In Search of the Blue Footed Booby

Tuesday morning, bright and early, we’re off.  The airport issue has been solved, the sequestion having inconvenienced those in power, so that’s we don't have to count on delays.  We fly through Panama -- sadly just another airport I’ll have been in without seeing the country -- into Quito, Ecuador on our way to the Amazon.

Oooh, the Amazon!  You may feel as some of my friends do (or, indeed, you may not)  that it's dangerous to be wandering around the jungle, swarmed by insects and wild animals.   Ah, no; we'll be under the watchful eye of a certified naturalist and staying in a comfortable lodge.  We were in the Peruvian Amazon in 2000, and the duplex cabins there were perfectly comfortable.  Granted, we had to walk down a boardwalk to the (extremely clean) pit toilets, but there were regular toilet seats, so my daughter and I were perfectly happy.  The Yarina lodge will assign us to private cabins with running water bathrooms.  There will be no hardship. 

I understand that the Yarina Lodge, like the previous one, keeps a baby Capybara for guests who miss their pussycats to pet.  You can keep your cooking lessons in Italy and in France; we’ll have one here on local cuisine.

After four days, we transfer back through Quito to the exotic Galapagos.  Even if my sausage toe is bothering me, how bad can life be aboard the pontoon ship cruising around the Galapagos Archipelago?  We’ll be on the lookout for giant turtles and giant albatross.  Sea lions may choose to swim with us.

We are ready.  We’ve had our yellow fever inoculations and updated tetanus shots.  We’ve packed our malarial pills, and Steve has his altitude meds. (I’m allergic to them, so I’m stuck with to drinking water and coca tea and using my inhaler.)   We’ve got our walking shoes and our water shoes, our kindles and our camera, our sunscreen and our bug repellent.  We’ve got our emergency antibiotics and pain killers.  We’ve got walking sticks and moleskin and binoculars.   Is there any room for clothes?  Who knows?  Who cares?

Tuesday morning bright and early, I’m off, off in search of the blue footed booby.

Thanks, Mom!

Spring has a splendid progression, as orderly as a military march.  The crocus and daffodils come first, blooming even when winter lingers around the edges.  Then the bluebells, whose buds have grown bulbous with promise, sprinkle the ground in periwinkle blue.  The forsythia are not to be outdone and join in with a gush of yellow.  Now the dogwood’s hazy blossoms turn white or pink, and the trees in their new princess dresses dance in the breeze, a ballet outside my window.  Not to be outdone, the azaleas open, one bush after another, in ardent pinks and reds.  We’ll have rhododendron and peonies and roses all in the order of time.  Who cares about allergies when such a visual feast is laid out before your eyes.  Holy cow, Mother Nature, way to go!

And if Mother Nature doesn’t impress you with that, well, how about this?  About a year ago, I saw two eagles flying over the Dullas Overpass.  No one believed me; they told me it must be two of our area’s turkey vultures, but I’ve seen turkey vultures, and I’ve seen eagles.  I'm telling you, the eagle is a damn big bird, and those were eagles. 

I have been validated!  The convocation of eagles (yup, not a flock) along the Potomac River has grown so big that the birds are expanding across the area.  A few weeks ago a birder friend invited us around the corner to look through his telescope at a bald eagle nest.  There sat the female on her nest, with straight and regal posture, very high up in a very tall tree incubating a full clutch.   

A very big nest, very high up

 



I thought of her the Countess of Oakton, but then I thought, oops, we gave up royalty over 200 years ago, and  the bald eagle is the symbol of our democracy, and a noble title isn’t very apt.  Too late.  In my head they are the Earl and Countess.  Sadly we did not see the Ear.  I suppose he was out having a drink at his club. 

I haven’t been out to see them again.  In a moment of rare grace (yes, yes, after four years of ballet lessons), I ran smack into the heavy bench at the foot of our bed and whacked my pinkie toe.  I learned, for the first time in my life, the meaning if exquisite pain, pinpointed and sharp.  I thought maybe I’d broken it, but a good google and a conversation with a nurse friend convinced me it was “merely” sprained.  My forefoot  swelled and turned a mesmerizing shade of purple.  The toe itself ballooned into a fat, sausage.  I took Aleve and applied ice packs.  I soaked in Epsom Salts.  I could all but see my blood traveling through the veins, each cell toting off excess saturation. 

My foot is back to normal size and color, and the sausage toe looks almost like a regular toe.  I think, “Wow,  the bluebells, the eagles this, too.  Well done, Mother Nature, very well done!"

By a Quirk

We go to a Mexican restaurant that is a favorite eatery of ours.  You never enter without seeing a cross-section of the American public:  families, a couple of guys watching a game, a group enjoying a girls’ night out and a nice-looking retired couple.  Oh, that would be us. 

We’re always greeted warmly by a staff that invariably seems happy and friendly.  The first thing we order are margaritas, and they are brought with salsa and a basket of home-made corn chips that are so crisp and warm, you’re not sure if you want to kiss them or eat them.  Okay, I’ve never kissed them.  I don’t think we’ve ever eaten there without getting at least one refill (of the chips not the drinks). 

The menu is fairly large, and we’ve made a variety of selections over the years.  Not once have we been disappointed.  The food is fresh, it is tasty, and if you ask for mild, you get mild, not spicy nor tasteless; request medium-hot, and that is what you get.  The service is timely but not hurried, and the bill is eminently reasonable.

There is only one negative. It feels like a local place to us, but it is a day's drive away.  You see, every two or three months, we got to our daughter’s in Muncie, IN.  It is a ten hour drive.  Let’s face it, we’re not as peppy as we once were, and ten hours is about two hours more than we like to drive in a day.  Eight hours takes us, serendipitously, to exit 112 off route 70, just this side of Columbus.  Take the exit, turn left and cross under the highway.  Off to your right, you’ll see a Hampton Inn, a very comfortable Hampton Inn with free wi fi and a nice breakfast. 

Get your overnight stuff out of the car, check in and walk your tired self across the access drive and into La Fogata Grill.  We found it by luck, by a quirk of fate  We enter tired an bleary, but whatever table they give us, we sit down at home.

Oh, Honey!

My husband is sick. It began five days ago with a cough and on the second day snowballed into a full force fever. On the third day, he was able to sit up after a couple of hours, but like a story book convalescent, he faded back into the covers.

The fourth day was a millimeter better. He got dressed – always a plus – and ate a little, but he mostly sat in his club chair stretched flat, moaning at the ceiling. We belong to Costco, so we have, in bulk, a variety of cold remedies of which he is partaking. I’ve made a point of sleeping in The Boy's bed (The Boy now being 32 and sleeping in his own apartment across the country) far away from the contagion.

But Friday evening, well, Friday evening I felt just the beginning of a tickle in the back of my throat. That coupled with two diet cokes at lunch saw me bolt upright, mind a-scampering at, argh!, 1:30 in the morning.

Disheartening in a way, but, ah, here's an opportunity. The time was ripe to try a home remedy I’ve long wondered about.  Lore tells us that a tot of rum with a teaspoon of warm honey is therapy for a cough.  Why, yes, I do happen to have some dark Barbados rum. It's been sitting in the cabinet since we went to the Caribbean in 2002 waiting for a moment such as this. I pour a jigger -- may as well use a pretty glass -- and mix in heated, raw honey. Oh, ho, ho! The honey is sweetness itself, and supposedly coats the throat and soothes the cough. The rum coats the throat, too, and the gullet and the innards and, frankly, the brain with a nice blanket of deadened response. 

The taste is a blend of syrupy sunlight and earthy darkness. I feel certain Hades plied Persephone with this combination in his underground lair; heck, I'm sure it's why she was willing to stay there six months of the year. I've finished the one, and I'm happy to hang around here for a long time. Oh, wait, I live here.

I am not coughing. I am not coughing!  It works! Look, Ma, no hands!  It works!

Finding that a folk method is effective always flabbergasts me. It is remarkable that our forbearers, even without labs and computers and fancy medical equipment, were still such smarty pants.  

Now will this concoction really help me get better? Let us just say that I have my doubts. Does it really help me feel better? Oh, honey, yes it does!

Is Bar Hop a Noun?

One goes barhopping, but then is bar hop a noun?  You know, I mean a compound noun, only where one of the two words is a verb.  This is becoming complicated, just don't dis me because bar hop is two words.  It's like "bell hop," right?  Or it would be if it is a noun.  Anyway, I ask because we have recently taken to barhopping -- an unusual new hobby for us, I concede, but more on that later.  Does going barhopping make me a bar hop?  Such a term in my mind conjures up images of twitching on one foot, perhaps more indicative of a neurological problem than of enjoying an evening out.  

But if not bar hop, then what?  Bar fly?  I think not.  I have clean hands and feet, thank you, and I do not carry a plethora of germs on me.  I have normal eyes, too.  I don’t have to process seeing in all directions at once, even after a drink or two.

One goes on a pub crawl, but I do not crawl.  I am neither a toddler nor a drunkard -- no really, I’m not.   The most I’ll admit to is a tendency to wobble a bit, and I don’t do that all that often. 

But why this fixation on what to call myself?  I’m glad you asked.  It began the evening Steve and I decided to treat ourselves to a fancy meal at Ruth’s Chris.  We wanted meat, and we wanted it right away, so we put on clean clothes and drove up the street to Fairfax Corner.  We were disappointed, though, because, even though it was only 5:30, there was already a long wait for a table.  We were looking sadly at each other when the hostess suggested we take a seat in the bar and order from there.  It was then we discovered their wonderful happy hour menu!  We didn’t take advantage of it that evening having, as I said, decided we wanted big, fat steaks, but few months later I found myself home alone on my birthday having just returned from Steve in Washington State.  (N.B. read last year’s entries if you’re really that interested as to how that came about.)    

I decided to take myself and my Kindle to Ruth’s Chris, and, in their comfortable, busy bar, treat myself to a fantastic steak sandwich and martini for a total bill of $15.  It was so tasty and so cheap, I left an enormous tip for the staff that was so nice to me.  Happy Birthday, me!  Steve and I have been back twice for their happy hour menu, and each time has been as excellent as the time before.  We decided it was time to branch out. 

We had evening tickets to the ballet and headed into DC early, at 2:00.  We walked around The American Art Museum for a couple of hours, then scoped out the happy hour at McCormack and Schmidt (mediocre food, slow, very slow service).  The next ballet included the Spy Museum and Legal Seafood  (better food, slightly better service).  [A quick aside:  a young friend posted on FB that she was bringing cookies to her department’s happy hour.  I posit that any hour with cookies is a happy hour.] 

Great or not so much, happy hour is exactly the way I like to eat.  Because your order is inexpensive and small, you can try all sorts of new things, and if you don’t care for them, just order again!  Of course, I’m in the lucky position that Steve likes almost everything, so if I don’t care for a dish, he’ll happily switch.  This is one of the main advantages of being married. 

Last Friday, we wanted to go to Bonefish Grill because Steve loved their happy hour in Hanford.  Alas, the local one has happy hour only Monday through Thursday.  Bummer!  We settled for a small family restaurant, but that was regular food from a regular menu, nothing to write home about.  A quick google search has now assured us of Friday night happy hours along with our big city ballet happy hours for a good long time to come.

This solves the dinner problem, but not the problem of nomenclature.  Not a bar hop, not a bar fly, not a pub crawler.  Now the delight I take in happy hour is more like my delight in the movement of ballet.  The rotation of the small plates is akin to the divertissement in the Nutcracker.  Cocktail specialties are more like dizzying solos.  Plus our little ritual is, to my mind, bound inextricably with our ballet tickets, so just hand over that tutu:  here’s one dance I can do.  Call me the bar ballerina.

The Activist Cat

There was an Earth Rally on the Mall last Sunday, specifically to voice opposition to the Alaskan oil pipeline and to fracking.  Steve, who’s worked in ecology-related fields his entire career, wanted to open our house up for couch-surfing (offer out-of-town protesters a couch to sleep on, or in our case, a bed because I’m way over waking up to people littering the couches and floor). 

Protesters tend to be open, spontaneous people, and I was happy to fill our bedrooms.  Wumpus, though, Wumpus was, apparently, in his element.  Never have you seen an animal so amenable to political activism. 

Laura was the first to arrive and said she was delighted to have her cat fix.  Wumpus was all over her, scooching next to her on the couch and rubbing his cheeks against her purse.  When I went past her door on my way to change into pajamas, he was flopped out full length on her bed.  

 

“Really?   Really?!” I demanded.  In response, he smiled smugly and rolled over to show his belly.  

Saturday night I slept alone (well, except for Steve).  Usually Wumpus sleeps on the footsie blanket.  The footsie blanket is a crocheted afghan.  It's light and warm, and is perfect for an extra layer over the feet during cold nights.  Wumpus had pledged his undying -- let’s face it, almost obscene -- love to the footsie blanket.  He hops up on it every night, kneading and purring, purring and kneading.

 

As far as Saturday night, though, the footsie blanket and I may as well have been chopped liver.  Well, not chopped liver ,because cats love chopped liver and think it’s irresistible.  Wumpus ignored me, ME, the one who rescued him from the shelter; ME, who lets  him in and out a hundred times a day; ME, the hand that scoops his cat food!  I mean, I'm all for supporting political activism, but this led to outright betrayal. 

Saturday night opened with his shameless purring on Laura’s bed.  I thought he’d come to apologize at 11:30 when he visited  the footsie blanket ,but after 10 minutes, he thudded to the ground.  

 

Dan reported he curled up with him from 12:00 to 1:00.  Eileen was insulted he didn’t sashay through her door until early morning. 

Please note that these people left their doors ajar, if not blatantly luring a kitty in, at least showing a willingness to engage in a secret, dark-of-night snuggle.   However, I realize the choices and main culpability lie with Wumpus who broke my heart with his promiscuity.   It’s one thing for an animal to be gregarious and gentle.  No one really wants a cat who will scratch one’s visitors for looking at them (i.e., a cat like the dear, departed Elaine).  You want a cat who is affectionate and gregarious. 

 

But my cat Wumpus?  Wumpus is a slut.

 

Just Desserts

Life is not fair.  I know it, you know it, and the sea gulls by the sea know it.  It is not fair that my sister  and brother-in-law moved to Florida, far away from us. It's not fair that we can no longer have our semi-annual sibs weekends.  And it’s totally not just that she lets us come from the cold north to visit every year.  We have certainly done nothing to deserve the bountiful hospitality she lavishes on us, but we do not complain.  We soldier on.

This year’s trip was lovely, thank you.  My brother and sister-in-law came, too.  We drove down the Keys, walked and bird watched and talked and talked and talked.  And ate.  Because that’s what we do best together:  talk and eat.  I will not bore you with a list of menus and restaurants, but you might like to hear about the wonderful desserts never denied ourselves.

On the first day of our visit, we went to a spiffy hotel restaurant with a fixed price menu.  The fountain spouted serene white noise in the background, and the linen was still with starch.  The food was good. It was very, very good, and although after the appetizer and entree, I was full up, I could not (or, anyway, did not) resist selecting a dessert of chocolate bread pudding in vanilla cream sauce.  I generally don’t go for flavored desserts that are classically served plain.  I like plain cheesecake, plain apple pie and plain bread pudding.  However, this chocolate bread pudding was the only chocolate dessert on the menu, so what’s a girl to do? 

It was FANTASTIC!  Now bread pudding is not a light dessert, and normally I like to think I’d have eaten half and taken half home for later, but, hey, this was vacation.  The fact that as retirees, a good deal of our life is vacation is neither here nor there. This was vacation, and I ate every speck of bread pudding and all but licked the plate after.  I waddled back to the car quite happy and somnolent. 

We ate at home the next night, and I think we actually (gasp!) skipped dessert.  The next morning we drove down to the Keys, staying half-way down the chain.  We had dinner at a little local fish market.  This time I left a little room in my tummy for chocolate almond ice cream pie in a chocolate cookie crumb crust.  I ate it all.

The following day we saw all there is to see on Key West and returned to Marathon in time to have dessert at Sweet Savannah’s.  They serve homemade ice cream and cup cakes.  (Just for the record, I did NOT have homemade ice cream on top of a cupcake like some other people I could mention.)  They make pistachio ice cream!  It is so hard to find pistachio ice cream, and it is my absolute favorite!  Oh, man, it was really, really good.

The week ensued in daily order.  My sister made pear pie (yum!).  We had fresh blueberries with whipped cream (refreshing -- plus there’s the self-righteousness of having fruit).   There was that sadly mediocre chocolate, chocolate truffle cake and the (plain) cheesecake.

Our last day was that one perfect beach day.  The sun was out, the jelly fish were under control and the breeze was light.  The guys walked down the beach to the concession stand.  Steve returned with a Nutty Buddy, not the fanciest dessert of the week, but let’s face it, everyone likes a Nutty Buddy.  He sat on his beach chair savoring each lick, cap pulled low over his eyes to shield from the glare, holding the cone up for philosophical meditation. 

In one swoop, a gull dove in from behind his head, grabbed the cone and flew off.  Twenty gulls chased him, calling him names and bullying him for a shard, but he was off and away.  Last day of vacation -- Steve stared at his empty fist.

 

Now, I ask you, was that fair?  Was that equitable?  Was that just?