You'd think summer would be a time of unmitigated fun. Lots and lots of pool time. Farmers markets. Perfect weather. The annual Maine trip. Lots of extra time to do kid stuff with fewer constraints.
It all sounds great, but the truth is that summer is becoming a time of deep melancholy. The school year means a predictable routine both with the kid around the house and with a reliable school pattern. The summer, however, means a break in patterns. Camp throws different schedules into the mix — especially when it comes to the weeks at the beginning and end of the summer. The kid's mom and I also shift to more of a shared schedule. And this is where the real problem occurs.
We generally work well on parenting and scheduling matters when the schedule is reliable. When transitions occur, our communication moves into less reliable territory. Moreover, the differences in how we approach parenting really come into play.
As the switch to a week-to-week schedule approached, I told Buttercup about it. She seemed genuinely surprised. She asked why we would change schedules, and I explained that it's what we had agreed upon a couple years ago. I also reminded her that we had done it last year. She accepted that, but she still seemed a little off.
That feeling has continued a bit over the past couple of weeks. As the switch to staying at her mom's has approached this week, she has had a few bedwetting incidents. She has also seemed needier and much more sensitive, in her own world in ways that can be both adorable and frustrating at the same time. Apparently, this is just another case where our feelings are in concert, however, because I too have been a roller coaster of emotions and stress.
It seems I've also hit the point where I can't shut off my parenting side at all. The house is lonely without the kid, no matter how many people are around. The thought of not having to get her ready for camp in the morning brings no solace. In fact, I will end up spending much of my "down" time wondering whether I'll be called on for a pool trip (good) or an emergency (bad). This feeling is nothing new, and I've written about it before. What seems different this year is the depth of it. In fact, I feel the time away from my role as dad even more this year than in previous years.
The bright sides are few. I will be busy at work and busy trying to get a handle on things at home again. I will also have a bit more time to enjoy adult time. For Buttercup, the bright side is of course that she gets more time with mom. I can't help feeling, though, that her surprise at and questions about the shift in schedules are a sign of a deeper reliance on something else.
Thursday, July 09, 2009
Friday, July 03, 2009
Summer's here
I apologize to those few of you who are regular visitors for the recent light posting. It's been a busy, up-and-down week. Happy Fourth of July... I'm off to the pool.
Wednesday, July 01, 2009
trust is what it all comes down to
The NYT published an utterly brilliant, potentially tear-inducing piece by Simon Van Booy on being a single father the other day. In it he recounts the loss of his wife to a sudden, fatal illness and his subsequent path of raising his daughter alone.
He touches on some important moments. He builds friendships with mothers, taking advice and shared experiences from them. He worries about cultural and media role models for his daughter is in the thick of the Princess phase. He struggles to find other men with common experiences to share and have a community. Ultimately, he finds that he just "thinks differently about everything" and manufactures happiness and memories with his daughter when and where he can. And when he gives a thumbnail description of the evening when all aspects of life routine go slightly wrong, I can't help but feel like he's given a thumbnail of my life in the whole piece.
The truth is being a single parent isn't easy, but it also isn't as hard as some people make it out to be. You make your own reality, your own moments, and when it comes to the ups and downs of daily life and routines, we muddle through the same way everyone else does. I recognize (and have written extensively about) the choices and compromises in my life, but then there are moments like the ones Ivey describes making eggs in the kitchen and later shaving that wipe out any sense of loss for the choices made.
The other day, I carved out a day just to spend with the kid. We haven't had many of these moments recently — whole days and activities that were our time — and I missed that connection. It occurred to me that in the midst of my work schedule, her camp schedule, the random detritus of daily life, relationships, social times with friends and neighbors, sleeping and eating, I was forgetting to make space for father-daughter time. By this, I don’t mean going to a movie or eating dinner; I mean taking little trips, leaving unstructured time for exploration and little adventures. When we came to the end of that day and were tired from going out in the woods and then to the pool, I saw smiles from Buttercup I haven’t seen in a while. They might have been there, but I wasn’t paying as much attention. When we sat down to watch baseball, then, and she fell asleep on my lap and I listened to her breathing settle into a deep sleep, I felt more at ease than I have in a while.
I thought about this again after a conversation with B Mére about schedules. We were moving into the summer schedule of traded weeks (always a melancholy time for me), and she wanted to feel free and clear to take the kid out of daycamp when she had the time and inclination. I reacted and defended the social time and camp activities as important for Buttercup. But the truth is I was reacting against B Mére’s ability to make and create time for fun. I wanted that same freedom.
And this is where my experience and Van Booy’s most diverge. He lost his wife to death; I lost mine to divorce. Ivey must struggle daily with the pain and emptiness of that loss and his daughter’s reactions to it; he won’t struggle with the clotted communication and conflicting patterns of parenting with an ex. He won’t have to deal with any lurking resentments and occasional competition that can linger after a divorce. Regardless, this is not about comparisons.
After reading Van Booy’s piece, I was reminded that ultimately this life is about a child’s trust and small, good moments. Read his words.
He touches on some important moments. He builds friendships with mothers, taking advice and shared experiences from them. He worries about cultural and media role models for his daughter is in the thick of the Princess phase. He struggles to find other men with common experiences to share and have a community. Ultimately, he finds that he just "thinks differently about everything" and manufactures happiness and memories with his daughter when and where he can. And when he gives a thumbnail description of the evening when all aspects of life routine go slightly wrong, I can't help but feel like he's given a thumbnail of my life in the whole piece.
The truth is being a single parent isn't easy, but it also isn't as hard as some people make it out to be. You make your own reality, your own moments, and when it comes to the ups and downs of daily life and routines, we muddle through the same way everyone else does. I recognize (and have written extensively about) the choices and compromises in my life, but then there are moments like the ones Ivey describes making eggs in the kitchen and later shaving that wipe out any sense of loss for the choices made.
The other day, I carved out a day just to spend with the kid. We haven't had many of these moments recently — whole days and activities that were our time — and I missed that connection. It occurred to me that in the midst of my work schedule, her camp schedule, the random detritus of daily life, relationships, social times with friends and neighbors, sleeping and eating, I was forgetting to make space for father-daughter time. By this, I don’t mean going to a movie or eating dinner; I mean taking little trips, leaving unstructured time for exploration and little adventures. When we came to the end of that day and were tired from going out in the woods and then to the pool, I saw smiles from Buttercup I haven’t seen in a while. They might have been there, but I wasn’t paying as much attention. When we sat down to watch baseball, then, and she fell asleep on my lap and I listened to her breathing settle into a deep sleep, I felt more at ease than I have in a while.
I thought about this again after a conversation with B Mére about schedules. We were moving into the summer schedule of traded weeks (always a melancholy time for me), and she wanted to feel free and clear to take the kid out of daycamp when she had the time and inclination. I reacted and defended the social time and camp activities as important for Buttercup. But the truth is I was reacting against B Mére’s ability to make and create time for fun. I wanted that same freedom.
And this is where my experience and Van Booy’s most diverge. He lost his wife to death; I lost mine to divorce. Ivey must struggle daily with the pain and emptiness of that loss and his daughter’s reactions to it; he won’t struggle with the clotted communication and conflicting patterns of parenting with an ex. He won’t have to deal with any lurking resentments and occasional competition that can linger after a divorce. Regardless, this is not about comparisons.
After reading Van Booy’s piece, I was reminded that ultimately this life is about a child’s trust and small, good moments. Read his words.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
The Duck
I’d read a slew of different recipes and preparations, and none of them quite struck me. For some reason, smoking the duck seemed like the way to go. I’d been experimenting with smoking in the Weber for over a year now, and this seemed like yet another good test.
Prep started on Sunday night. I rinsed the duck off and patted it dry. In a bowl large enough to accommodate it, I combined sea salt, cracked pepper, and dry green tea leaves. In the cavity I stuffed three lemon halves. Another full lemon was squirted over the duck, and I rubbed the mixture and lemon juice to coat the skin. The bowl was covered and put in the refrigerator over night. I also began a soak of three cups of hickory chips in water and hard cider.
The next evening I fired up the Weber. When the fire was intense and the hardwood was at a searing heat, I added more charcoal (hardwood, not briquets) and then added the drained hickory chips. On the clear half of the grill, I put the drip pan and poured in a quarter bottle of cider vinegar. I put the grill top in place and closed the lid to bring the fire down a notch. (This is the one step I could have let go a little longer to get the heat down to a slower smoke.) After about ten minutes, the duck went on.
I took the liquid left from the duck’s overnight sojourn as a base for the brush sauce. I added about a cup and a half of good red wine, a splash of dijon mustard, a tablespoon of olive oil, more pepper and a couple pinches of sugar. I whisked it together and let stand. Thirty minutes in and at intervals thereafter, I brushed it on the bird.
The skin turned a perfect reddish-brown fairly quickly. At two hours, I decided to pull the duck off. The cavity had a fair amount of liquid in it from the fat and the lemons so I used tongs to pour this off in the drip pan.
The result? Excellent. The skin was perfectly crisped, but the meat was moist and flavorful. The salt, lemon, and tea had combined to balance out the smokiness nicely. Served with cauliflower mashed potatoes and a market salad of arugula, purple cabbage, and radishes, it was a brilliant meal.
There are a few tweaks I’d like to make, but this is definitely one to try again.
Prep started on Sunday night. I rinsed the duck off and patted it dry. In a bowl large enough to accommodate it, I combined sea salt, cracked pepper, and dry green tea leaves. In the cavity I stuffed three lemon halves. Another full lemon was squirted over the duck, and I rubbed the mixture and lemon juice to coat the skin. The bowl was covered and put in the refrigerator over night. I also began a soak of three cups of hickory chips in water and hard cider.
The next evening I fired up the Weber. When the fire was intense and the hardwood was at a searing heat, I added more charcoal (hardwood, not briquets) and then added the drained hickory chips. On the clear half of the grill, I put the drip pan and poured in a quarter bottle of cider vinegar. I put the grill top in place and closed the lid to bring the fire down a notch. (This is the one step I could have let go a little longer to get the heat down to a slower smoke.) After about ten minutes, the duck went on.
I took the liquid left from the duck’s overnight sojourn as a base for the brush sauce. I added about a cup and a half of good red wine, a splash of dijon mustard, a tablespoon of olive oil, more pepper and a couple pinches of sugar. I whisked it together and let stand. Thirty minutes in and at intervals thereafter, I brushed it on the bird.
The skin turned a perfect reddish-brown fairly quickly. At two hours, I decided to pull the duck off. The cavity had a fair amount of liquid in it from the fat and the lemons so I used tongs to pour this off in the drip pan.
The result? Excellent. The skin was perfectly crisped, but the meat was moist and flavorful. The salt, lemon, and tea had combined to balance out the smokiness nicely. Served with cauliflower mashed potatoes and a market salad of arugula, purple cabbage, and radishes, it was a brilliant meal.
There are a few tweaks I’d like to make, but this is definitely one to try again.
Monday, June 22, 2009
further thoughts on weekends and Father's Day
Another single-dad blogger noted the difficulty of making the transition from full-time dad to soloist for the summer. Such transitions can be full of nuanced emotions — from happy to have some "adult" time to melancholy and downright sad to see the empty bed in the kid's room — and if you're on a schedule like mine, the mini-roller coaster can hit every other week.
It goes without saying that you're always "on duty" when you're a parent. When you're a single parent, that constant sense of duty can be even deeper and thicker. This makes the times when you don't have that responsibility feel like even more of a let-down. The silence of not having the kid there is even louder. The emptiness seems even stranger. The (not) funny part is that it doesn't matter how much I try to pack into those weekends (or weeks for part of the summer); I still end up missing the kid and thinking ahead to what we need to do (or want to do) after she gets back.
This week, I felt melancholy rather than ecstatic when I went to get her. It was Father's Day, and I'd harbored a vague hope that there would be a card or something waiting for me. After all, I'd made a point of helping the kid get a card when Mother's Day was approaching. It didn't seem like too much to expect reciprocation, but I suppose it was. As a friend put it later in the day, there's a reason we aren't still married. And I suppose after all is said and done, if you watch the attention the "holidays" get, Mother's Day is practically sacrosanct, while Father's Day is an excuse for sales on power tools and barbecue.
In any case, Father's Day last year came with the first lost tooth. It came with a picture drawn for me that morning. It came with waffles. It came with the kid really starting to swim. It came with a trip to my Dad's for grilling out. Somehow, it all seemed more auspicious. We certainly had fun this year — playing and grilling at the pool with friends and family — but on balance it felt a little more melancholy.
I'm not really sure what grand point I'm trying to get to here. It could a rant about the way fathers are often seen as secondary parents, while mothers are revered. It could be a rant about the dynamics of divorce and custody. It could be another deep exploration of the ups and downs we go through as single parents — even when the rest of life seems pretty fortunate and good. Or it could be another entry in a blog that is partly an exploration of all of those things. It could also be just another acknowledgement that even great times come with mixed emotions.
Melancholy aside... Happy Father's Day to all the dads out there!
It goes without saying that you're always "on duty" when you're a parent. When you're a single parent, that constant sense of duty can be even deeper and thicker. This makes the times when you don't have that responsibility feel like even more of a let-down. The silence of not having the kid there is even louder. The emptiness seems even stranger. The (not) funny part is that it doesn't matter how much I try to pack into those weekends (or weeks for part of the summer); I still end up missing the kid and thinking ahead to what we need to do (or want to do) after she gets back.
This week, I felt melancholy rather than ecstatic when I went to get her. It was Father's Day, and I'd harbored a vague hope that there would be a card or something waiting for me. After all, I'd made a point of helping the kid get a card when Mother's Day was approaching. It didn't seem like too much to expect reciprocation, but I suppose it was. As a friend put it later in the day, there's a reason we aren't still married. And I suppose after all is said and done, if you watch the attention the "holidays" get, Mother's Day is practically sacrosanct, while Father's Day is an excuse for sales on power tools and barbecue.
In any case, Father's Day last year came with the first lost tooth. It came with a picture drawn for me that morning. It came with waffles. It came with the kid really starting to swim. It came with a trip to my Dad's for grilling out. Somehow, it all seemed more auspicious. We certainly had fun this year — playing and grilling at the pool with friends and family — but on balance it felt a little more melancholy.
I'm not really sure what grand point I'm trying to get to here. It could a rant about the way fathers are often seen as secondary parents, while mothers are revered. It could be a rant about the dynamics of divorce and custody. It could be another deep exploration of the ups and downs we go through as single parents — even when the rest of life seems pretty fortunate and good. Or it could be another entry in a blog that is partly an exploration of all of those things. It could also be just another acknowledgement that even great times come with mixed emotions.
Melancholy aside... Happy Father's Day to all the dads out there!
weekend round-up, pt. 1 — the market report
The market trip this weekend needed to be abbreviated to accommodate an errand down to The Weekend Brewer in Chester, particularly since we arrived a little later than had been planned. (Non-Buttercup weekends sometimes slip off schedule.) That said, market trips are increasingly hard to abbreviate since the market has become a complete scene. The evolution is not at all surprising, particularly as it grows. What it means, however, is that it is more difficult to get a survey of all the good stuff.
Beyond the social explosion and the lines waiting for Nate's tacos and breakfast burritos, the growing season is bringing all sorts of bounty to the market. Asparagus has given way to squash, and broccoli has given way to cucumbers. There are a whole range of beets, radishes and turnips showing up. We even have a lamb producer added to the meat vendors.
This week's roundup included:
There were a few other random items too, but it's the duck that has me perplexed. I've never cooked one before and plan to smoke it today or tomorrow. Stay tuned...
In coming weeks, I hope to stretch the market report a bit. It will probably take a little more focus and punctuality, however — especially if I want to get there before Blanchard's sells out of whole beans.
Beyond the social explosion and the lines waiting for Nate's tacos and breakfast burritos, the growing season is bringing all sorts of bounty to the market. Asparagus has given way to squash, and broccoli has given way to cucumbers. There are a whole range of beets, radishes and turnips showing up. We even have a lamb producer added to the meat vendors.
This week's roundup included:
- Arugula
- French Breakfast Radishes
- Cucumbers
- Fennel
- Purple cabbage
- Eggplant
- a duck (!) from Faith Farms
There were a few other random items too, but it's the duck that has me perplexed. I've never cooked one before and plan to smoke it today or tomorrow. Stay tuned...
In coming weeks, I hope to stretch the market report a bit. It will probably take a little more focus and punctuality, however — especially if I want to get there before Blanchard's sells out of whole beans.
Friday, June 19, 2009
they grow up
Despite my mixed feelings about the country of origin of Buttercup's new clothes, I can't help but admit how cute she looks in them. What really strikes me about this picture, though, is how grown up she looks all of a sudden.
Kids go through these jumps from time to time. Five years ago, we were at my mother and stepfather's house in Ohio, and Buttercup went through the first of these jumps I truly recall. She was just shy of two and fully in the midst of toddlerhood. Bopping around playgrounds, slurping down cereal bars, apple juice, and bananas like nobody's business, figuring out new words all the time, stringing together sentences. She didn't stop doing that, but one day her face grew up. She stopped looking like a toddler and started looking like a little girl. It was sudden, and I almost missed it—but for my mother pointing it out.
A similar thing happened a year ago when her end-of-year ballet recital was approaching. The day pictures were taken and costumes went on, I watched her turn from a little girl, a kindergardener, into a kid, a girl heading into the "real" elementary grades. Even though their dance was simple, the control she suddenly showed over her body and the way she stood changed. With her hair pulled back, gone were the goofy bangs and little girl moments — there was a kid, growing up.
The other day, I felt another of these moments approaching. She seemed to have grown six inches in a day, and her sense of self seemed to have leapt into the stratosphere. With the newly pierced ears and evolving fashion sense — each day's outfit is carefully crafted — she's become a whole new person again. Then I looked at the pictures we took of her outfits after the Hanna box arrived the other day, each tried on in different combinations, and in her pose and expression, I could once again see the big kid she's well on her way to becoming.
It's a remarkable journey, this parenting thing.
Kids go through these jumps from time to time. Five years ago, we were at my mother and stepfather's house in Ohio, and Buttercup went through the first of these jumps I truly recall. She was just shy of two and fully in the midst of toddlerhood. Bopping around playgrounds, slurping down cereal bars, apple juice, and bananas like nobody's business, figuring out new words all the time, stringing together sentences. She didn't stop doing that, but one day her face grew up. She stopped looking like a toddler and started looking like a little girl. It was sudden, and I almost missed it—but for my mother pointing it out.
A similar thing happened a year ago when her end-of-year ballet recital was approaching. The day pictures were taken and costumes went on, I watched her turn from a little girl, a kindergardener, into a kid, a girl heading into the "real" elementary grades. Even though their dance was simple, the control she suddenly showed over her body and the way she stood changed. With her hair pulled back, gone were the goofy bangs and little girl moments — there was a kid, growing up.
The other day, I felt another of these moments approaching. She seemed to have grown six inches in a day, and her sense of self seemed to have leapt into the stratosphere. With the newly pierced ears and evolving fashion sense — each day's outfit is carefully crafted — she's become a whole new person again. Then I looked at the pictures we took of her outfits after the Hanna box arrived the other day, each tried on in different combinations, and in her pose and expression, I could once again see the big kid she's well on her way to becoming.
It's a remarkable journey, this parenting thing.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Hanna in China
We just got an order of new Hanna's delivered today. They are, of course, adorable and fit Buttercup well — their European sizing works well on her. Sad to say, they are also all made in China. This is nothing new, and I'm not going to belabor it. I just can't help being sad that even good brands known for quality and attention to "sustainable" materials opt for outsourcing to the factory of cheap.
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Crafting another generation of consumers
Thanks to Highlights for Children I’ve finally gotten the perfect opportunity to explain marketing to Buttercup.
See, yesterday, we got the latest round of marketing from them. This particular one is for a series of pubs about the fifty states. Before I even had a chance to intercept the thing, Buttercup had it in her hands, pulling the plastic off. There was a poster showing parts of the series. There was a sheet of stickers for the states — stickers being prime swag for the kid-set. There was a card assuring me about the fun and educational value of the series, and assuring me that I was under no obligation to buy anything. And last but far from least, there was the sweepstakes game.
The sweepstakes game is, of course, the prime driver here. There are six scratch-off spots. Scratch them off and find out if you’ve gotten: (a) the free book with one star, (b) the free bag with two stars, or (c) the free book and bag with three stars. As Buttercup started in on it, I grumbled that she would find three stars, of course. Why, she asked, and with a sigh, I told her that this is what marketing people do — we make the audience think they’ve gotten something special, even when everyone else who got the package also got three stars.
She didn’t care. She scratched them off and applied the three stars to the reply card, absolutely pleased that she’d gotten them. And of course she wanted to know whether we could send them in for the book and the bag.
I tried to explain how the process works, that we would send it in and pretty soon have things arrive that we would be expected to buy. She mentioned that we had gotten them last year, and I realized we were on the slippery slope again. Parental guilt was about to set in — if we got them, she might learn and that would be a good thing, but was the (small) added expense worth it — but it was bed time so I hoped it would pass.
No luck. I found her filling out the response card in the morning with her name and age. (Who knew that the words “Print Name” vs. “Signature” were a learning tool?) Her next question, though, was a good one for the lesson I wanted to teach. “Why are your name and our address already on here,” she asked. “Because they know we might buy it, so they’re selling it directly to us, sweetie. And making it really easy to send back to them.”
“Oh,” she said. “So can we still get it?”
I sighed, asked her to put it away for now, and eat her breakfast. Will guilt push me over into sending the card in? Probably. Do I feel like I got sucker-punched by classic, tried-and-true direct marketing techniques? Absolutely.
See, yesterday, we got the latest round of marketing from them. This particular one is for a series of pubs about the fifty states. Before I even had a chance to intercept the thing, Buttercup had it in her hands, pulling the plastic off. There was a poster showing parts of the series. There was a sheet of stickers for the states — stickers being prime swag for the kid-set. There was a card assuring me about the fun and educational value of the series, and assuring me that I was under no obligation to buy anything. And last but far from least, there was the sweepstakes game.
The sweepstakes game is, of course, the prime driver here. There are six scratch-off spots. Scratch them off and find out if you’ve gotten: (a) the free book with one star, (b) the free bag with two stars, or (c) the free book and bag with three stars. As Buttercup started in on it, I grumbled that she would find three stars, of course. Why, she asked, and with a sigh, I told her that this is what marketing people do — we make the audience think they’ve gotten something special, even when everyone else who got the package also got three stars.
She didn’t care. She scratched them off and applied the three stars to the reply card, absolutely pleased that she’d gotten them. And of course she wanted to know whether we could send them in for the book and the bag.
I tried to explain how the process works, that we would send it in and pretty soon have things arrive that we would be expected to buy. She mentioned that we had gotten them last year, and I realized we were on the slippery slope again. Parental guilt was about to set in — if we got them, she might learn and that would be a good thing, but was the (small) added expense worth it — but it was bed time so I hoped it would pass.
No luck. I found her filling out the response card in the morning with her name and age. (Who knew that the words “Print Name” vs. “Signature” were a learning tool?) Her next question, though, was a good one for the lesson I wanted to teach. “Why are your name and our address already on here,” she asked. “Because they know we might buy it, so they’re selling it directly to us, sweetie. And making it really easy to send back to them.”
“Oh,” she said. “So can we still get it?”
I sighed, asked her to put it away for now, and eat her breakfast. Will guilt push me over into sending the card in? Probably. Do I feel like I got sucker-punched by classic, tried-and-true direct marketing techniques? Absolutely.
Friday, June 12, 2009
the struggle to find character in consultant-driven Generica
So L and I headed off for another wine trip. This time we opted for the northern part of the state, Loudoun County. Not far from DC, this area is bristling with wineries. We started off with a vague plan to hit a couple around Middleburg and move on from there. A combination of late night and early start scuttled coffee-making at home, however, so we made a hasty stop at Ellwood Thompson's on the way out of town.
ET's is our local, organic grocer. They've been around for a number of years, and do their best to seem like a little hippie co-op. The thing is they are decidedly not a little hippie co-op. They work off of business models and goals like regional stores. This might be all well and good except that their newly-expanded market and coffee shop feels straight out of a consultant's playbook. The feeling isn't helped by pre-made sandwiches lurking in deli cases and decor that could have come from any similar market/café in Generica.
It's sad, though, because the potential is there for it to be much better, much more. Sadly, though, the prices are high and the quality is often no better than local and chain competitors around. My argument as L and I talked about the place — she is a great fan — was that a truly successful operation would follow the Zingerman's model of obsessive quality and customer service rather than the Starbuck's model of satellite development.
In any case, that stop set the tone for the rest of the day as evidenced by our first winery stop — Chrysalis Vineyards. Our first greeting was by signs warning us that children were not permitted around the property, only in the "family areas." These areas were fenced areas with no trees and a couple picnic tables, kennels for kids. It was a good thing Buttercup wasn't with us. The next strike came with the port-a-potties. First, the fact that there were portable toilets was odd, but worse was the fact that there wasn't running water or sanitizer available to wash our hands. The next strike came as we were told that tastings were scheduled — because they simply had too many people otherwise. We nearly walked, but I insisted that we stick around.
What followed changed our opinion. The wines were very good, even if the service was not. The director of hospitality ran our tasting, and he knew his stuff — both about the wines and the business. This is clearly a case where they are aggressively pursuing a business plan, one built on exclusivity. Between their plans for VIP tasting rooms and anti-family tactics, it was hard to see where the fun of the experience was.
What's unfortunate about this is that there were some quite nice wines. They produced some very nice varieties of Norton, and a really nice Petit Verdot. The rosé had a fruity nose and a dry finish. And their Chardonnay was well-balanced without an overwhelming butter taste.
After our tasting, we moved on to their neighbor down the road — Swedenburg. This is a winery my father has enjoyed for years, and I wanted to give it a shot. While more pleasant and mellow — mostly because we scraped out of there as the Keg Bus was unloading — the wines at Swedenburg were somewhat undistinguished. They were good enough, but nothing really stood out. We almost considered a bottle, but at the mid- to high-teens, it's hard to justify buying something that's just decent.
After Swedenburg, we moved on to a nice lunch at Market Salamander in Middleburg. L had a grilled veggie and goat cheese sandwich with what appeared to be mostly local produce and cheese. I opted for the chef's special BBQ which came with large hunks of tender pork. It could have been spicier, but overall the flavor was just right. With a couple of fruit sides, we were ready to go for the next round.
At this point, opted to cut north to Purcellville and start at Hillsborough. The winery is owned by a Turkish family and produces mostly Bordeaux styles — at least according to their write-up in the wine guide. While a couple of the reds and one of the drier whites struck me as Bordeaux-like, the wines seemed to tend more toward Portugese and Spanish styles, using heavy doses of Tannat and Touriga to land thick, strong reds. They were quite good, but at close to thirty a bottle, the purchase was again hard to justify.
One thing that can be said for Hillsborough, however, is that they have one of the most beautiful locations I've seen in a while. Perfect views and an organic feel to the trestles and barn made it a worthwhile destination on future trips.
Our next stop took us back up the road to Corcoran Winery. Run by Lori Corcoran and her husband, Corcoran is a small-production shop and only open on the weekends. I'd poured next to them while pouring for Villa Appalaccia at a recent festival and had wanted to check out the winery. After a long drive into a backroad development we got Reilly out of the car to enjoy some shade while we went into the renovated 1750s farmhouse used as the tasting room.
Thankfully, my recollection of their wine was borne out by the tasting. Lori was producing an excellent Chambourcin, one of the better Francs we've tasted, and a very nice Malbec. Her meritage blend was a revelation too — nicely balanced and worth putting up or drinking now. With prices in the high teens to low twenties, her wines seemed better priced than the others, and we took a few bottles with us.
On a side note, Mr. Reilly seemed to be enjoying his part of the roadtrip too.
After Corcoran, we aimed for Sunset Hills. Lori recommended a couple of their reds, and they were a quick shot across Route 9 from Corcoran's enclave. What we found there was another business model. They'd redone an Amish barn beautifully, and the focus seemed to be on events and employees in logo-embroidered polo shirts. From the cashier who greeted us to the woman who stuck to her script while pouring, the experience was night and day from Corcoran.
The five wines we tried were good, but unsurprising. There were a Viognier, two Chardonnays, a Franc, and a Merlot. Unfortunately, the reds we'd been told about were only available for tasting by members of the VIP club. In it's own ironic way, this was the perfect bookend to the tastings.
After an unsuccessful attempt to find one more small, interesting winery tucked away in the woods, we shot into Leesburg for a light dinner and beer tasting at a brewpub I'd read about — Vintage 50.
We started with a sampler of their Pale Ale, Kolsch, Amber Ale, and cask-poured IPA, skipping the strong ales and the stout in deference to the heat and the need to moderate. All four were nicely done, and L surprised me by going for a pint of the kolsch. I opted for the pale, and we ordered a run of food — hummus, a cheese sampler from an interesting list of small-dairy U.S. cheeses (specific cheeses to come in another post), and a sausage sampler. While the portions seemed relatively small at first, we enjoyed all of it and ended up nicely sated for the drive back.
Our only quibble — and the perfect end to this story? This fine little joint was in an office building on the edge of urban sprawl and strip malls. In other words, in a historic, colonial town, our great little find was shoved into another piece of contemporary Generica. Please move, Vintage 50. Please move.
ET's is our local, organic grocer. They've been around for a number of years, and do their best to seem like a little hippie co-op. The thing is they are decidedly not a little hippie co-op. They work off of business models and goals like regional stores. This might be all well and good except that their newly-expanded market and coffee shop feels straight out of a consultant's playbook. The feeling isn't helped by pre-made sandwiches lurking in deli cases and decor that could have come from any similar market/café in Generica.
It's sad, though, because the potential is there for it to be much better, much more. Sadly, though, the prices are high and the quality is often no better than local and chain competitors around. My argument as L and I talked about the place — she is a great fan — was that a truly successful operation would follow the Zingerman's model of obsessive quality and customer service rather than the Starbuck's model of satellite development.
In any case, that stop set the tone for the rest of the day as evidenced by our first winery stop — Chrysalis Vineyards. Our first greeting was by signs warning us that children were not permitted around the property, only in the "family areas." These areas were fenced areas with no trees and a couple picnic tables, kennels for kids. It was a good thing Buttercup wasn't with us. The next strike came with the port-a-potties. First, the fact that there were portable toilets was odd, but worse was the fact that there wasn't running water or sanitizer available to wash our hands. The next strike came as we were told that tastings were scheduled — because they simply had too many people otherwise. We nearly walked, but I insisted that we stick around.
What followed changed our opinion. The wines were very good, even if the service was not. The director of hospitality ran our tasting, and he knew his stuff — both about the wines and the business. This is clearly a case where they are aggressively pursuing a business plan, one built on exclusivity. Between their plans for VIP tasting rooms and anti-family tactics, it was hard to see where the fun of the experience was.
What's unfortunate about this is that there were some quite nice wines. They produced some very nice varieties of Norton, and a really nice Petit Verdot. The rosé had a fruity nose and a dry finish. And their Chardonnay was well-balanced without an overwhelming butter taste.
After our tasting, we moved on to their neighbor down the road — Swedenburg. This is a winery my father has enjoyed for years, and I wanted to give it a shot. While more pleasant and mellow — mostly because we scraped out of there as the Keg Bus was unloading — the wines at Swedenburg were somewhat undistinguished. They were good enough, but nothing really stood out. We almost considered a bottle, but at the mid- to high-teens, it's hard to justify buying something that's just decent.
After Swedenburg, we moved on to a nice lunch at Market Salamander in Middleburg. L had a grilled veggie and goat cheese sandwich with what appeared to be mostly local produce and cheese. I opted for the chef's special BBQ which came with large hunks of tender pork. It could have been spicier, but overall the flavor was just right. With a couple of fruit sides, we were ready to go for the next round.
At this point, opted to cut north to Purcellville and start at Hillsborough. The winery is owned by a Turkish family and produces mostly Bordeaux styles — at least according to their write-up in the wine guide. While a couple of the reds and one of the drier whites struck me as Bordeaux-like, the wines seemed to tend more toward Portugese and Spanish styles, using heavy doses of Tannat and Touriga to land thick, strong reds. They were quite good, but at close to thirty a bottle, the purchase was again hard to justify.
One thing that can be said for Hillsborough, however, is that they have one of the most beautiful locations I've seen in a while. Perfect views and an organic feel to the trestles and barn made it a worthwhile destination on future trips.
Our next stop took us back up the road to Corcoran Winery. Run by Lori Corcoran and her husband, Corcoran is a small-production shop and only open on the weekends. I'd poured next to them while pouring for Villa Appalaccia at a recent festival and had wanted to check out the winery. After a long drive into a backroad development we got Reilly out of the car to enjoy some shade while we went into the renovated 1750s farmhouse used as the tasting room.
Thankfully, my recollection of their wine was borne out by the tasting. Lori was producing an excellent Chambourcin, one of the better Francs we've tasted, and a very nice Malbec. Her meritage blend was a revelation too — nicely balanced and worth putting up or drinking now. With prices in the high teens to low twenties, her wines seemed better priced than the others, and we took a few bottles with us.
On a side note, Mr. Reilly seemed to be enjoying his part of the roadtrip too.
After Corcoran, we aimed for Sunset Hills. Lori recommended a couple of their reds, and they were a quick shot across Route 9 from Corcoran's enclave. What we found there was another business model. They'd redone an Amish barn beautifully, and the focus seemed to be on events and employees in logo-embroidered polo shirts. From the cashier who greeted us to the woman who stuck to her script while pouring, the experience was night and day from Corcoran.
The five wines we tried were good, but unsurprising. There were a Viognier, two Chardonnays, a Franc, and a Merlot. Unfortunately, the reds we'd been told about were only available for tasting by members of the VIP club. In it's own ironic way, this was the perfect bookend to the tastings.
After an unsuccessful attempt to find one more small, interesting winery tucked away in the woods, we shot into Leesburg for a light dinner and beer tasting at a brewpub I'd read about — Vintage 50.
We started with a sampler of their Pale Ale, Kolsch, Amber Ale, and cask-poured IPA, skipping the strong ales and the stout in deference to the heat and the need to moderate. All four were nicely done, and L surprised me by going for a pint of the kolsch. I opted for the pale, and we ordered a run of food — hummus, a cheese sampler from an interesting list of small-dairy U.S. cheeses (specific cheeses to come in another post), and a sausage sampler. While the portions seemed relatively small at first, we enjoyed all of it and ended up nicely sated for the drive back.
Our only quibble — and the perfect end to this story? This fine little joint was in an office building on the edge of urban sprawl and strip malls. In other words, in a historic, colonial town, our great little find was shoved into another piece of contemporary Generica. Please move, Vintage 50. Please move.
Thursday, June 11, 2009
madness...
There's a point at which everything crowds in to life. That seems to be happening again, punctuated by some rather surprising demands at work. It's all fun stuff, right? All manageable, right? Most of the time, sure. The problem is when the stress blocks out other things and begins to spill over into my parenting. Was it really Buttercup's defiance yesterday that made me yell at her and threaten unnecessary consequences? Probably not. It was typical behavior of a tired, hungry almost-seven-year-old. No. I think the slips in my parenting style and my ability to keep the dishes washed and all the rest of it should really be credited to stress. The trick, however, is figuring out how to manage the stress while keeping all the balls in the air.
Tuesday, June 09, 2009
sad trombone
I'm sad to report that the 2M Mediterranean Market on Staples Mill seems to have gone drastically downhill in recent months. The business seems lackluster at best, and I've had two very weak lunches there recently.
The latest travesty involves a mediocre gyro sandwich on which I asked for hot sauce. They've had excellent chili sauce in the past. What the guy dumped on today more closely resembles mildly spicy ketchup. Between that and a guava nectar that tastes well past its prime, I'd say business and quality are flagging a bit at 2M.
It's a pity because a year ago these guys served some of the best Mediterranean dishes I've had outside of New York.
The latest travesty involves a mediocre gyro sandwich on which I asked for hot sauce. They've had excellent chili sauce in the past. What the guy dumped on today more closely resembles mildly spicy ketchup. Between that and a guava nectar that tastes well past its prime, I'd say business and quality are flagging a bit at 2M.
It's a pity because a year ago these guys served some of the best Mediterranean dishes I've had outside of New York.
Monday, June 08, 2009
Brilliant PSAs
Picked this up from Gawker and AdRants... It's a brilliant PSA for NOT getting drunk.
Thursday, June 04, 2009
two hours
It takes two hours for us to get up and out of the door in the morning. Whether Buttercup takes a shower or whether I end up having to tackle the tail end of some leftover chore, we will leave the house in two hours. Whether we wake up on time between 6:00 and 6:10 or somewhere closer to 6:30, it will take us almost exactly two hours to get out the door. If I think we're beating the clock, somehow we still end up leaving almost exactly two hours after we get up and moving. Strangely, we still usually make it out the door at the two hour mark even on the mornings when Buttercup sleeps in until almost 7:00. The comic and sad part is that I still get frustrated when we're running late.
Like many other things in life, I suspect things would be easier if I just accepted this as a truism and built my routine and schedule around it. Logically, this would make far more sense than trying to fight it.
Tuesday, June 02, 2009
from the random finds department
I've traveled a lot of places and eaten a lot of interesting cuisine — Camel's Paw in China, for example — but I've generally steered clear of the more unusual preserved foods one can find. Well, now someone has catalogued some of the fascinating variations on preserved meat. From whole canned chickens to potted haggis to various bug larvae, it's all here. Enjoy!
Picked up via Neatorama.
Picked up via Neatorama.
Monday, June 01, 2009
Summer's here, ballet's done.
We just finished ballet season. What this means in practical terms is no more rush to get the kid to practice on Thursdays — or pick her up from practice — and no more mornings spent scrambling to make sure that one of the pairs of tights and one of the pink leotards is clean. For the past few weeks, this has also meant a great deal of time spent at the ballet studio.
First, there were the pictures. While they happened on Buttercup Mére's weekend, I made a point of running down to the studio to catch the kid in her costume for the first time. There's nothing quite like the pride on her face when she gets to put the costume on and show it off. The fact that we got to keep the costume this year was an added bonus. I envision many moments of costume-wearing, and would not be at all surprised to see her make it the choice for Halloween this year. In fact, saving the money wouldn't be a bad thing at all...
Then, there were two Saturday rehearsals.The first locked up two hours, the second four hours. Having done theater for years in high school and college, these extra rehearsals didn't surprise me. We worked around them, and I used them as time to run errands. One even provided a rare opportunity for lunch at Can Can — the roast chicken salad with asparagus and Meyer lemons is phenomenal.
All of this was — in theory — a lead-up to the final weekend of performances. Said weekend began with dress rehearsal. Dress rehearsal was originally scheduled to begin at 3:00, school schedules be damned, but the theater bumped the time to 4:00 the day before. The kids converged, got made up, and all the rest. In the interest of juggling life matters, I stopped at the theater briefly after work to check on Buttercup's status and then left for a little over an hour. When I got back, they were just wrapping up, and Buttercup got changed. They'd been there for almost four hours, and all of the kids older than seven were heading for the dress rehearsal black hole. We went home — it was one of my rare times to put my foot down in spite of Buttercup's begging to stay and watch. Our neighbors were having a porch party, and I knew the next day would be long.
The next day began with the run to farmers market mentioned below. After a brief stop at home to chill out and get changed, we were back at the theater by 11:10, a few minutes ahead of the call so one of the moms could help Buttercup with her makeup and hair. (This is one of Mr. Mom's failings.) After lingering until I realized that a dad's presence was no longer acceptable in the dressing room, I decided to run home and bring back food for her. She'd need the extra strength for two performances that afternoon — or so I thought.
I picked up my ticket and touched base with Buttercup Mére who'd decided to come to the first of the two shows. Then I settled in to capture the magic. Now, kids' ballet performances are an even mix of cute and painful, and this one was no exception. There were plenty of cute and awkward moments. There were pauses at odd moments. The usual thing. They had ballet and tap and hip-hop and song-and-dance routines. They even had a little dance party scene to "Girls Just Wanna Have Fun" and an adorable moment of a five-year old singing along to "Somewhere Over the Rainbow." And then there was Buttercup's class, out for their adorable performance as dancing toys. All two and a half minutes of it. That's it. That and a walk-through as part of a later bit of stage business, and some adorable bouncing around as everyone sang the name song during the curtain call. But in the end... it was two-and-a-half minutes, and I will not deny feeling like two years of these classes should have gotten Buttercup and her classmates a second appearance, a real dance, anything. In fact, I was half-embarrassed to sit through the second show next to my father as he kept waiting for them to have another shot at the lights so he could get a better picture.
Ultimately, I know there will be more opportunities next year. The six and seven year-olds will be seven and eight year-olds, with more coordination and better abilities. There might be a tap routine since her teacher made a point of telling me how quickly she was picking up on the steps. Hell, if I let Buttercup add a hip-hop class, she might even get to do one of the "really cool" routines. And that's all well-and-good, but I can't help feeling like I just paid $100 per half-minute of performance.
That said, I guess you could say it all paled when you saw her face wearing that costume, and her eyes when she carried the two bouquets of flowers. I guess you could say when her eyes twinkled that every cent and every second was worth it.
First, there were the pictures. While they happened on Buttercup Mére's weekend, I made a point of running down to the studio to catch the kid in her costume for the first time. There's nothing quite like the pride on her face when she gets to put the costume on and show it off. The fact that we got to keep the costume this year was an added bonus. I envision many moments of costume-wearing, and would not be at all surprised to see her make it the choice for Halloween this year. In fact, saving the money wouldn't be a bad thing at all...
Then, there were two Saturday rehearsals.The first locked up two hours, the second four hours. Having done theater for years in high school and college, these extra rehearsals didn't surprise me. We worked around them, and I used them as time to run errands. One even provided a rare opportunity for lunch at Can Can — the roast chicken salad with asparagus and Meyer lemons is phenomenal.
All of this was — in theory — a lead-up to the final weekend of performances. Said weekend began with dress rehearsal. Dress rehearsal was originally scheduled to begin at 3:00, school schedules be damned, but the theater bumped the time to 4:00 the day before. The kids converged, got made up, and all the rest. In the interest of juggling life matters, I stopped at the theater briefly after work to check on Buttercup's status and then left for a little over an hour. When I got back, they were just wrapping up, and Buttercup got changed. They'd been there for almost four hours, and all of the kids older than seven were heading for the dress rehearsal black hole. We went home — it was one of my rare times to put my foot down in spite of Buttercup's begging to stay and watch. Our neighbors were having a porch party, and I knew the next day would be long.
The next day began with the run to farmers market mentioned below. After a brief stop at home to chill out and get changed, we were back at the theater by 11:10, a few minutes ahead of the call so one of the moms could help Buttercup with her makeup and hair. (This is one of Mr. Mom's failings.) After lingering until I realized that a dad's presence was no longer acceptable in the dressing room, I decided to run home and bring back food for her. She'd need the extra strength for two performances that afternoon — or so I thought.
I picked up my ticket and touched base with Buttercup Mére who'd decided to come to the first of the two shows. Then I settled in to capture the magic. Now, kids' ballet performances are an even mix of cute and painful, and this one was no exception. There were plenty of cute and awkward moments. There were pauses at odd moments. The usual thing. They had ballet and tap and hip-hop and song-and-dance routines. They even had a little dance party scene to "Girls Just Wanna Have Fun" and an adorable moment of a five-year old singing along to "Somewhere Over the Rainbow." And then there was Buttercup's class, out for their adorable performance as dancing toys. All two and a half minutes of it. That's it. That and a walk-through as part of a later bit of stage business, and some adorable bouncing around as everyone sang the name song during the curtain call. But in the end... it was two-and-a-half minutes, and I will not deny feeling like two years of these classes should have gotten Buttercup and her classmates a second appearance, a real dance, anything. In fact, I was half-embarrassed to sit through the second show next to my father as he kept waiting for them to have another shot at the lights so he could get a better picture.
Ultimately, I know there will be more opportunities next year. The six and seven year-olds will be seven and eight year-olds, with more coordination and better abilities. There might be a tap routine since her teacher made a point of telling me how quickly she was picking up on the steps. Hell, if I let Buttercup add a hip-hop class, she might even get to do one of the "really cool" routines. And that's all well-and-good, but I can't help feeling like I just paid $100 per half-minute of performance.
That said, I guess you could say it all paled when you saw her face wearing that costume, and her eyes when she carried the two bouquets of flowers. I guess you could say when her eyes twinkled that every cent and every second was worth it.
market round-up
When we got to the market this weekend, the air was still cool. In the course of an hour, however, the temps shot up. This made poor Buttercup a little wilty since she'd decided the purple velvet dress was proper market garb. It also nailed me a bit since we'd enjoyed a neighbors gathering late into the evening.
As a result, we hit Victory Farms for a nice smattering of lettuce, cucumbers and squash. Asparagus was on tap from one of the other farms — and thankfully we were there early enough to get the nice small shoots. There was a new pound of Yrgacheffe beans from Blanchard's Coffee. There was a chorizo taco from Nate, who makes his own chorizo and so much more. And then that was the point at which the heat and the rest got to me. The cup of coffee I'd bought disappeared and was in none of the places it should have been. Buttercup lost steam — not a good omen on the day of her ballet recitals.
More's the pity since the pickings around the market are really picking up steam. Lettuces are giving way to squashes. More fruit should be coming in soon, and tomatoes and peppers can't be far off. Hopefully, the next market trip will have a little more vigor and a little less yawn behind it.
As a result, we hit Victory Farms for a nice smattering of lettuce, cucumbers and squash. Asparagus was on tap from one of the other farms — and thankfully we were there early enough to get the nice small shoots. There was a new pound of Yrgacheffe beans from Blanchard's Coffee. There was a chorizo taco from Nate, who makes his own chorizo and so much more. And then that was the point at which the heat and the rest got to me. The cup of coffee I'd bought disappeared and was in none of the places it should have been. Buttercup lost steam — not a good omen on the day of her ballet recitals.
More's the pity since the pickings around the market are really picking up steam. Lettuces are giving way to squashes. More fruit should be coming in soon, and tomatoes and peppers can't be far off. Hopefully, the next market trip will have a little more vigor and a little less yawn behind it.
Friday, May 29, 2009
about last night
Josh Ritter put on a hell of a concert at the Lewis Ginter Botanical Garden. The newly redone performance area is well laid out, and the roses are a stunning backdrop. We missed most of Justin Earle's opening set, unfortunately, but the couple songs we heard were as good as you'd expect.
The sun was just going down as Ritter and the band took the stage. They opened with a track I didn't recognized and went on to play a solid two-hour set that mixed up new songs with a nice spread of tracks from his first three albums. Their energy was spot-on, and even when he flubbed a line late in the show, he just laughed it off. I've said many times over that what I most look for in a good show is the energy and engagement with the crowd, and he had both in spades.
Among the setting-related highlights was this little guy. Frogs were all over the place, and Ritter joked about making breaks in the songs for them to sing along. Buttercup found this one near the pavilion. He seemed pretty happy in her hands and was safely returned to his home before we left.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
catching up — the market edition
The market is certainly picking up steam these days. We're up to three goat cheese vendors — 2 dairies producing some interesting varieties and Faith Farms who sells another farm's excellent chevre. In addition to the regular meat producers, a new one had arrived selling bison. Had I not already decided to pick up a fresh chicken, I might have added some bison to the week's purchases, just for kicks and giggles. Greens, broccoli, squash and the tail-end of the asparagus are popping up all over the place. Strawberries are still in — and deliciously sweet — for another week or two. There were plenty of plant vendors and flowers, but I opted not to pick up any since I have just begun to get my garden (now only in containers) in decent shape. The crowds were strong, which was particularly heartening to see on Memorial Day weekend The only problem with such strong crowds, however, was that Blanchard's Coffee was completely sold out of beans by the time I got there. Then again maybe arriving a little earlier than 10:00 might have made the difference...
The other highlight? Our little friend here. And, boy, did the crowd part when he came running out, squealing.
Friday, May 22, 2009
sad trombone
I'm afraid the blogging head is down this week. It's on the fritz along with the handy pocket koan generator.
Thursday, May 21, 2009
Simple questions for strange moments
Another case of simple questions with what I imagine are complex answers... Why is Dick Cheney so forcefully and publicly attacking the Obama administration? What is he afraid of?
Just asking...
Just asking...
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Desperate times?
How can you tell if a company is in trouble? Massive discounts and constant sales might be a good sign. At that standard, Jos. A. Banks must be prepping for bankruptcy any day now. That or they really can afford to give away a suit, two shirts, and two ties — all free with the purchase of one suit. Yep, it's a clothing twofer.
Good luck staying afloat, guys.
Good luck staying afloat, guys.
Sunday, May 17, 2009
Weekend notes, pt. 2 — after the show
Though slightly out of the blue and slightly off-budget, the Annie experience was surprisingly good.
We bombed out of the house with barely an hour and a half to spare before the performance. On the way, I called the box office and secured two tickets — including a half-price one for myself. We pulled up in front of Tarrant's to get a quick dinner. Tarrant's is one of those places in town that is generally reliable — sometimes very good, rarely bad — and it's location across the street from the theatre was ideal.
Service was quick and good. Buttercup was looking a little faded, but perked up when rolls appeared. I ordered a cup of the chicken and corn chowder for myself — perfect on a dreary day — and white pizza with spinach and tomatoes for us. I asked the waitress to add feta, without asking what the charge for an extra ingredient was. The question would have been a good one to ask, however, since apparently all pizzas are priced based on optional ingredients — whether they're listed as standard pies or not. The menu isn't clear about this, unfortunately, and I might have changed the order if I'd known that our $11.95 pizza was going to run $17.95 instead. Given the timing when we were asking her to box up half and bring the check, it wasn't worth saying anything; I might mention it next time though.
On a quick side note, it's also worth mentioning that the pizza was very good. The crust had a good flavor and the cheese and tomatoes were nicely done. Had I known that the spinach wouldn't be fresh, I might not have ordered it. The mushy green lent a bit too much liquid to the pie.
Dinner wrapped up, we headed across to the theatre. Theatre IV is a local theater group that puts on a few children's shows a year. They've done Peter Pan, The Wizard of Oz, and many other classics. They link in regularly with schools in the area and generally do great work. Tonight was no exception.
The sets were beautifully done, and the actors all seemed to be having a great time. This could have been last-performance bounce, but it seems more likely that they were just generally enjoying themselves. (This is only borne out by the tears streaming down the lead's face at the curtain call.) The singing and dancing were mostly very sharp. Two of the best parts: Buttercup asking if the dog was real, and her friend E asking if it was the real president up there. (For those who don't know, FDR plays a significant part in the show.) The only trick watching the show for me was getting past various anachronisms and implausibilities that are distracting, but hardly central to the story.
What also surprised me was how much of the show I remembered, and how much it touched me. Frankly, it was still a very good time when I saw Annie on its first national tour in Chicago in 1978. We were spending quite a bit of time in that city — a place I still remember very fondly — and all hell hadn't broken loose. At eight (or almost eight), the worst experiences of elementary and middle school were yet to come. My parents were still five years from telling me they were divorcing. In other words, it's a time that has deep and positive memories — the Cubs at Wrigley, Stuart Brent Books, the museums, the zoos, camping and skiing trips.
What surprised me tonight was how easily a cheesy, mawkish — albeit very catchy — libretto can pull out a whole flood of memories and associations that have laid buried for years. And how easy it is to welcome back the memories, and how much they put the present in perspective.
We bombed out of the house with barely an hour and a half to spare before the performance. On the way, I called the box office and secured two tickets — including a half-price one for myself. We pulled up in front of Tarrant's to get a quick dinner. Tarrant's is one of those places in town that is generally reliable — sometimes very good, rarely bad — and it's location across the street from the theatre was ideal.
Service was quick and good. Buttercup was looking a little faded, but perked up when rolls appeared. I ordered a cup of the chicken and corn chowder for myself — perfect on a dreary day — and white pizza with spinach and tomatoes for us. I asked the waitress to add feta, without asking what the charge for an extra ingredient was. The question would have been a good one to ask, however, since apparently all pizzas are priced based on optional ingredients — whether they're listed as standard pies or not. The menu isn't clear about this, unfortunately, and I might have changed the order if I'd known that our $11.95 pizza was going to run $17.95 instead. Given the timing when we were asking her to box up half and bring the check, it wasn't worth saying anything; I might mention it next time though.
On a quick side note, it's also worth mentioning that the pizza was very good. The crust had a good flavor and the cheese and tomatoes were nicely done. Had I known that the spinach wouldn't be fresh, I might not have ordered it. The mushy green lent a bit too much liquid to the pie.
Dinner wrapped up, we headed across to the theatre. Theatre IV is a local theater group that puts on a few children's shows a year. They've done Peter Pan, The Wizard of Oz, and many other classics. They link in regularly with schools in the area and generally do great work. Tonight was no exception.
The sets were beautifully done, and the actors all seemed to be having a great time. This could have been last-performance bounce, but it seems more likely that they were just generally enjoying themselves. (This is only borne out by the tears streaming down the lead's face at the curtain call.) The singing and dancing were mostly very sharp. Two of the best parts: Buttercup asking if the dog was real, and her friend E asking if it was the real president up there. (For those who don't know, FDR plays a significant part in the show.) The only trick watching the show for me was getting past various anachronisms and implausibilities that are distracting, but hardly central to the story.
What also surprised me was how much of the show I remembered, and how much it touched me. Frankly, it was still a very good time when I saw Annie on its first national tour in Chicago in 1978. We were spending quite a bit of time in that city — a place I still remember very fondly — and all hell hadn't broken loose. At eight (or almost eight), the worst experiences of elementary and middle school were yet to come. My parents were still five years from telling me they were divorcing. In other words, it's a time that has deep and positive memories — the Cubs at Wrigley, Stuart Brent Books, the museums, the zoos, camping and skiing trips.
What surprised me tonight was how easily a cheesy, mawkish — albeit very catchy — libretto can pull out a whole flood of memories and associations that have laid buried for years. And how easy it is to welcome back the memories, and how much they put the present in perspective.
weekend notes, pt. 1
We will soon be going to see an expensive, local theater production Annie. Why will I do this to myself? Because the kid's gonna remember it. Sadly, I'll be singing the songs for days too. Ah well... these are the trade-offs.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
notes
That odd speck on the earlobe is one more step in our journey. It's a big step too. Getting the ears pierced was a chance for Buttercup to grow up a little bit and do something before anyone else in her class. For me, it was a chance to negotiate another stage of the parenting waters — my plan was to wait on the ear piercing until she was eight, but Buttercup Mère decided she was ready. We went back and forth a bit until I accepted that there was no point in forcing the matter.
The end result? Buttercup came home, proud that she'd gotten her ears pierced. She was ecstatic that everyone was going to be so excited, and that she was going to be the first in her class with real earrings. What struck me was how much older she suddenly looked.
Of course, there was one more perk: the next morning, she was ready for school by 7:15, and we got out of the house before 8.
***********************
Buttercup. That's her new nickname.
It came about one Sunday a few weeks ago when we were walking back from a friend's house. As we walked along Meadow Park, she started picking buttercups. One after the other she started rubbing them on her nose until she'd given her nose a shiny gold tint. I joked that I was going to change her nickname from Banana to Buttercup.
The next morning, as I dropped her off at school, she stopped me. She said, "Daddy, it's Buttercup."
"Done, and done," I said. Declaring her own nickname — one more little leap in growing up.
Sunday, May 10, 2009
ponderings
I was asked recently whether I wanted more out of my life. The question came in the context of how one fits travel and various other excitement and aspirations in with life as a parent. In the week or so since the question was asked, I've thought about it a lot — not just for the context in which it was asked but also as an exercise in thinking about my life and dreams.
When it comes to travel, these days I generally think of trips in context of where I'd like to take Buttercup. We have friends who live in Norway, Estonia, Switzerland, Denmark, and all over the States. All of these are on the list, as are plenty of other places, and while I hope to do "adult" trips again someday, I have begun to think of travels in terms of family. Does that limit my possibilities? Sure, but I'm okay with that.
When it comes to adventures, the other kickers end up being schedules and finances. Between my parenting schedule, work, school, ballet, and the detritus of daily life, it's hard to pull the time together for travel. I know people who manage it, but they are mostly dual-parent families and have significantly more resources in family (proximity) and money than I have. More family nearby means more alternatives for child care for "adult" trips. Two parents in the house means more hands on deck for taking care of life matters.
That brings me to the second hindrance: moolah. One of my shocks in the past few years is how quickly a decent salary gets eaten up by food, gas, utilities, school fees, activity fees, after-school care, rent, debt payments, car payments, random expenses around the house, and who knows what else. I keep a relatively small budget for incidentals and occasionally budget clothing purchases. In good months, some money goes into savings.
What this means is that it's often hard to think about adventures that don't fit the budget — both in time and money. For now, then, this means the adventures will probably continue to be smaller, closer to home. That's just the way it is, and it's not all that bad. In fact, it's a pretty good life.
When it comes to travel, these days I generally think of trips in context of where I'd like to take Buttercup. We have friends who live in Norway, Estonia, Switzerland, Denmark, and all over the States. All of these are on the list, as are plenty of other places, and while I hope to do "adult" trips again someday, I have begun to think of travels in terms of family. Does that limit my possibilities? Sure, but I'm okay with that.
When it comes to adventures, the other kickers end up being schedules and finances. Between my parenting schedule, work, school, ballet, and the detritus of daily life, it's hard to pull the time together for travel. I know people who manage it, but they are mostly dual-parent families and have significantly more resources in family (proximity) and money than I have. More family nearby means more alternatives for child care for "adult" trips. Two parents in the house means more hands on deck for taking care of life matters.
That brings me to the second hindrance: moolah. One of my shocks in the past few years is how quickly a decent salary gets eaten up by food, gas, utilities, school fees, activity fees, after-school care, rent, debt payments, car payments, random expenses around the house, and who knows what else. I keep a relatively small budget for incidentals and occasionally budget clothing purchases. In good months, some money goes into savings.
What this means is that it's often hard to think about adventures that don't fit the budget — both in time and money. For now, then, this means the adventures will probably continue to be smaller, closer to home. That's just the way it is, and it's not all that bad. In fact, it's a pretty good life.
Market report
Thanks to a rather late evening Friday night, I was late getting to the market this weekend. Compound that with having to run back for Buttercup's ballet pictures and the Strawberry Street Festival, and my trip was a bit quicker than I had hoped for. That said, the turnout still seemed excellent. Berries are beginning to come in, as are early season squash. The tastes I had of goat cheese from the dairy that is coming in this year were good, but I'm very spoiled about my goat cheese and haven't fully committed to buying any.
Looking around at the plants, I realized I need to spend some time thinking about the garden this week. The seedlings are a little beaten up after the torrential rains this past week, and given that Buttercup was a little random in her planting, I am not certain what we actually have coming up at the moment. So the goals of the week will be determining what can be salvaged versus what needs to be supplemented with plants and whether we will be able to do the garden bed versus containers.
That rambling aside, here's the quick rundown...
If we make it on time next week, the list should be a little more interesting...
Looking around at the plants, I realized I need to spend some time thinking about the garden this week. The seedlings are a little beaten up after the torrential rains this past week, and given that Buttercup was a little random in her planting, I am not certain what we actually have coming up at the moment. So the goals of the week will be determining what can be salvaged versus what needs to be supplemented with plants and whether we will be able to do the garden bed versus containers.
That rambling aside, here's the quick rundown...
- beautiful lettuces
- carrots
- asparagus
- arugula
- strawberries
- wheat bread
If we make it on time next week, the list should be a little more interesting...
Tuesday, May 05, 2009
wrap your mind around this
I picked up on this on a news report on WNRN yesterday, and had to pursue it when I got back to the office. It was that absurd. Leave it to provincial officials in China to require people to damage their health. Or rather, leave it to become state policy. Regardless, it takes a special kind of topsy-turvy world where you require people to smoke 230,000 packs of cigarettes a year — just to stimulate the local economy.
Sad to say, it just validates whole other layers of bizarro-world that I experienced when I traveled there in 1996.
(Image picked up here. Check it out.)
Monday, May 04, 2009
Market wrap-up
Saturday was the opening day for the growers market at Forest Hill Park. The market's formal name is "the South of the James Market" which still strikes me as an unnecessary level of branding for a community market — but we like to give names and brands to things here in Richmond.
Anyway, the market had a stellar opening. Buttercup (aka the kid formerly known as Banana) and I were only able to make for an hour, but it was a busy hour. Vendors like Norwood Cottage and Blanchard's Coffee were already starting to run out of items. Victory Farms and Faith Farms both seemed well-stocked, but knowing our propensity for over-buying I stayed light on the purchases. Pleitez Produce (or whatever they are calling themselves these days) had been bumped from their anchor location at the end to a side stall where they continued to shill out-of-season items like huge grocery-store-ready strawberries for $5/quart and bouquets that were almost certainly not grown in the area.
The plants and other items available were beautiful, and I hope to pick some up to plant next week. We'll have to see what's actually coming up in my initial plantings, however. There were many, many craft vendors back for the season, and I suppose we'll see how the actual mix holds up.
That said, this week's finds included:
I tapped all of the produce for dinner that evening. I recommend sauteing the raab on an extremely hot griddle with scallions and a bit of olive oil and chili. Beautiful!
Anyway, the market had a stellar opening. Buttercup (aka the kid formerly known as Banana) and I were only able to make for an hour, but it was a busy hour. Vendors like Norwood Cottage and Blanchard's Coffee were already starting to run out of items. Victory Farms and Faith Farms both seemed well-stocked, but knowing our propensity for over-buying I stayed light on the purchases. Pleitez Produce (or whatever they are calling themselves these days) had been bumped from their anchor location at the end to a side stall where they continued to shill out-of-season items like huge grocery-store-ready strawberries for $5/quart and bouquets that were almost certainly not grown in the area.
The plants and other items available were beautiful, and I hope to pick some up to plant next week. We'll have to see what's actually coming up in my initial plantings, however. There were many, many craft vendors back for the season, and I suppose we'll see how the actual mix holds up.
That said, this week's finds included:
- lettuces (several beautiful heads of mixed varieties)
- carrots
- italian raab, which Buttercup wanted but did not like when she tasted it later
- scallions
- pork chops
I tapped all of the produce for dinner that evening. I recommend sauteing the raab on an extremely hot griddle with scallions and a bit of olive oil and chili. Beautiful!
Friday, May 01, 2009
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
some kids grow up too fast.
This is not what a normal ten-year old girl should look like. A normal ten-year old girl should also not be saving her money to pay for breast implants when she turns eighteen. And I don't buy the reaction of the parents in the article that it's just an urge that they can't control.
File under: narcissistic culture; bad parenting; and kids raised by pop culture.
Source: comments on this Boing Boing post, which offers its own disturbing images.
tooting my own horn
The 2009 Strawberry Street Festival posters came back from the printer yesterday, and they look really good.
Monday, April 27, 2009
Aggregating...
A few things that have crossed my radar recently...
Sources here include Gawker, Neatorama, and Boing Boing...
- From the annals of our current events, here's a frightening view of what is happening to our urban areas. This blogger chronicled the death of a street in Detroit by stitching together a panorama of 60 vacant houses. Harrowing, to say the least.
- If you're over thirty, I'm willing to bet you remember when you got your first Walkman — or when your friend got the next generation Aiwa, which was smaller and had more functions. I'm also willing to bet you remember the BetaMax players your schools had for movies, the ones that seemed so much more cumbersome than the cheap VCR you'd buy years later. And frighteningly enough, I can remember the CompuServe ad here.
- Apropos of the current economic climate, this list of brands that might die is its own snapshot of our time and the way things change. Borders? I remember it when it was a kick-ass independent bookstore in Ann Arbor, but I won't be at all surprised if it goes the way of the Dodo. Esquire? For its history alone, this would also be a sad loss, but this pub lost its soul and reason long ago.
- Rather disturbing news about tuna. As if the possibility of mercury contamination wasn't enough, this is further incentive to consider going on tuna strike for a while. Then again, it's even more disheartening to think that one person's strike won't do a damn thing when entire societies treat resources like this as though they're permanently sustainable.
- Tech geek moment... This is really cool.
- New York geek moment... Memories of Central Park in the summer time. But is Beerman still around?
Sources here include Gawker, Neatorama, and Boing Boing...
Saturday, April 25, 2009
starting a garden
I haven't really kept a garden since the summer Banana was born, and I was only tangentially responsible for it then. This year, however, I've decided to plant a small garden again. We'll do some containers as well, but I'm shooting for a small raised plot in the backyard. My plan is to put some tomatoes in it, some herbs, and maybe a cucumber or squash or two. Maybe some lettuce, though it's a bit late to get lettuce in. We shall see.
In any case, it's a bit of an adventure, and one that excites me. I enjoy getting closer and closer to my food production. I also enjoy things like the experience of watching Banana plant and care for a garden with me. We started it last weekend, in fact — a start that requires me to figure out what we seeded in which yogurt container. Should be an adventure...
In any case, it's a bit of an adventure, and one that excites me. I enjoy getting closer and closer to my food production. I also enjoy things like the experience of watching Banana plant and care for a garden with me. We started it last weekend, in fact — a start that requires me to figure out what we seeded in which yogurt container. Should be an adventure...
Friday, April 24, 2009
Customer Service, how not to do it...
Yesterday, my Richmond Times-Dispatch was not on my doorstep when I woke up. Whether I was missed or it was stolen, there's no telling. I called the circulation department and registered my complaint with the auto phone system. Lo and behold, my doorbell rang half an hour later, and the paper was handed to me.
This morning, I woke to find this note wrapped around my paper:
The note would be one thing. One thing, that is, if the carrier hadn't then called me at 6:45 to make sure I got the note and understood I should call him in the future. Granted the carrier is a contractor, but this doesn't exactly strike me as customer-friendly behavior.
Lord knows I wouldn't have gotten away with anything like that when I was delivering papers in the early 1980s.
This morning, I woke to find this note wrapped around my paper:
The note would be one thing. One thing, that is, if the carrier hadn't then called me at 6:45 to make sure I got the note and understood I should call him in the future. Granted the carrier is a contractor, but this doesn't exactly strike me as customer-friendly behavior.
Lord knows I wouldn't have gotten away with anything like that when I was delivering papers in the early 1980s.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
aargh...
The past few days have been full of potential blog posts. Unfortunately, the time to sit and meander through a few posts has just eluded me. I've wanted to write about new ads, old ads, and food. But the focus just hasn't been there. Hell, I haven't even dug up many cool music clips, except this one of buskers from around the world singing "Stand By Me." Enjoy and stay tuned for regularly scheduled blogging to resume later this evening or tomorrow.
Monday, April 20, 2009
Night Terrors, the 2009 edition
For a while now, Banana has gone through another period of night fears. If she wakes up in the middle of the night (and this is the big IF) and the IKEA sea horse light on her wall is not turned on, she either turns the light on over her bed and goes back to sleep or comes in to my room. Last night, when this happened, I asked her to go back to her bed and she said she was scared. Mind you, this wouldn't have been a problem at, say 5:30, but it was just shy of 2:00 and there were a good few hours of rest still to be had. I asked her what scared her and was informed that it was dark under her bed. Unfortunately, the logic that it was also dark under my bed was not enough to convince her that our rooms were equally safe (or dangerous).
I migrated her back to bed and lay with her for a bit until she fell back to sleep. This was all well and good until I woke up this morning to find her awake and reading. She said she'd been up for a long time, and this drives right to my parent paranoia. To wit: she isn't that far into the book, but there's no telling how long she's actually been up; this could result in a tired kid after school and an early evening of couch-sleeping after dinner; and of course, these thoughts are topped with my own anxieties about how well (or poorly) I'm parenting.
The reality is that everything will probably even out. We had a busy, busy weekend with a couple of late nights; so chances are her mind was just hyperactive and she wouldn't have slept well anyway. Chances are, a bit more routine will bring the even sleeping back. But if it doesn't, how the hell do you get rid of the monsters under the bed?
I migrated her back to bed and lay with her for a bit until she fell back to sleep. This was all well and good until I woke up this morning to find her awake and reading. She said she'd been up for a long time, and this drives right to my parent paranoia. To wit: she isn't that far into the book, but there's no telling how long she's actually been up; this could result in a tired kid after school and an early evening of couch-sleeping after dinner; and of course, these thoughts are topped with my own anxieties about how well (or poorly) I'm parenting.
The reality is that everything will probably even out. We had a busy, busy weekend with a couple of late nights; so chances are her mind was just hyperactive and she wouldn't have slept well anyway. Chances are, a bit more routine will bring the even sleeping back. But if it doesn't, how the hell do you get rid of the monsters under the bed?
Friday, April 17, 2009
Friday Fun — Boston nostalgia edition
Had to go with the Mighty Mighty Bosstones. Sadly, this is the only video I could embed...
And another one from those years...
And another one from those years...
Renaming Fun
I propose that Crab Chips be heretofore described as a "crispy Old Bay spice delivery system."
It's Richmond, Baby...
Yesterday, I spent six hours waiting on line in the spring sun. I've managed to make it this long in my life without ever intentionally waiting this long for anything — not concert tickets, not the New York DMV, not people. But yesterday was the registration day for the Richmond Parks and Recreation summer camp program. The city offers a good enough deal to make even the sanest of us take a half day off work to be the first on line, or at least to get there in time to make the cut for the program.
They take between 60 and 85 kids, depending on the program. Thankfully, I got there in time to ensure that Banana was #25 — though thanks to a couple line-jumpers she was #30 by the time registration started. The line continued to form through the early afternoon until people started counting to see if they needed to wait. Most left, perhaps to go to another community center. Those that stayed ended up at a loss anyway, because the line was cut in half as they let us in to register.
In the end, I'd say the scene was pure Richmond. Several of the parents knew each other and we passed the afternoon chatting rather than reading the books we'd all brought. To make it even more a solidly "Richmond" scene, many of us who didn't know each other before yesterday had friends or colleagues in common. We'd lived on the same streets, knew the same people. As much as I used to describe New York as the biggest small town in the world, Richmond has defied my sense of what a small, close-knit community within a city can be. It's both endearing and frightening at the same time, creating a sense of home that I sometimes ran from but find myself now embracing.
To a certain extent, I suppose yesterday's waiting was one more validation of that. Certainly, paying a fraction of the cost of private summer camps was a motivator, but as the afternoon wore on, what I truly appreciated was the utter feeling of community, the sense that Banana would spend the summer with friends, and that our network had deepened just a little more.
They take between 60 and 85 kids, depending on the program. Thankfully, I got there in time to ensure that Banana was #25 — though thanks to a couple line-jumpers she was #30 by the time registration started. The line continued to form through the early afternoon until people started counting to see if they needed to wait. Most left, perhaps to go to another community center. Those that stayed ended up at a loss anyway, because the line was cut in half as they let us in to register.
In the end, I'd say the scene was pure Richmond. Several of the parents knew each other and we passed the afternoon chatting rather than reading the books we'd all brought. To make it even more a solidly "Richmond" scene, many of us who didn't know each other before yesterday had friends or colleagues in common. We'd lived on the same streets, knew the same people. As much as I used to describe New York as the biggest small town in the world, Richmond has defied my sense of what a small, close-knit community within a city can be. It's both endearing and frightening at the same time, creating a sense of home that I sometimes ran from but find myself now embracing.
To a certain extent, I suppose yesterday's waiting was one more validation of that. Certainly, paying a fraction of the cost of private summer camps was a motivator, but as the afternoon wore on, what I truly appreciated was the utter feeling of community, the sense that Banana would spend the summer with friends, and that our network had deepened just a little more.
Note to self...
Parenting Rule #743 — The fashion girl edition.
When someone gives you clothes for your kid, do not show those clothes to your kid just prior to her getting ready in the morning. Pay particular attention to this if the clothes are too big for the kid and need to have a date with Febreeze.
Failing to pay attention to this rule is guaranteed to cause delays and stress.
When someone gives you clothes for your kid, do not show those clothes to your kid just prior to her getting ready in the morning. Pay particular attention to this if the clothes are too big for the kid and need to have a date with Febreeze.
Failing to pay attention to this rule is guaranteed to cause delays and stress.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Badvertising — how far is too far when it comes to inappropriate use?
I understand the idea of mixing kid's entertainment with adult themes, but I don't understand doing it in an ad for the kid's meal using Spongebob Squarepants. Do we really need young kids imitating this kind of thing? Such a crass example of a failed creative idea doesn't even require further commentary.
more awesome video feeds...
Courtesy of my friend Phil comes this brilliant video tip. Watch carefully to see who (or what) is narrating.
The Lost Tribes of New York City from Carolyn London on Vimeo.
The Lost Tribes of New York City from Carolyn London on Vimeo.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Things I like
So, you take a little cardboard robot. You give it a mission to cross Washington Square Park. You wait to see if people will help it. Brilliant!
Ah, my old haunts...
Thanks to Daddy Types for the link.
Ah, my old haunts...
Thanks to Daddy Types for the link.
Monday, April 13, 2009
Easter, corrected
At a bit of prompting, I should burnish my earlier assessment of the Easter afternoon. A grand time truly was had by all, from the stellar food at brunch to the perfect weather. Even the peeps enjoyed themselves...
Easter omens
PIcked this up from Serious Eats... Someone in Brooklyn bought a dozen eggs from TJ's, hard-boiled them, and opened them to discover this:
For some strange reason, this makes me think of the interestingly shaped, oddly colored eggs I used to buy at the farmer's market in Fayetteville.
For some strange reason, this makes me think of the interestingly shaped, oddly colored eggs I used to buy at the farmer's market in Fayetteville.
life at the heart of crass consumerism
Yesterday was Richmond's annual Easter on Parade. Neither parade nor particularly Easter-ish, this amounts to a few blocks of Monument Avenue being shut off for a grand street festival. I gather that once upon a time in some far-off memory of "the way Richmond was" this amounted to a parade of grand hats and people strolling along in their Easter finest. While some of this was on display yesterday, the festival amounted to much more of this:
Large inflatables for sale? Check. Gyro/falafel/sausage/funnel cakes for sale? Check. Parents saying no? Check.
Don't get me wrong. There were some grand hats. There were refined folks in their better garb — right down to our friend and neighbor who sported a boater for the day. There were grand houses opened for parties. There was a troupe of Morris dancers decked out in their sticks, bells, and face paint. There might have been a petting zoo. There were bottles to fill with colored sand. There were mimosas and bloody marys in plastic cups. There were dogs decked out in wings and ears and bonnets. There were kids-a-plenty. And there was the sun, the grand sun which decided to push past the April moods and join us all day long. There were puppet shows, and there was Jonathan Austin — Richmond's local juggler who is at all things public where there are kids and families.
With all of this and more, I still don't understand the need for the same food concessions as always. Isn't it possible — just once? — for there to be a festival in Richmond without the same old Italian sausage and funnel cake vendors? Isn't it possible — just once? — for that big cup Banana is holding to be filled with lemonade that doesn't come with a side of grease and a heavy dose of sugar? And I fail to see what Batman and Dora the Explorer have to do with Easter.
Large inflatables for sale? Check. Gyro/falafel/sausage/funnel cakes for sale? Check. Parents saying no? Check.
Don't get me wrong. There were some grand hats. There were refined folks in their better garb — right down to our friend and neighbor who sported a boater for the day. There were grand houses opened for parties. There was a troupe of Morris dancers decked out in their sticks, bells, and face paint. There might have been a petting zoo. There were bottles to fill with colored sand. There were mimosas and bloody marys in plastic cups. There were dogs decked out in wings and ears and bonnets. There were kids-a-plenty. And there was the sun, the grand sun which decided to push past the April moods and join us all day long. There were puppet shows, and there was Jonathan Austin — Richmond's local juggler who is at all things public where there are kids and families.
With all of this and more, I still don't understand the need for the same food concessions as always. Isn't it possible — just once? — for there to be a festival in Richmond without the same old Italian sausage and funnel cake vendors? Isn't it possible — just once? — for that big cup Banana is holding to be filled with lemonade that doesn't come with a side of grease and a heavy dose of sugar? And I fail to see what Batman and Dora the Explorer have to do with Easter.
Wednesday, April 08, 2009
Peeps on Parade
This is brilliant... National Geographic is running a contest of Peeps in exotic places. Take pictures of peeps and add them to the group, eh!
Maybe Banana and I will have to do a bit of that when we hit DC on Friday.
Tuesday, April 07, 2009
a tale of a girl and her boots
Anyone who's read back to Christmastime knows about over the Hanna Andersson clog boots. Those boots were such a hit that they went on Banana's feet that morning. She continued to wear them almost every day since.
A couple weeks ago, I had them shined. The shoeshine pointed out what I'd already noticed a few days before: the rubber on the soles was wearing down to the wood and pulling away on one heel. I made a mental note to hijack the boots for a couple days and take them to a cobbler. Last week, though, the rubber fully came off of one heel. Banana's mom tried to glue it back on — but Gorilla Glue may not have been the right answer. Regardless, when I took a closer look, I realized that the wood had, in fact, begun to wear away on both heels meaning a cobbler would have a hard time with the repair.
I'm used to the fact that kid's clothes wear out. I'm used to shoes wearing out — especially when they are a favorite item. Still, I felt like three and a half months was a short lifespan for boots that retail for $85. I was particularly surprised since Hanna makes the same boots for women and decided to call the company.
One of the things I love about Hanna Andersson is that their CSRs all seem to be mothers or grandmothers who know exactly what clothes mean to kids and parents. The woman on the other end of the phone took a deep breath and said in a very serious tone, "No. They shouldn't be wearing out like that so soon. And especially not on her favorite boots." She quickly pulled up the stock on the computer and came back with the news that they no longer had the black boots. "Do you think she'd like pink?" She asked. "We have a pair in stock in that size, and I can ship them out FedEx right away."
I dithered. After all, I'd bought the black boots for both practicality and "cool" factors — both of which they offered in spades. Of course, I knew Banana would love the pink, but still I had to hem and haw.
"Well, Dad," my grandmotherly CSR continued, "I'll tell you how you do it. You tell her that she'll get some new pink boots for the spring and summer. That's how you do it, and I'm sure she'll love them, Dad."
"You're probably right," I said.
"I'll do the return in advance, and send you a return slip. That way, when she falls in love with them, you can just send the others back to us."
When the brand new pink suede harness clog boots arrived, Banana was thrilled. Overjoyed. She pulled off her Chucks and had the new boots on before you could say "cobbler." Not only did she say, "Daddy, I like them even better than the black ones." She also said, "They're bigger." And sure enough, while the size was the same, the pink boots were almost a quarter inch longer than the black ones. Not only did we now have new bright spring boots, we had boots that would last slightly longer than the ones they were replacing.
I liked the black boots as a break from the steady onslaught of pastels, but I had to admit that a happy kid is worth any pastel onslaught. The pink won again.
(Kudos also to Hanna Andersson for excellent customer service.)
A couple weeks ago, I had them shined. The shoeshine pointed out what I'd already noticed a few days before: the rubber on the soles was wearing down to the wood and pulling away on one heel. I made a mental note to hijack the boots for a couple days and take them to a cobbler. Last week, though, the rubber fully came off of one heel. Banana's mom tried to glue it back on — but Gorilla Glue may not have been the right answer. Regardless, when I took a closer look, I realized that the wood had, in fact, begun to wear away on both heels meaning a cobbler would have a hard time with the repair.
I'm used to the fact that kid's clothes wear out. I'm used to shoes wearing out — especially when they are a favorite item. Still, I felt like three and a half months was a short lifespan for boots that retail for $85. I was particularly surprised since Hanna makes the same boots for women and decided to call the company.
One of the things I love about Hanna Andersson is that their CSRs all seem to be mothers or grandmothers who know exactly what clothes mean to kids and parents. The woman on the other end of the phone took a deep breath and said in a very serious tone, "No. They shouldn't be wearing out like that so soon. And especially not on her favorite boots." She quickly pulled up the stock on the computer and came back with the news that they no longer had the black boots. "Do you think she'd like pink?" She asked. "We have a pair in stock in that size, and I can ship them out FedEx right away."
I dithered. After all, I'd bought the black boots for both practicality and "cool" factors — both of which they offered in spades. Of course, I knew Banana would love the pink, but still I had to hem and haw.
"Well, Dad," my grandmotherly CSR continued, "I'll tell you how you do it. You tell her that she'll get some new pink boots for the spring and summer. That's how you do it, and I'm sure she'll love them, Dad."
"You're probably right," I said.
"I'll do the return in advance, and send you a return slip. That way, when she falls in love with them, you can just send the others back to us."
When the brand new pink suede harness clog boots arrived, Banana was thrilled. Overjoyed. She pulled off her Chucks and had the new boots on before you could say "cobbler." Not only did she say, "Daddy, I like them even better than the black ones." She also said, "They're bigger." And sure enough, while the size was the same, the pink boots were almost a quarter inch longer than the black ones. Not only did we now have new bright spring boots, we had boots that would last slightly longer than the ones they were replacing.
I liked the black boots as a break from the steady onslaught of pastels, but I had to admit that a happy kid is worth any pastel onslaught. The pink won again.
(Kudos also to Hanna Andersson for excellent customer service.)
Monday, April 06, 2009
object lessons
When I left my university job a year ago, I explained to Banana that I was going to be making more money but that would mean I would have less time off. I wanted her to understand that we would lose a certain amount of freedom in the short-term. Over the past year, the realization of what this means has come home in fits and starts — less flexibility for me to come to school, more scheduling demands, that sort of thing. But it didn't really hit home for her, I think, until this week.
Spring Break.
Anyone who's been around us in recent years knows that this means a trip back to New York. This year, a variety of competing financial demands have reduced the slush fund I'd ordinarily use for the trip. And when I realized that taking a big chunk of time off would cut into trips to Maine this summer and other time-off needs, I decided to cancel our plans. Since Banana was already less thrilled about the trip this year, the decision was an easy one to explain.
Until last night.
That's when she realized that a good chunk of her Spring Break — the week when some of her friends are headed to the Grand Canyon, California, Paris, and the British Virgin Islands — would be spent at the YMCA without some of her better friends. This was not a happy realization, particularly after a long, tiring day. I tried to explain it from the standpoint that we'd be able to do other fun stuff, but she wasn't having it at that point. In the end, I patiently listened to what bothered her about the YMCA and talked to her about what we could do to make the best of the time anyway. I also promised a fun Spring Break next year.
I hope I can make good on that promise. Doing so may require some compromise with Banana Mère. Either way, it's an object lesson for both of us in what making choices means: for each gain there may also be a trade-off.
Spring Break.
Anyone who's been around us in recent years knows that this means a trip back to New York. This year, a variety of competing financial demands have reduced the slush fund I'd ordinarily use for the trip. And when I realized that taking a big chunk of time off would cut into trips to Maine this summer and other time-off needs, I decided to cancel our plans. Since Banana was already less thrilled about the trip this year, the decision was an easy one to explain.
Until last night.
That's when she realized that a good chunk of her Spring Break — the week when some of her friends are headed to the Grand Canyon, California, Paris, and the British Virgin Islands — would be spent at the YMCA without some of her better friends. This was not a happy realization, particularly after a long, tiring day. I tried to explain it from the standpoint that we'd be able to do other fun stuff, but she wasn't having it at that point. In the end, I patiently listened to what bothered her about the YMCA and talked to her about what we could do to make the best of the time anyway. I also promised a fun Spring Break next year.
I hope I can make good on that promise. Doing so may require some compromise with Banana Mère. Either way, it's an object lesson for both of us in what making choices means: for each gain there may also be a trade-off.
ponderings...
On NPR this morning, there was an interesting set of back-to-back pieces. The first was on willpower and what effect the loss of willpower has on people's ability to find motivation in their lives. The piece that immediately followed dealt with a marathoner who could no longer run. What struck me about the pieces was the way both issues dealt with identity crises.
I'll ponder more on that later when I have time...
*******************
Another (quasi-related) thought that occurred to me last week: Improvisation offers the chance for haphazard excellence while perfection offers the opportunity of disciplined completion. In the case of failure, then, improvisation offers a built-in excuse if something isn't perfect, while perfection offers no such wiggle room.
*******************
So, there you have it... A couple of disjointed thoughts for a rainy Monday morning. If I make the time and find the discipline, I may even write through a more cogent connection.
I'll ponder more on that later when I have time...
*******************
Another (quasi-related) thought that occurred to me last week: Improvisation offers the chance for haphazard excellence while perfection offers the opportunity of disciplined completion. In the case of failure, then, improvisation offers a built-in excuse if something isn't perfect, while perfection offers no such wiggle room.
*******************
So, there you have it... A couple of disjointed thoughts for a rainy Monday morning. If I make the time and find the discipline, I may even write through a more cogent connection.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009
April Fools?
This piece about an Amish tour of the Hasidic community in Crown Heights begs to be an April Fools joke. Just begs for it. Then again, it's also just weird enough to be true...
Thanks, USAA
Thanks, USAA, for the Customer Service Fail. You promised that my replacement debit card would be FedExed, but apparently the card is not arriving on time and wasn't sent FedEx. So, thanks for keeping me locked out of my slush funds for an extra day or two. Oh yeah, and I forgot the best part: the CSR who promised such great, prompt service? He never logged it in to "The System." So, thanks again for the Customer Service Fail.
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