A Side of Awesome with My Tea, Please

I can’t say why I didn’t head back upstairs this morning after making my tea.  My intention was to tune out the world and write, but I found myself, tea in hand, walking to the deck overlooking the property.  My property sits below the house with a grand open space, perfect for birds to swoop and call to each other.  I’m pretty sure it’s the eHarmony pick up grid for my winged friends, who then set up their prenatal nests under my deck.  This year, mid-project, I had to put the all-important power washing of the deck on hold after two small, but squawking, beak sharpening Finches let me know I was on their turf.  If you’ve been reading along these past years, you might remember I had this same problem with a Varied Thrush (a Robin impersonator the size of a well-fed squirrel, who had me running into the house – before I opened the screen door). But once again, I have digressed.

Perhaps it was the moody grey sky, or the late-to-the-show birds singing in the trees that called to me; whichever it was, I am grateful, for to the right from where I stood, and just above the roof line, a Bald Eagle swooped down near the deck into the opening and through the trees. I’ve had a flyby even closer than this one (see blog post http://bit.ly/12ELEpD), but it came with a warning; this majestic fella rode the silence.  Just as my breath was coming back to me, he made a U-turn and flew back through the opening over the deck again, as if to say, “Just in case you didn’t get a good look at how awesome I am the first time, here you go.”  And I don’t mean “awesome” in the way of “cool,” I mean awesome in the way of fearsome, overwhelming, breathtaking, tremendous, remarkable, astounding, and humbling.

He’s flown from the property, but he’s out there circling the island, swooping down now and then to remind folks to take the time to turn in the opposite direction, to look up from what weighs them down, and see the majesty all around us.

Image from http://baldeagles.org

 

 

A Good Time Was Had (Part 3)

After our haunting Holland Happening experience (you saw how we turned out after exiting the Gravitron), it was time to get down to business…whiskey business.  I’m not much of a drinker – the occasional glass of wine, maybe a beer after working on the property in the heat of summer (that would be when the thermometer reaches the very rare (there are no fans left to be found at Home Depot) 80 degrees).  And here I was sitting at a table with bona fide sippers of the grain, expert in their assessments.  I, on the other hand, have never been a whiskey drinker; well, perhaps once in my youth, which is why I may be a bit put off by the spirit.  But that was a long time ago and I was willing to let bygones be bygones.

The line up on the table in the photo to your left does not represent the order in which the whiskey was tasted, and some brands did not make the photo cut because I took the photos after the tasting when the bottles looked more like this (see below):

1)Jack Daniels Unaged Tennessee Rye, 2) Redbreast Single Pot Still Irish Whiskey Aged 12 Years; Bulleit 95 Rye American Whiskey, Makers Mark 46, McClelland’s Islay 10 Year Old Single Malt Scotch Whiskey, and Laphroaig Islay 10 Year Old Single Malt Scotch Whiskey.

The tasters included William Bell, Bev Heising of Whidbey Island Distillery, Whidbey Island authors Mike McNeff, Mare Chapman, and Rowena Williamson, Bedford Cheese Shop Cheesemonger extraordinaire Nate McElroy, and me.  Oh, did I mention that William hosted us down at Local Grown?  Now I know how he stays so very mellow while drinking so much coffee.  (Note: This was a private party. No rules were broken.  Let me add here that the rumor Local Grown is installing a whiskey machine, like the one shown below, is not true.)

Along with the whiskey there were cheeses to sample and pair with the spirits. The finest among the cheese was a wedge of Pleasant Ridge Reserve from Uplands Dairy in Dodgeville, Wisconsin that Nate brought all the way from NY. You’re beginning to understand why he’s my favorite, aren’t you.  We also enjoyed Britt’s pickles out of Seattle, Fermin Iberic Salchichon, and Screamin’ Banshee Bread from right here on the island.

Nate was in charge of the pour so you know every taster had an ample sample.  Experienced tasters saw the sample to your left:

This is what I saw:

There was a “dump it” bucket for those who wanted to walk out of the coffee shop, but I seemed to be the only one using it.  I’d like to be able to break down the descriptors used by the participants for you in accord with each whiskey, but after the first sip, I knew I’d never be able to match one with the other.  Here are a few of the words I do remember: Refreshing, light, vanilla, apples, cherry, oak, smooth on the tongue, lingers at the back of the throat, moss, smoke, hints of orange blossom (I may be making that one up).

Here are my descriptors: FIRE IN MY MOUTH! BURNING!  MY TONGUE HAS GONE NUMB! GOOD GOD, ARE MY LIPS STILL ON MY FACE?  Tasting the Laphroaig and the McClelland’s Scotch reminded me of standing in the middle of a debris burn I did my first winter on the island that lasted for a week.  Back then, I was sure I must be smoldering days after the burn was over, that’s how strong the smell of SMOKE around me remained.  I tried to listen as Mare and Rowena (the Scotch experts) talked about the peat moss used, the fire, the barrels, etc., but I was having a hard time doing that while gobbling down bread to calm my taste buds.  Thinking back on this, I’m reminded of Tom Hanks in Big when he tastes caviar for the first time.

I’d like to say I have a sophisticated palate when it comes to sampling spirits in their purest form, but I don’t.  So, here I sit weeks later looking at these near-to-full bottles of Redbreast and Bulleit Rye and the thought comes to me: I would probably like them a great deal if I used them to accentuate my chocolate truffles.  Now we’re talkin’.  I’ll let you know how that turns out.

I’ll end with this note. Yesterday, May 17, marked my four year anniversary here on the island.  Thanks to all who have made my stay here some of the best years of my life.  To those who have followed my silly little blog during that time, hand-to-heart gratitude for riding along with me.

 

Thanks wipwapweb.com for the “whisky” machine.

Moe’s flaming drink from images4.wikia.nocookie.net

A Good Time Was Had (Part 2)

Driving the ring around the Olympic National Forest, we noticed signs that announced: Big Cedar and Big Spruce.  Well, like any repetitive advertisement (especially those in the middle of a sleepless night), you can only ignore the taunts so many times until you give in.  This time it was Big Spruce that caused us to swerve off the main road to take a look at what the fuss was all about. You folks living in California with the unrivaled beauty of the Redwood Forests will understand when I thought to myself – this better be good.  Well, Big Spruce didn’t let us down, and since he’s quite the celebrity over there in the ONF, a keepsake photo had to be taken.   And, yes, before striking his lumberjack pose, Nate made sure there were no wild animals lurking in the root system behind him.  And, yes, I was ready with my camera set to multiple shots hoping there might be.  I never said I was perfect.  But I’m darn close.  You’ll see why right here.  A stop in Port Angeles at the thrift shop revealed two brand new shirts, only one was entirely without buttons.  O ye of little faith who judged me just sentences earlier — we found buttons (half off at a real five and dime shop) and I sewed them on — before I went to sleep that same night, I might add.

We ended our trip to America by stopping at Siren’s in Port Townsend with a round of oyster shooters and shepherd’s pie (Nate), and a salad (me).  Oh, and beer. But you probably already guessed that.

I’m having trouble remembering how we spent the rest of the evening when we arrived home, and I’m certain it had something to do with ingesting gummy bears, red licorice, sugared grapefruit slices, gummy worms (a far cry from my green drinks) while waiting for the ferry.

Sunday we ventured off to the Holland Happening in Oak Harbor.  I had never been and since it was Nate’s last day and we had hours before whiskey tasting, we were up for a bit of the Dutch, thinking wooden shoes, tulips (for which the Skagit Valley is renowned); baked goods.  Oh, how wrong we were in our Dutch Baby minds.  It might have been the ferris wheel, visible from the distance, or perhaps it was the corn dog stand that said: this is not Holland, but this is happening.

Where were the Stoopwafels, the Ontbijtkoek, the Speculaas, not to mention the little chocolate Dutch shoes and Zwart wit drops guaranteed to crack a tooth? WHERE WAS HOLLAND in all of this?

The safety of the rides was a no-brainer.  Chipped paint exposing rusty hinges and carnies standing around scratching their heads as they hammered at loose bolts (even I know that’s not the tool you use); didn’t instill in us the kind of confidence that says, “I just gotta ride that thing.”

And then we saw it from across the field. Like something out of a 70s remake of The Day The Earth Stood Still, I could hear the Bee Gees musical scoring of Klaatu Barada Nikto rise above the smell of barbecued ribs (south Holland perhaps).  There stood the Gravitron!

 

Maybe you had to ride the Gravitron to experience the Holland Happening.  Worth a shot?  Well, you decide.

 

 

 

We went in all-American and came out looking like this:

 

 

And this is why Nate is my favorite of all my children.  He’s willing to stupid stuff with me. However, he may not have considered it would be posted here at Greetings from Coupeville.

I’ll have to tell you about the whiskey tasting next time.  It’s been rainy, sunny, rainy, sunny (sometimes in the same hour) and that means the dandelions, grass, weeds, nettles, you name it, are getting the better of me.  Off to hoe and mow…gotta get everything looking just so.  Rumor has it company is coming in July, don’t you know.

Did I mention I’m going to be in the Memorial Day parade this year?  How did that happen?

A Good Time Was Had

April 24, 2013 – A delight known only to Mothers fills the air as the Sea-Tac Shuttle pulls into the 76 station.  You see, my favorite of all my children is on that shuttle.  He comes round the van bearing that hint of Brooklyn swagger in his walk, and that smirk that bears his name (as well as my own), is followed by a bear hug…okay, enough Mom talk.  We only have five days, so let’s get down to business.  First stop – Whidbey Beer Works for a supply of beers unavailable in the Five Burroughs, then a quick stop at the market, and we’ve got all the fixings for Nate’s Neapolitan pizza.   Oh, the future looks bright.

Thursday was a kick back, do nothing day, but on Friday we headed across the water to America to catch a glimpse of the Olympic Peninsula.   Our trip took us through small towns like Sequim (not pronounced the way I know the majority of you folks are saying it in your heads), and the now famous town of Forks, home to the Twilight series. (No, we didn’t stop, and more importantly: no, we haven’t read the books.  In my opinion, there’s only one vampire, and his name is Lestat.  The rest are wannabes.)  That being stated, I will not tag the words: Twilight, vampire, or Forks.  Just in case.

Now, about the Olympic Peninsula between Port Townsend and Kalaloch – Other than Port Angeles, there is nothing to be seen in the way of towns – simply their signs, and in most cases “Entering/Exiting” can share the same space.  But who needs towns when you’ve got a view of the Olympic Mountains jutting up behind tall pines, and the view of Crescent Lake as you wind your way down 101…or maybe it’s up 101.  Off the island, it’s all the same to me.  (Actually, truth be told, it’s the same on island.  I got lost a few weeks ago, but that’s another story for another post.) We stopped at Crescent Lake and I talked to a pair of divers readying themselves for an underwater adventure.  When asked what curiosity was below the water’s surface that would entice them into 42 degree water, they told me there was wreckage from car accidents, and boxcars (no railroad tracks in sight, I might add) to be explored, and according to Elora, our server at Kalaloch, there’s a dead horse down there that’s all in one piece.  Well, hell’s bells, Elora, I guess I’ll have the crab cakes.

After a number of “you’ve just got to see the Hoh Rain Forest,” recommendations, we drove eighteen miles off the main highway to see the ever-damp, moss laden trees, but it had been sunny for so long the moss looked more like a commercial for dry hair.

Friday afternoon was sunny, perfect weather for beach walking.  I will admit I miss the sandy beaches of California, so imagine my happiness when the trail led us to the perfect beach.   Now it was time to cast off those fancy beer taste buds and say hello to the stalwart of Pacific Northwest beers.  That’s right, it was time for some Rainier Ale.  We’re talking cans, not bottles, folks.  Snap, crackle, pop.  Sun, sand, and my favorite kid sitting next to me.  Color me a happy mom.

The view from our cabin was delightful; the sunset, all one could ask for to end a perfect day.

However, the added win of two game of Bananagrams is what I’ll remember until the end of time.  “Drink  up, favorite of all my children. Drink up.”

Next time: Holland Happening and Whiskey Tasting

My Favorite Of All My Children…

is flying in from Brooklyn on Wednesday for a visit!  Needless to say, I’m twelve kinds of happy.  We’re going to make a short, but I’m sure memorable, exploration of the Olympic Peninsula (Port Townsend to Kalaloch).  Nate is looking for great greasy spoon restaurants, so if any of you PNW folks that know the area have recommendations, please send them ASAP.  If the diner, bar, cafe, hole in the wall, you recommend turns out to be our favorite, you can bet your name is going to show up in my next post.  If we get food poisoning, your picture and address will show up too.

On the do nothing days, we’re going to…do nothing.   Oh, we’ll fire up the pizza stone and have a go at working with yeast again.  We’ve had two failed attempts – one was reminiscent of an old I Love Lucy episode where Lucy and Ethel were making bread; the likes of which rose so much it pushed the oven door open and pinned Lucy to the other side of the kitchen; the other, failed cinnamon rolls that refused to rise no matter how long we left them in front of the heater.   (Yes, eventually we put them in the oven.)

I know we’ll be successful at the whiskey tasting down at William’s Local Grown, and dinner at the Oystercatcher is always a home run.  Once I have plied Nate with whiskey, wine and food, I will then challenge him to a long overdue Bananagrams match.  In the past, I have overpowered him with my lightning speed.  Of course, in the past, I have also employed the same strategy I intend to use this visit.  “Drink up, favorite of all my children!”

Gotta run.  There are tomatoes to be roasted, grape leaves to be stuffed and desert to be considered.

Wherever you are, I hope it’s exactly where you want to be.

My Favorite Of All My Children Called…

Naturally, I was excited to hear the latest news from Brooklyn, but, alas, he was calling in regard to my last post 16 Tons and What Do You Get? which caused him great mathematical consternation.

Evidently, in the world of tonnage, there is a short ton and a long ton.  My mere 1,000 pounds of rocks that I loaded and then unloaded, although adding up to 2,000 pounds, didn’t warrant the accolades I felt I deserved since this measly amount equaled only a short ton, which is shy of a long ton by 240 pounds.   Never having heard of a long ton, I turned to my research buddy, Google.  My favorite of all my children was right.

British ton is the long ton, which is 2240 pounds, and the U.S. ton is the short ton which is 2000 pounds.

Both tons are actually defined in the same way. 1 ton is equal to 20 hundredweight. It is just the definition of the hundredweight that differs between countries. In the U.S. there are 100 pounds in the hundredweight, and in Britain there are 112 pounds in the hundredweight. This causes the actual weight of the ton to differ between countries.

To distinguish between the two tons, the smaller U.S. ton is called short, while the larger British ton is called long.

This information led to a rather comical and heated debate over who had worked the hardest of late…me, at my advanced age, and with the photos to prove my hard work, or Nate, who bemoaned the fact that single-handed, he added with great emphasis, moved two long tons (for you math challenged readers, that totals 4,480 pounds) of fine cheese and cured meats last week.  And to top it off, he had to carry it down a flight of stairs.  Lacking photos as proof of his hard work, I felt I had the upper hand, but just to be sure, I once again reminded him of the difference in our ages, the fact that he was getting paid an exorbitant amount of money, then to seal the deal, turned to the damage done to my hands.  The words, “I’ve damaged my tendon in my ring finger,” hadn’t hung in the air long enough to dry, when it happened.  My favorite of all my children (who was beginning the slide from first to second place rather quickly) topped that with the effects of the  molds on all these highfalutin products on his hands.  All of a sudden we were comparing wounds, damaged hand tendons, and various mold maladies, until we sounded like Richard Dreyfuss and Robert Shaw in Jaws comparing their shark scarred bodies.

Here are my thoughts on the subject of short ton (American) versus long ton (British):  1) We left British rule for various reasons, but here’s a good one:  They call 112 pounds a hundredweight; and 2) every woman will understand when I say, I’d rather weigh a short ton than a long ton.

P.S.  I found out my favorite doesn’t know everything about tonnage.  My research led me to find there is also a third type of ton called the metric ton equal to 1000 kilograms, or approximately 2204 pounds.  The metric ton is officially called tonne. The SI standard calls it tonne, but the U.S. Government recommends calling it metric ton.

Isn’t it just like a mother to want the last word?!

 

16 Tons And What Do You Get?

Last year I started March Mulch Madness, attempting to cover as much of the property at the entrance with the red cedar chips to help keep down the annual high grass that requires endless weed whacking.  Perhaps I was suffering brain damage from my chronic aching back, because when spring rolled around this year, I decided it would be a good idea to continue March Mulch Madness; emphasis on madness.

I will admit I have been known to get “carried away” by a project.  In this case, it started out with the thought that I’d just lay down a little mulch to make life easier, but before I could stop myself, it turned into weeks on end of pick axing mounds of dirt and rock that had been unconscionably shoved without forethought here and there, making it difficult to maintain the area; an area, by the way, that housed a snake in the high grass last  year who almost came to a dire end at the spinning line of my weed whacker.

So, what started out as weed whacking the grass turned into this:

This pile, by the way, has grown exponentially since this photo was taken.  You see, I have a tendency to meander when I’m working on the property.  What that means is that I can no longer stay on a single task, so while laying down mulch I noticed a very gnarly rhododendron that needed pruning.  Well, when I cut down one old limb, I found it was wound up in the limb of another tree that was being held up by the limb of a fallen tree that was embedded in the…oh, I think I’ll go to the quarry and buy some rocks.  A thousand pounds of rocks later; yes, you read that correctly– one thousand pounds of rocks later, all of which I loaded and unloaded myself (equaling one full ton), now circle some of that all important mulch…and, oh, look over here, I wonder if I could hack away at that giant overturned trunk…no, best not to…the water line runs along there somewhere…wow, the birds are in high spirits today…  This is when I recognize that the aching back theory and potential brain damage isn’t so far-fetched, so I throw down my hoe, my pruning saw (yes, that pile was all cut down with a pruning saw since I’m not allowed access to my chain saws), and I go inside for a soak to see if I might ease my aching back and stop any further impending brain damage.  Here are some of the treasures I found buried underneath the overgrowth.  Two steel belted radial tires (if only there had been a vehicle attached); beer cans, several strips of nails, and a plastic AK-47.  I’ve got my DIY hat on trying to come up with something to do with the tires so I don’t have to take them to the waste removal station.  I’ve thought about turning them into planters covered by, what else – stones, but I may have to open an ebay account to sell those nails and that gun.

Of course, the story doesn’t end here, although my environmental friends, who might just me even though they  haven’t maintained acres of land with a hoe and a hand saw, may want to stop reading now.  I do everything I can to limit my use of plastic, and when there’s no getting around it, I make sure to recycle it.  Well, there was no getting around the fact that there was a lot of plastic holding all that mulch together, so to help keep the weeds down and recycle the plastic, I used it all to cover the area where the weeds were getting the best of me.  I pierced it so water could get down to keep the plants and trees alive, but there was something I hadn’t considered.  Yesterday, I was out admiring my work and picking up the pesky pine cones that have fallen on the new mulch when someone, out for a stroll in the pouring rain, walked by.  As I took a step, we both heard it at the same time…another step…there it was again.  Walking on the mulch with all that plastic beneath it sounded like I was walking on an adult diaper; that undeniable sound we’ve all heard in the Metamucil aisle, that sound we fear has our name on it someday.  That’s when I realized the stranger walking down my lane, smiling at me, thought the noise was coming from beneath my jeans, not my feet.

I can only hope the story ends here.