALORIES & QUOTES

Dear Everyone--

I've been eating little Dove Bars for the past couple of weeks--the tiny ones, 50 calories each.  I carefully chose the "Sea Salt Caramel & Dark Chocolate" bag because dark chocolate is good for us.  It was a few years ago when I read that and I'm choosing to stay with it.  If you know that related research has changed, please don't say anything.   I don't want to know.  I allow myself one Dove Bar per day.  It's my attempt to instill a bit of discipline into my life.  Much to my surprise, Dove has chosen to wax philosophical on the inside of each wrapper, coming up with such gems as "Take this moment.  Enjoy it."  OK.  That's nice.  Actually, at this moment, I am enjoying this Sea Salt Caramel & Dark Chocolate Dove bar quite a bit, but I'm wishing it was a little bigger.  Maybe about the size of a Snickers. 

The wrapper yesterday afternoon stated that "Too much of a good thing is wonderful."  It's the kind of cutesy thing you see in gift shops, and it probably would make you smile if you enjoy cutesy things.  You might even buy it.  But, we need to think about this.  Is "too much of a good thing" wonderful?  Well, if it's money and you spend it wisely--you bet it's wonderful.  Too much wine, on the other hand, is not.  I only know that because of a horrible experience I had with a bottle of Grenache Rose when I was eighteen years old and visiting my sister in California.  On this particular evening, she was on a date with some guy who drove a Porsche and she left me high and dry with her two irresponsible roommates who let me drink waaaaaay too much of the soda-pop-wine they had in the fridge.  Actually, the only thing I remember relatively well from that evening was the supernatural way in which the bathroom spun around me as I was attacked again and again by killer bouts of nausea.  I think I actually turned inside out in that bathroom.

Early last week, I opened my little Dove Bar and read, "Remind yourself to relax."  Unfortunately, this pearl dropped into my lap about 15 minutes after our landscaper was here for a meeting.  We've been involved in a five month landscape redo which has grown bigger and bigger until, finally, it has surpassed the cost of the first two homes we owned.  Two months ago, we realized that four of our six specimen live Southern oak trees had, nearly overnight, taken the count--or some grim imitation of that.  Despite record water bills, their leaves are brown, brittle and sparse.  The words "shock" and "dormant" have been bandied about, but the words I really want to hear are "GUARANTEED" and "REPLACED FIRST THING IN THE MORNING."  I'm still waiting.  I'm not relaxed, nor do I want to be.  I want action, Dove Bar.  I'm really hungry for some action!

And, finally, the clincher.  "Don't do, be."  Whoa!  I think that's deep.  I checked it and that's exactly the way it's written.  I kind of get it, but then again there's another side, sort of like the chicken and the egg.  In the doing, aren't we demonstrating our being?  And we demonstrate our being with, by, and in our doing.  Right?  Right?  Let me know what you think.

 

GOOGLE AND ME

Dear Everyone--

BC had a meeting this afternoon so, in lieu of cleaning house, I decided to Google myself.  I'm sure people do this from time to time...at least I hope so, as I would hate to be seen as either narcissistic or slightly off balance.  In my case, Google-ing led to:

A:  The discovery that I'm not unique, in that I'm not the only Margie Staggs in the huge world of Google.

B:  Numerous others who have shared my name have already gone before.  In other words, they have died and are buried in Ohio, Tennessee, and other such states.  It is a little spooky when you first notice on Google that you may be dead.  Also, I learned that there is a web-site called "findagrave.com",   followed shortly by "billiongraves.com".  There may be more, but two were enough.

C:  For a moment I thought a Margie Staggs might have placed some recipes on Food.com, but the page turned out to be blank.  Apparently, Margie had aspirations of being a foodista, but lost her nerve at the last moment.  I had planned to borrow her recipes and claim them as my own if they were good, but it was not to be.

D:  Another Margie Staggs, I think from Georgia, has cleaned her closet and is selling select items on "poshmark.com".  They were?  Well, the headliner is a Coach Bag (black on black with the Big C's).  Apparently, she too read the Wall Street Journal article regarding their gauche-ness, and decided to sell while the selling was still good.  I, by contrast, am still carrying mine.

E:  Someone who also carries my name is on Linked In.  I would like to be on Linked In, but I'm having a terrible time finding a profession I could claim.  "Retired" just doesn't seem to cut it when it comes to Linked In.

F:  And, finally, there is a Margie Staggs who appears on "mugshots.com".  Unfortunately, she was arrested in Tennessee for DUI and an Open Container.  Considering the DUI plus Open Container, she looked pretty good in her mug shot.  Normally, those photos aren't flattering at all...but, perhaps it helps if you're DUI when they're taken. 

G:  Me, Me, Me.  Yes, I did indeed show up on Google, although it took a very long time to get there.  I'm pictured in one photo taken from our Photo Club blog.  Unfortunately, it looks a lot like me and I look a lot like a Photo Club Treasurer who is so anal retentive and serious about her duties, that our financial reports balance to the penny each month.  In other words,  oh just never mind.

See you soon--
Margie    

 

CELEBRATING UNIQUENESS

Dear Everyone--

I believe I read somewhere that we (all of us) should embrace those things that make us unique.  I hope I read that and didn't just make it up.  In any event, I decided yesterday afternoon to celebrate my uniqueness--that of being a Late Adopter, or someone who waits until the latest technology has run its course and then buys in.  In honor of being a Late Adopter, I bought my first iPhone ever and it, of course, is a 5 which, after September 10th, will draw pitying stares from some and hoots of derision from others, but I don't care.  I'm proud of being a Late Adopter...it's who I am, and this little iPhone, one of the few left in T-Mobile's back room, needed a friend.

It just struck me this minute, that I walked directly from T-Mobile to Dillards to purchase two pair of clip earrings.  Perhaps technology is not the only thing that marks me as a Late Adopter.

Since the purchase of my sweet iPhone 5 I have learned that we worry much too much about evil strangers grabbing our IDs or Passwords and running amok in our name.  Both Apple and Google are quite vigilant regarding their own territories.  I didn't know that until yesterday when, still at T-Mobile--I tried, unsuccessfully, to sign into iCloud in order to facilitate the transfer of information or whatever reason it was that required reaching into the cloud.  Having failed that test, I turned to Google which, much to my embarrassment, reacted in exactly the same way.  I was desperately typing/back-spacing, typing/backspacing as I tried to match these arthritic fingers with the iPhone's miniscule (but cute) virtual keyboard.  Even though I had spent a portion of the morning with both of them, neither Apple nor Google would admit to ever having heard of me.

Early this morning, in a state of some frustration, I fired up my computer to check e-mails as they sure weren't on that new iPhone.  Google was first:  "We prevented a sign-in attempt in case this was a Hijacker trying to access your account."  They went on to give me a web address in order to try to resolve the issue if it was me instead of a Hijacker.  "Was it you?" they coyly asked.  Yes, damn you, it was me!

Apple was next:  "Your Apple ID was used to sign into iCloud on iPhone 5..."  Well, thank heavens for that.  I was afraid I'd gone over the edge and forgotten the very best password I'd ever come up with.  Again, they instructed, if it wasn't me, simply change my password; if it was me, go to the included web address and work through the instructions.  Despite Apple's reputation of being so "intuitive" doesn't that seem counter-intuitive?  Why am I being punished with a page of instructions? 

Suddenly, Facebook appeared: "We temporarily locked your account until you could review this recent log-in from a mobile device you have never used before."  The Facebook Security Team quite politely included a web-site to visit in order to unlock Facebook again, apparently assuming I'm really a trustworthy person.  Actually, other than the photos of family, I'm singularly unimpressed with Facebook and just may keep it locked up forever.  But, thanks anyway.

Now, as to the clip earring situation.  I've never found a pair that didn't hurt after an hour or so, but pierced ears were such a catastrophe, that's just the way it has to be.

Have a great weekend!
Margie

OF PIN BALL, DUCKS, AND HUNGRY KOI

I have taken up a new project.  It's called Lumosity and you've probably seen or heard it advertised.  Lumosity presents a number of brain games--just for you--in its efforts to help you become smarter, brighter, and less likely to leave your leftovers box on the table when you exit the restaurant.  I signed up in April for the free version--slightly less detailed analysis and my "adaptive training algorithms" are probably less personalized--but I've been a daily participant ever since.  I can actually feel my brain growing with new and fresh neurons as synapses are grabbing hold of their proper synapses partners and reveling in their neuroplasticity.  Neuroplasticity!  It makes you feel GOOD when it's working!

Along with 35 or 25 or 40 million other members (depending on which part of the web-site you're reading) I am a small cog in the gigantic Human Cognition Project--or, I hope I am.  I'd like to believe that.  Actually, I'm rather counting on it. 

As I begin today's session, feeding slippery, constantly swimming Koi in their little pond, I'm sure each mouse click is being recorded somewhere for analysis.  Today I fed 32 Koi out of 35, which means I tried to feed three of them twice.  That is not a good thing and Lumosity deducts points for feeding a Koi twice.  They are demonstrating that I'm probably missing a neuron or two as I lose track of  three little fish or, as I prefer to believe, my peripheral vision simply stinks.

In my second game, I'm finding myself looking at a group of five ducks flying in tight formation, heading either North, South, East or West.  My job, should I choose to accept it, is to indicate which direction the center duck is flying by pushing the appropriate arrow key.   Be aware that the center duck, in contrast to my understanding of proper duck formation rules, may or may not be flying in a totally different direction from the other four ducks.  He has his own GPS system.  Also, be aware, speed counts.  The faster you push those arrow keys, the more points you will rack up--assuming, of course, your choices are correct.  I'm OK with the ducks.

Finally, this morning, my session ended with the damned Pin Ball Machine.  When I began working with Lumosity in April, I was quite taken with my Pin Ball skills.  I, quickly and accurately, determined which way the flapper thing would send the ball and I was point for point on target.  It was a great day!  I was a proud lady.  Then, as the weeks passed and the damned Pin Ball Board grew in physical size, increased the number of flapper things, and shortened dramatically the flash of time given to memorize the placement and direction of the flappers, it began to eat my lunch session after session.  It ate my lunch again this morning.  My Pin Ball BPI (Brain Performance Index) was five points lower than after my last Pin Ball episode.  I didn't produce the number of points to even qualify for one of my top five performances although  I received one extra point (something of a back-handed compliment) simply for having the tenacity to finish the game. 

When the session ended and I clicked to the final standings, much to my surprise, my overall BPI (did I mention, that means Brain Performance Index) had increased slightly over yesterday's number.  Lumosity does not do that to make you feel good.  I went two weeks with a  consistently decreasing BPI last month, but I kept on keeping on, and finally broke out of my slump.  I do love Lumosity and believe my brain is functioning better because of it!  Or, as BC is fond of saying, "I'll always think it should be."  Lumosity must offer a hundred different games, so each day is a surprise.  I have my favorites as well as those I hate.  However, I try equally hard on all of them and I would tell you what my BPI is, except it's higher than BC's and I don't want to make him feel badly, because he is a sweetie.  He's played a shorter length of time than I have but, frankly, God help him if he pulls ahead...

TRENDY, MOM, TRENDY

Since I posted my little piece on my treasured 1936 Royal Deluxe, typewriters have popped up everywhere.  For example, my very cool sister in Louisville reported that a friend of hers (an antiques guru) mentioned that typewriters are a very hot commodity right now. 

Within a few days of that comment, my cousin Barbara in Kansas City (Barbara grew up with the massive typewriter I so loved as a child) sent a clipping from The New York Times in which Tom Hanks wrote on his love affair with the hundreds of vintage typewriters he has collected over the years.  By the way, Tom uses his typewriters nearly every day.  He even types his thank-you notes.  I had thought typing thank-you notes was gauche, but if Tom does it, I'm on board.

Finally, the oft-quoted Wall Street Journal ran an article last week detailing how a few typewriter manufacturers still eke out a living producing typewriters for a scattering of governmental entities that require certain forms be handwritten or typed.  Apparently, they don't lend themselves well to computer programming or PDF or some such nonsense. Items mentioned were Search Warrants in various locales, Marriage Licenses in Jersey City, and Death Certificates in West Virginia.  It's a niche product. 

But, in an even niche-ier way, the Texas Prison System is using typewriters within its prisons that are transparent.  A manufacturer designed a transparent manual typewriter specifically for prisoners who might be writing The Great American Novel or, more likely, working on their law degrees.  Those $250.00 transparent typewriters pretty much negate the contraband issue.

I announced to my socially savvy children that considering the sudden popularity of typewriters after my post, I thought I might be trending.  It was extremely exciting to be trending at my age.  Sadly, they brought to my attention that even though I was a relatively trendy grandmother, it was the typewriters that were trending, not me. 

ANTICIPATION

The summer I had waited for through the long Arizona winter months, came in a flash somewhere near mid-May, and when I woke up this morning, it had disappeared into very late August.  It's all part of my current state of evolution in which I'm realizing that I'm not really immortal and I'm not going to accomplish all of the wonderful things I spent 60+ years believing I would.  That process has made me a bit melancholy with just a pinch of dissatisfaction thrown in.  No, on second thought, that would be a Tablespoon of dissatisfaction.  There must be hundreds of things I will never do.  For the moment, those items, unfortunately, are piled much higher than the few things I have actually managed to do, and it's making me think about the need for a Life Coach. I'm not sure I'd every heard of a Life Coach until a few months ago, but I'm thinking I might be more pulled together had one lived close by back in the day when I still had the time to make the effort worthwhile.

During the years I could have used a Life Coach, I lived on an isolated farm in southwest Kansas.  I spent my days dusting, vacuuming, cooking for six, all while harmonizing enthusiastically with Barry Manilow on vinyl.  How isolated were we really?  For starters, we had no newspaper delivery nor mail service.  The local paper was placed in our Post Office Box very late each weekday afternoon.  I picked it up the following morning after dropping my kids at their schools.  The day-old "Dodge City Daily Globe" was very little consolation to a news junkie.  That will only make sense if you remember there was no cable in the wilderness, either.

We lived a quarter mile off a secondary dirt road. To reach our house, one had to navigate a wash/gully, draw--take your pick.  If it rained, one would gun the engine just the right amount and keep driving no matter if the car cooperated or not.  The result, quite often, was to end up in a dead stop, despite the spinning tires, completely encased in mud.  If it snowed, the scenario was identical, except it was colder and we were encased in snow.  Either scenario involved ruined shoes and an endless walk to the house.  During dry times we were fine, although a bit dusty.

In retrospect, living at the farm for eleven years was the best of all worlds from time to time, and the worst of all worlds in between.  I think it helped me become independent, to a certain degree.  We had no neighbors nearby. Well, actually, there were neighbors two miles north of us.  She was younger than I, gave birth at home, baked her own bread, and raised chickens.  We had very little in common.  After our Australian Sheep Dog (Bo-Peep) ventured to her house for a short visit, taking out a few of her chickens in the process, we were left with nothing in common.  Bo Peep was a wonderful dog--high strung with a tendency toward testiness--but the best baby-sitter since "Nana" of Peter Pan fame.  My youngest child (usually naked) wandered the fields for hours with Bo-Peep at his side.  I could trust that she would protect him with every fiber of her being and he would be fine.  She did and he was.

I also learned about cattle--steers, to be exact.  They are incredibly non-intelligent.  (I hate the word stupid even when it fits.)  When placed on wheat pasture, they will immediately walk the fence line of the field and, if it's electrified, bounce off the wires again and again and again.  But, a week later, if the electrified fence is removed for some strange reason, they will stay in the field, walking up to, then stopping just short of where the fence had run. Even though that's true, don't take your fence down.  If something should frighten your cattle, they will forget everything else, run through fences (real or imaginary) and over each other in their need to do something...anything.  There are sad stories of mass suffocations of cattle during blizzards that I don't even want to mention.

In addition a steer will stand in a foot of snow that is temporarily covering five or six inches of lush green wheat and starve to death.  A horse nearby will immediately clear away the snow with its hoof and feast for hours.  The steer will continue to stand and watch the horse with a heart-breaking expression that only a steer can manage.  I used to theorize that hell had absolutely nothing to do with fire and brimstone.  Real hell was being re-incarnated as a steer on wheat pasture during a western Kansas winter.  I still believe that theory has merit.

I think I left my Life Coach a few paragraphs back (sorry) and, perhaps, am beginning to realize that even though my life is not the story I set out to tell, it's the only one I have and, surprisingly, may have an unexpected and under-appreciated achievement or two buried within.  I may need to do this exercise by myself a few more times until I find just the right Life Coach and learn to accept who, what, where and why I am, what to do about it, and how to make it better.  That makes me think of the Dove Bar (dark chocolate and sea salt caramel) wrapper I opened today:  "Feed your sense of anticipation", it read.  I like that.  I think I'll do it.     

A SIMPLE SUNDAY MORNING

We don't wear dresses very often in our Age Restricted Community.  We've become a slacks and capri pants sort of population.  Comfort is our "later in life" mantra.  Most of us did the girdle, hose and high heel thing for 40 or so years, and we're done!

However, Sunday mornings present a conundrum.   Our Lutheran congregation, a fairly relaxed group of refugee Minnesotans, still has a tendency to dress, just ever so slightly, for church services.  That means I must spend Sunday mornings in our closet shoving hangers this way and that until I come across something I think is both appropriate, and hasn't already been worn three times in the past month.  Last Sunday I spied the dress BC bought for me last year.  It sports a "Lauren" label, which makes it unique in my closet and it's very cute, so I decided to wear it.  It's a red knit little number...boat neck, three-quarter length sleeves (the better to hide the hideous effect advancing age has on the upper arms), and just manages to skim the fat deposits growing every so slowly and steadily around my mid-section.

Much to my pleasure, not to mention relief, it still fit and I put the finishing touches on my face and hair.  I found earrings and bracelets and sashayed to the full length mirror to check my cuteness.  Whoa!  Yes, the dress fits, but it's a clingy number.  In fact, it's generating additional static with every breath.  We have a problem and BC is ready to walk out the door.  I need a slip.

Now, along with my Age Restricted friends, I wore a slip everyday from the first morning of Kindergarten to the last sip of wine at my retirement party.  I don't do that anymore, but a slip is definitely needed under this obscene and obnoxious dress that's delineating my thighs.  I own three slips...all of which, I learn, are much longer than my red dress.  I'm choosing the black half slip.  Let's pull it up a bit and fold the waistband over a few times.  Problem solved...no, wait, it's not.  The waistband of my aging slip has lost its elasticity (God knows I know what that's like), and three inches of black lace are hanging out under my pricy Ralph Lauren hem.

I'm in trouble.  However, since spending a few minutes everyday exercising my brain on Lumosity, I've become a critical thinker.  I will pull this slip up over my bra, which will be better for the static cling anyway, and my problem will be solved.  Excellent critical thinking, but essentially flawed because of the waistband elasticity situation.  Safety pins are in order. 

I'm now standing in my bathroom safety pinning a black half slip to my bra...to the front of my bra, one pin per cup.  I pull my dress back down.  The slip stays attached to the bra, the two safety pins located front and center (so to speak) don't seem to show...too much...and we're off to divine worship.

Whew...all is going very well.  We're sitting in our usual seats, uncomfortably close to the front (BC loves to be near the action), the slip is holding but I am suddenly frozen with fear.  What if I drop over in a dead faint in the middle of the service?!?  In this neighborhood, that is not an uncommon event.  Some good Christian congregant is sure to run for the AED (Automated External Defribrillator) and electrocute himself, as well as me, when he connects with the safety pins as he turns on the juice.  We would both light up like the Holy Spirit himself had suddenly appeared and my darkest secret would become fodder for cheap funeral jokes.

It was a long Sunday service.          

FRIENDS WITH WORDS

I don't think I'm the last person to take up "Words with Friends", but I'm probably close.  I knew of the game, having been aware that Alec Baldwin was unceremoniously dumped off a flight when he refused to turn off his cell phone in the midst of a hotly contested game, thus delaying the takeoff.  Of course, likable scoundrel that he is, Alec proceeded to make a few million dollars from the whole affair without us ever knowing if he won or lost.  He probably depends a lot on strategy would be my guess.

When we were in the Midwest a few weeks ago, I weakened, my daughter loaded the program on my iPad, outlined the bare basics, and I was ready to spell.  There was a time, years ago, when I was a fairly decent Scrabble challenger.  Although, in retrospect, it was when my children were relatively small and not as attuned to Olde English words or spellings as I.  I must have been merciless in those days, going after children.  I do feel badly about that now. 

Today, I'm involved in seven games.  Two daughters, two granddaughters, one son-in-law, one daughter-in-law, and Gramie Lynn, my daughter-in-law's mom, are my opponents.  I mention Gramie by name, because if she ever turns Pro, I want you to know I knew her when.  Gramie Lynn is a formidable opponent, both in vocabulary and in strategy.  She has wiped me off the board every time we've played.  She could do it in 30 minutes or less if I were only quicker with my responses to her entries.  On this week's Leader Board (Gramie, of course being in first place), I'm coming in at 11th with 73 points.  Number 12, my son-in-law (sporting 8 points) is  lagging behind me only because he's in Singapore this week and too frugal to pop for wireless service.

But things are about to change drastically in this contest.  I have discovered www.scrabblefinder.com and I'm not ashamed to use it.  I'm not ashamed because, after two months of humiliating defeats, I want to win.  I don't have to win big...I just have to win.  And, in the process of researching on scrabblefinder.com, I'm learning all kinds of educational facts. Are you looking for a five letter word that begins with  KU?  If so, you will quickly learn that there are eleven such words, beginning with KUDOS and ending with KUSSO.  And that's just for starters.  Did you know QIS is indeed a word?  In relation to "Words With Friends" it is worth at least 12 points but can top out above 36 points if you place it in just the right place on the board.  I know that because DAbrown hit me with QIS yesterday afternoon just as I was creeping up on her score ever so slightly.  She may be unreachable now.

But, with my Scrabble Finder tool, and my competitive juices flowing, I'm confident and edgy.  Feelin'  a bit like Serena Williams entering Center Court as I strut toward my iPad.  Ejb9q7--Watch out.  Looks like you're next on my list.

HUNT & GATHER, SMILE & REMEMBER

Occasionally, the Wall Street Journal will, in its Saturday "Off Duty" section, highlight a city or scenic area and create a tightly scheduled, but perfect three day holiday.  This past weekend, WSJ settled on Minneapolis, calling it "The Nicest City in America."  A little over a year ago, my son was transferred to Minneapolis, bought a house and his sweet wife and two adorable children quickly flew there to join him.  We've visited twice since, and would certainly agree with the WSJ...Minneapolis is indeed a very nice place to be.  So nice, in fact, that many of our Arizona neighbors migrate there every summer to escape the dry heat of Arizona.

Since the WSJ, particularly the weekend edition, serves as my go-to coolness indicator, I began skimming their Minneapolis suggestions in hope that we had chosen correctly as we toured the city.  Although our visits lean a little toward lengthy lunches at Chuck E Cheese (the adorables are 4 and 7), we had still managed to visit, walk or drive by a few of WSJ's suggestions. But, generally, their schedule left me feeling a bit unsettled, not to mention uncool.  How could we have missed that many great restaurants and bars, groceries, bakeries and shops?  But wait!  I recognize that!  Scheduled from 2:00 to 3:00 p.m. on Monday afternoon: Hunt & Gather.  Perhaps my favorite antique, oddities, curiosities, and all around interesting shop ever.  Located on Xerxes Avenue among similar venues, one can easily spend half the day on the first floor.  The one hour schedule allotted by the WSJ barely gets you in the door.  Relax, WSJ.  Enjoy.  Smell that bit of mustiness, savor the age, page through that book.  There may be a treasure just around the corner...or down the stairs.  How do I know?
,

  
Because I was lucky enough to find this flawless, beautiful 1936 Royal Deluxe portable typewriter in the veritable rabbit warren that is Hunt & Gather's basement.  I spotted four or five well maintained typewriters, all displayed with equal care, but this one whispered my name as I approached.  My fondness (if not love) for  typewriters began when I was a small child and spent hours at my Aunt Letha's house typing nonsense on her vintage business-sized Royal.  I covered reams of paper with letters, numbers and symbols, and cried when it was time to go home.  When I graduated from high school and received my portable Smith-Corona (gray metal with green keys) to facilitate my college notes, research papers and the occasional letter home, I placed it carefully near my bedroom window and spent the summer typing, and day-dreaming of writing the great American novel.  Occasionally, I would open that window and light a cigarette I'd lifted from my mother's pack of Kools.  I'd carefully blow the resultant smoke out the window and magically become the very image of the Great American novelist.  

That summer, I was a voracious reader, devouring Time, Life and the Saturday Evening Post every week.  Through their pages, I shared Paris with Ernest Hemingway, Gertrude Stein, F. Scott Fitzgerald and Simone de Beauvoir, literary figures typing madly away on their Royal Deluxes or Underwoods.  They were my beautiful people...the glamorous intellectuals living in far away Europe, fueled by booze and the occasional positive review.  They were who I wished I could be.  Unfortunately, they were not who I was fated to be, considering my poor showing in Freshman Honors English.   

   
I have no idea who might have owned my new wonderful typewriter.  I hope they loved it...they certainly cared for it or, perhaps simply didn't use it often, but it's in good hands now.  It has transported me back to those dreamy, sultry summer days at the bedroom window when everything was possible and just around the corner.  Dreams were real and right there for the taking.  It was a glorious time.  Perhaps dreams don't have to end...68 may be pushing it a bit but, Lord knows, if not now, when?       

CURATING, CONTINUED

 

Yes, the curating continues.  Yes, just a bit of the excitement has worn off.  Yes, you're right, it has turned into work.  And, no, BC is not terribly taken with my project.  "But, I won't be able to find things now," he has sadly stated.  I have assured him that everything I've taken from the shelves will be returned, perhaps to a slightly different location, but certainly back on the same set of shelves from whence they came.  He is not consoled.  He is a creature of habit.  His comfort zone has been violated. 

 He does not like to step around carefully curated stacks of books.

 

 

He does not like flat items on the floor that make it impossible to get wherever it is he needs to go. 

 

 

Even I, who thought up this project and consider it a bare beginning to the changes I will create within this home, have a certain Alice in Wonderland, down the rabbit hole, feeling as I sit and survey the world around me.

  

 

And, just like Alice, the world around me is appearing bigger and bigger.  I think it's time for a cookie.

EXCUSE ME, I'M CURATING

A few months ago, I read an article about the popularity of curating book shelves.  It is no longer enough to dust, and--if we happen to be feeling especially creative--rearrange  our shelves.  No.  We must curate.  It sounds rather professional though, don't you think?  "I'm so sorry, I won't be able to attend next week's meeting.  I'm curating the book shelves in our den library."

I think curating sounds like something right up my alley.  And, from the look of the shelves as shown above, curating is way past due at our house.  There is nothing like taking a picture of something in your home to realize either: A--That isn't so bad after all, or B--How could I have let that happen!  In this case, it's B.

Now, I'm assuming the first step in curating is removing everything from said shelves and doing a quick analysis of each item.  What is it?  How does it fit in the general scheme of things?  Which sorting area does it belong in?  What fun!  Look, here's an interesting book:  Veterinary Obstetrics and Genital Diseases.  Sometimes I forget that BC spent the better part of his life as a small town veterinarian, doing thousands of obstetrics cases over that time.  I just had never thought of dogs, cats, cattle and horses worrying about genital diseases.  Every day we learn!  Out of curiosity, I opened another of his textbooks right to the page titled, "Amputating a Teat."  We'll just put that pile over in the corner.

I love the old books I grew up with and forget about from one dusting to the next.  Dorothy Parker's Enough Rope  always makes me plop right down on the divan and flip through its pages.  I love her!  This particular copy, on it's seventh printing in 1927, is inscribed:  "Not because I want her to Hang herself do I give Catherine Enough Rope, but more because I want to Rope her in...Dick"  Catherine is, of course, my mother, and Dick?  Perhaps he's the attorney from Kansas City who she briefly dated during her college years.  But, back to Dorothy Parker.  Whereas, she can be a bit dark and frequents the subject of death (a metaphor for a broken heart, perhaps...take that Mr. Adamany), here's one of her more light-hearted efforts:

By the time you swear you're his,

Shivering and sighing,

And he vows his passion is

Infinite, undying--

Lady, make a note of this:

One of you is lying.

Or another, titled "Indian Summer":

In youth, it was a way I had

To do my best to please,

And change, with every passing lad,

To suit his theories.

 

But now I know the things I know,

And do the things I do;

And if you do not like me so,

To hell, my love, with you!

That may be a good note on which to close, as my pace is slowing with each treasure I'm bringing down from the shelves.  Now I'm quite taken with my Grandmother's textbook from 1896, my father's German prayer book, and BC's Behavior Problems with Dogs, many of which seem to resolve rather easily with a regimen of dextroamphetamine and behavioral training.

Curating may take a bit longer than I thought.   

LESSONS LEARNED, PART I

As of this past May, I have five grandchildren who have graduated from college, two with Masters degrees.  I know it's bragging, but I don't think of it that way.  It's simply a fact.  They are gainfully employed, and relatively responsible members of society.  When they look back on their not so long ago college days, they break out in smiles.  What great experiences!  What wonderful fun!  What cool bars!  And...nearly all of these little darlings have "cum laude" or "magna cum laude" cords hanging someplace on their wall.  Where did these kids come from?  Not from Grandma, unfortunately.  I just don't have tremendously happy memories of college.  For example:

When I went to college (and, trust me, I couldn't wait) I knew I was hot stuff.  I had graduated from St. Mary of the Plains High School third or fourth, maybe fifth, in my class academically.  That is pretty good considering we had maybe 36 people in our class.  Or, was it 26?  No matter.  I had been a cheerleader, third page editor of the school newspaper, and editor of the school yearbook.  Those are hot things.  I had also chosen the theme for the Junior-Senior Prom--Bali Ha'i.  South Pacific (the movie) had been out for a few years but, apparently, had only recently reached Dodge City because I was totally enthralled with it and the Bali Ha'i concept. Obviously, I was ready for college...the big leagues.  Kansas State University of Agriculture and Applied Science, here I come.

On the second day of classes at KSU of A&AS, I was happily hurrying to my Freshman Honors English class.  How did I qualify for an Honors English class, you may ask?  God only knows.  Apparently, there were major problems with the non-computerized standardized testing system of the time.  However, there I was entering a rather dingy classroom wearing my oh-so-new plaid wool skirt and matching sweater and feeling oh, so good about myself.

I think his name was Ralph Adamany, and all of his tall, dark, gorgeousness was casually draped against the drab, scratched  instructor's desk at the front of the rather drab, scratched room.  Without hesitation, I took the seat immediately in front of him.  I was 210 miles from home, I'd just pledged Kappa Kappa Gamma, and God had dropped my ticket to heaven right in front of my eyes.  It could not get any better than this.

Ours was a smallish class made up (as I remember it) of a lot of Kansas City kids.  Big City kids from Big City high schools.  I was undaunted, however.  They may have looked down on St. Mary of the Plains High School and not been able to find Dodge City on a map, but I was fine with that.  I could run with the best of them.

The rather exotic Mr. Adamany began to speak in a beautifully languid tone of his recent time in Italy.  Thank you, Lord.  This is definitely not Dodge City.  He had been studying literature, of course, but way too soon I realized he was also giving us an assignment.  Our first reading exercise would be Hemingway's A Farewell to Arms which we would, of course, compare to Remarque's All Quiet on the Western Front.

What!  What?  We are going to do what...before when?  Are you sure?  Big City Hotshot Guy on my left is already letting us know his feelings on Hemingway's style.  I do recognize the Hemingway name but who the hell is Remarque?  Does anyone else think it's hot in here?  Big City Girl behind me has just begun criticizing Big City Boy's Hemingway theories by presenting her own.  Mr. Adamany is looking at her with some interest.  Show Off!  Can someone open a window?  I don't know what these people are talking about and I think I'm just about to topple into a full blown panic attack.

To make a sad story a bit longer, I must tell you that I struggled with Hemingway.  I struggled with Remarque.  I struggled with metaphors and totally missed similes.  Frankly, I was completely over my head.  I was in deep trouble.  I assume it was either Mr. Adamany's  pity, or total ennui that let me escape his class with a C just before I sadly requested he place me in a regular Freshman English Class.  I didn't marry this handsome English teacher, nor did I see Italy until I was pushing middle age.  In fact, within the week, Mr. Adamany not only forgot my name, he forgot I was ever in his class.  Mr. Adamany broke my heart and my spirit.  I was never that young, nor hot again  
   

WHO AM I?

I was involved in a conversation a few days ago in which a friend commented that Sun City Grand was the perfect place in which to reinvent yourself.  Of course, I think she's absolutely right when you consider this community didn't exist until 1996 when it slowly emerged from abandoned cotton fields or citrus groves or whatever crop had flourished here.  Consequently, everyone is, by necessity, from somewhere else.  In our average sized cul-de-sac, one couple moved in from New Jersey, while their neighbor came from Wisconsin.  The youngish couple on the corner are from California and their immediate neighbors arrived from Colorado. We, of course, drove in from Kansas, and the couple on our left are from Scottsdale.  Don't scoff at that geographic anomaly.  Scottsdale is every bit as distant from Surprise as is New Jersey.  It's a culture thing.

But, back to the reinvention comment.  Unfortunately, I didn't think about reinventing myself as I was packing to leave Dodge City.  Quite possibly, I was barely aware that someone outside of the Federal Witness Protection Program could, or would, really do that.  And, if I had been alert enough to think of it, who in the world would I have become?

My first thought, most likely, would have leaned toward becoming my older sister.  She's a bit taller than I, a little slimmer, much more patient, more of an extrovert, and always looks as if she just walked away from a Ralph Lauren magazine layout.  Unfortunately, however, I'm a bit too short-waisted to carry off the Ralph Lauren thing, so we'll scratch that one.

Had I pulled myself together in time, I might have reinvented myself as my favorite Food Network person, Ina Garten, the Barefoot Contessa.  I love Ina Garten.  She is so calm as she cooks.  She doesn't race frantically around the kitchen fighting off a panic attack.  She never screams at her sweet husband.  She simply stands at her counter tossing another slab of butter in the mixer or a cup of cream into the bubbling pot on her cooktop. Occasionally, she wanders out to her herb garden and drinks in that East Hampton ambiance before she serenely greets her guests.  Could I carry that off in Arizona?  It would take a lot of Zanax.   

Maybe, since I had definitely come late to the party, I could simply have re-styled my background and called that a reinvention.  Kind of like rearranging the living room instead of buying that new divan. What background would I have chosen?  I don't know.  I really don't know. The problem is that when you're born, raised and live nearly all your life in the semi-arid southwestern quarter of Kansas, in a town known for multiple feedyards (100s of 1000s of cattle--no joke) and two immense cattle slaughter plants (unfortunately, it's about the only thing you can do with that many cattle) it's hard to carry off any vibe that doesn't shout "Midwest Plain Girl!"  Now I'm glad I didn't even try.  It sounds glamorous, but I think it would have taken a lot of work, and this is retirement, for heaven's sake.

      

MUSEUM WINNER'S PIE

Settle in friends, it's time for a bit of cooking.  You may remember that my sweet sister and her husband lean toward Kentucky gifts at Christmas, and 2012 was no exception.  This beauty of a cookbook arrived shortly before Christmas and I've been eager to get into it ever since.  I volunteered to bring a pie next Wednesday to our Heavenly Hash group and, in Derby parlance, I'm "off and running" into the Dessert Section or, as they call it, "The Twelfth Race."   There are 65 entries in the 12th Race and I'm just a little taken aback by the number of steps involved, the emphasis on "from scratch" ingredients (who knew you made a coconut pie after draining the milk, removing the brown skin and grating the meat!), and the amount of bourbon necessary for the successful completion of many of these recipes...and that's before you pour any for yourself.

 

Yes, dear friends, in this cookbook bourbon is a near necessity.  If you purchase "The Kentucky Derby Museum Cookbook",  you might as well just stop at the liquor store on your way home and pick up a bottle.  And let me save you from no little amount of embarrassment.  It's part of my job here.  Tennessee Whiskey is not the same as, nor can it be substituted for Kentucky Bourbon.  Don't even ask or try to sneak it through.  Don't.

 

After hours of searching and dithering, I decided to make "Museum Winner's Pie".  It called for two Tablespoons of bourbon or, in very small print, suggested that I would be allowed to substitute one teaspoon of vanilla.  What's with that?  Do measurements not count anymore?  Do they not know how many efforts I have ruined by mistaking a big "T" for a little "t"?  Generally, if you use a big "T" (Tablespoon) instead of the required little "t" (teaspoon), it shows up right away.  On the other hand, if you have used a little "t" instead of the recipe's big "T", it just seems rather bland and, perhaps, a touch dry.  I'm not taking any chances.  I'm going with the two Tablespoons of Kentucky bourbon.

 

I know I mentioned the book's propensity for "from scratch" ingredients, but if this cute little doughboy can whip out really good piecrusts, why should I get in his way?  You go, little guy.

 

 

Well, there it is.  It looks a great deal like chocolate chip cookie dough--a little more pale and gooshier perhaps--but definitely just as good.  I know that because I threw caution to the winds, ignored the raw egg situation and had a taste.  I believe, however, that the 2T of Jim Beam probably took care of any bacterial threat while adding a really nice kick to the whole thing.

 

And, now, for the final product.  I"m kind of surprised because I had expected that the one cup of chocolate chips would turn the whole thing chocolate, but instead, it looks rather like a huge chocolate chip cookie.  I can't wait to try it.  BC--would you like a piece of pie? 

My intent, of course, was to try this new recipe before presenting it to our Heavenly Hash friends and, perhaps, all of us dropping over dead from some grotesque printing error.  I don't believe there were any mistakes here.  It is, per BC, pretty darned rich and, I do have to admit, he's right.  I've had three pieces while trying to decide if it's TOO rich and if I need to add whipped cream or vanilla ice cream to temper that a bit.  Or, of course, there's always the French solution to such a quandry...simply serve a smaller portion.  I'm going to try that now.

DAY TWELVE--NEWPORT, RI

Good Morning! And, welcome to Newport, Rhode Island.  Well, perhaps not "welcome" in the way we might think of "welcome".  Too much of Newport is hidden behind elaborate gates, strongly worded signs, and tall wooden fences designed, no doubt, to keep the cruise excursion riff-raff and other tourist-types at a comfortable distance.  Comfortable for them...but, darn it, I'm having trouble getting a good view.  Remember, but for an accident of birth I might have been here.  Let me see what I missed.   

 

 

 

 

 

This is the famed Breakers estate, built by Cornelius Vanderbilt for the eight-week Newport Summer Season.  Eight weeks!  Now that has to qualify as real wealth.  We toured this beauty, and if you're ready for a few statistics, here they are:  65,000 square feet.  The rather lavish dining room contains 2,400 square feet.  It was not my imagination telling me it was larger than my year-around house.  That dining room is one of 70 rooms.  Cornelius paid $12 million for this beauty, which would be $355 million in today's dollars.  It's owned by the Preservation Society of Newport County and open for tours.  Not the apartment behind the windows on the third floor, however.  That luxury suite is periodically occupied by Anderson Cooper of CNN fame and some of his Vanderbilt/Whitney cousins.  I don't think they were home.

Newport is a charming place although today was a bit foggy and hazy.  Except for the tourists who come to gape at the historic mansions, and a few remaining wealthy souls who rebuild and remodel a home here and there, the economy depends on the fact that Naval Station Newport is based here, with its Naval War College, Naval Undersea Warfare Center (not for me, thank you) and a large US Navy Training Center.

The famed Newport Cliff Walk is a wonderful way to spend a few hours wandering beside the harbor and enjoying views of the mansions built along this stretch of water.  This one will certainly do.  It's gorgeous. And who is the lucky owner?  Salve Regina University.  Salve Regina University?  Tough times fell on Newport in the 1930s and, frankly, in some of the years since.  Salve Regina seems to have been the recipient of a number of gifts of huge homes in need of maintenance, remodeling and upkeep.  This is Ochre Court, Salve Regina's first gift and its first home.

 

Here's another example of a Salve Regina building.  Once owned by the Lorillard family (cigarettes and other tobacco abominations), it was also bequeathed to the university.  It wasn't a surprise to learn that Salve Regina is known to have one of the most beautiful campuses in the United States. 

 

Even if one ignores the mansions, known as "cottages" in their day, the Cliff Walk is beautiful.

Goodness.  Where did this come from?  I think it's my reminder that even in Newport we can find a bit of squalor with the splendor.  Call the maintenance man, people!