The Gypsy Nester

The Unhealthiest Menu on the Planet

noreply@blogger.com (David & Veronica) — Thu, 12 Nov 2009 17:57:00 +0000

In our never ending search for intriguing foods, a jackpot was hit with what has to be the mother of all unhealthy menus.

Heart stopping, artery clogging foods are favorites all over the world and the American Midwest is certainly no exception. In Michigan, it's Pasties in the U.P., cherry pies in Traverse City and the great Coney Island dogs in Flint. But for real gut busting, cholesterol increasing, Wolverine State food nothing beats a gizzard. That's right, a good ole chicken gizzard, fried up and thrown down at the gizzard capital of the world, Joe's Gizzard City.

About 15 miles South of Lansing, in Potterville, Michigan we discovered the undisputed king of the cooked chicken ventriculus. The what? That's just a fancy way of saying gizzard. It's part of a bird's digestive system that grinds up food and is where the word giblets originated. Gizzards are a popular food throughout the world, served grilled in Asia, stewed in Portugal, curried or barbecued in Pakistan, with mashed potatoes or a Perigordian Salad in France, in gumbo or even pickled here in the States.

But for real greasy gizzard flavor, they've got to be battered up and deep fried.

Battered and fried is what Joe's Gizzard City does best! Not just gizzards, the fine chefs at Joe's will fry up anything and everything. All of the usual suspects are there on the menu -- fish, onions, shrimp, potatoes and even cheese.

But the true CPR inducting, defibrillating, rib spreading bang for your buck has got to be

the Triple D Burger. A whopping third pound of ground cow topped with onions, pickles, tomatoes and American cheese, dipped in batter and doused in hot grease. Bun and all. Consult your physician before attempting to eat this puppy, as most insurance carriers count the Triple D as a preexisting condition.

If that's still not enough, perhaps some deep fried meatballs, pickles or olives on the side will round out the meal. Too heavy? Well then try the Battered Dog Melt. Nothing like two hotdogs battered, deep fried and covered in chili and cheese for a light snack. Joe has even figured out a way to fry up spinach dip in stick form. That's just messed up. Seriously.

Be sure to save room for dessert. Really, how can cheesecake, Oreos or ice cream get any better? Well by coating them in batter and deep frying them of course. The granddaddy of them all has to be the "Frinkie". A deep fried spongy snack cake smothered in caramel and chocolate sauces, slathered with whipped cream topped off with a cherry. The candy cherry allows one gets some fruit with one's meal! Everybody wins.

On our visit, we decided to stick to the namesake and order the famous original gizzards. The menu called it a half pound, but it was more than enough for a big snack for both of us... with a lot left over. Joe, Jr. must have some kind of wacky scale back there in the kitchen. Maybe he inherited it from his dad Joe, Sr., as Joe's has been passed down from generation to generation of the Bristol family since 1960.

Gizzard City guarantees that their gizzards are “so tender you can cut them with a spoon” and they were. Asking around, we discovered the secret is that they are pounded and boiled before being dipped and fried. Served "bite-sized" in a basket with cocktail sauce, we popped the little nuggets down our gullets until our grease quotient had been met and surpassed. Tasty enough, but for us, a little went a long way.

While they've been known to batter and fry almost anything at Joe's, it's the gizzards that make them world renowned. They go through 400 pounds of the battered bird bites every week. And speaking of batter, Joe knows how to use that too, to the tune of about 25 pounds a day. Now that may sound like a lot of breading and chicken parts, CUZ IT IS, but that won't last a couple hours during the true gizzard chowing madness of Gizzard Fest.

Every June for nearly a decade now, downtown Potterville -- both blocks of it -- is cordoned off for the one and only festival of gizzard gluttony... Gizzard Fest. Three days of music, dancing, tractors, fireworks, food, beer and the star of the show... gizzards.

The undisputed highlight of the weekend is the big gizzard eating contest. Two thousand pounds of poultry parts are prepared for the perfervid participants. The contestant to consume two pounds of fricasseed chicken guts fastest is crowned the champion. This is often closely followed by the less public gizzard puking ceremony.

We stumbled upon Joe's Gizzard City completely by accident. Lured in by the big fiberglass chicken on the side of the interstate, we just followed the droplets of grease leading to the front door.

So now the next time you're thinking, “gee, I sure could go for some gizzards,” you'll know right where to get them.

Just don't get them stuck in your craw.

David & Veronica, GypsyNester.com
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Helicopter Mom -- You Are Grounded!

noreply@blogger.com (David & Veronica) — Sun, 08 Nov 2009 19:25:00 +0000

“A mother is only as happy as her saddest child,” a close friend’s grandmother used to say. When I first heard her say this, all three of my children were young and safely in the nest so I could totally relate. Somehow I thought once they were grown up this would change. It didn’t.

Trouble finds its way into everyone‘s lives -- and as much as we hate it -- trouble finds our adult children. Whether it rears its ugly head in a personal relationship, at work or at school, it is challenging for an ex-helicopter Mommy like myself not to want to swoop in and fix everything. I’ve learned the hard way that I can’t.

My first major hurdle into non-hovering was a bad break-up my eldest daughter, 24, went through back in college. Sending that first one out of the nest was hard enough, keeping my nose out of her business was even harder. Break-ups are the worst of all.

24 had her first real relationship during her freshman year. It was serious enough that he was brought home to meet the parents. When it fell apart, it fell apart bad. 24 was not forthcoming with the details and I’m pretty sure I did an adequate job of avoiding the desire to pry. I don’t know the gory details to this day, but I got the feeling she was more mad than hurt.

Because I wasn‘t aware of all the details, as a mother, I made up the worst. The worries grew faster than the scenarios I made up. Was she crying in bed, alone? Were her friends being supportive? Was she eating? Do I need to fly up there and club the boyfriend like a baby seal?

Turns out she handled it well and has learned from the experience. Her criteria for a suitable companion are more honed. She sees relationship warning lights clearer. She grew by leaps and bounds. These are lessons she might not have learned if I had been there deflecting the arrows.

Our middle spawn, 22, is a disaster with money. She can’t save it. This is not a good combination with the feast or famine income of a NYC freelance artist type. Frankly, the whole situation scares the crap out of me.

22 went to college in the city, fell in love with it and proclaimed she would never leave. She was hit by the “you’re an adult now” freight train upon finishing school and was on her own monetarily. New York City is EXPENSIVE! Add in a toxic job market with a tanking economy, things were scary and bleak indeed.

It wasn’t long before we were hit up for a “loan.” 22 knew our policy, we raise you, we put you through school and then it’s time to grow up. Period. For her to ask, I knew she was swimming through dire straits. It was SO hard to say no.

It’s a lot harder to enforce a policy than to make one. As she told me how hard things were, I heard myself saying gems like “get a second job” and “maybe you should move to a less expensive city,” when I REALLY wanted to say, “Honey, I’ll be right there and we’ll work this out together,” or the more dangerous, “how much to you need?”

Caving in was not an option. 22 was devastated by conversation’s end and I hung up the phone and burst into tears. I was in a funk for a good long time. Sometimes parenting really sucks.

22 did go out and get a job she hated, continued to freelance and is establishing herself in her field. She’s never going to be good with money, but to my knowledge, has never been flat broke again. Going hungry is a valuable lesson.

Most recently, The Boy was whacked with a whopper. He was bitchslapped with Swine Flu about a month into the fall semester. Tending to a sick child from a distance is typically enough to launch the strongest of Mommies into a funk. Couple the flu with getting a poor grade on a crucial exam -- The Boy was inconsolable. In his weakened state, he saw no light at the end of the tunnel, and nothing I could say made him feel better. As a matter of fact, I sensed I was making it worse.

It’s harder for me to connect with The Boy. His older siblings are girls -- and I know how to talk girls off of the ledge. Heck, I usually have them laughing at the situation by the time I’m done. Not so with The Boy. Maybe it’s because he’s not as emotional in the first place but he’s just not a “talk it through” kinda guy. At least not on my timetable.

Because I AM a talk it though kinda gal, this adds to my Mommy stress. I feel completely unhelpful and helpless. It is SO hard for me not to continually pick up the phone to try a new angle out on The Boy. But all of my “this won’t seem so bad in week, month, year… while, trust me” and “let’s walk through the situation together” lines sounded ludicrous as soon as they spilled out of my mouth.

Later, I realized The Boy WANTS to work things out on his own -- an ultimate good parenting goal -- and my over-supportiveness is just plain hindering his progress. It hit me like a “I don’t need you to fix everything Mommy” ton of bricks. Wow, no more kissing the boo boos.

Hmmm…could this mean I’m hovering -- or wanting to hover -- just to make MYSELF feel better? If it is true that a mother IS only as happy as her saddest child, could I be just trying to “fix” my own situation? Is this what meddling is? OH JEEZ. How in the fudge am I supposed to know the difference between helping and meddling?

All of three of these episodes helped me realize that all any parent can really do is listen, listen, listen.

And in the end, listen a bit more.

Veronica, GypsyNester.com
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French Canadian Kiss

noreply@blogger.com (David & Veronica) — Tue, 03 Nov 2009 19:18:00 +0000

It’s a six hour transatlantic flight from New York City to get a French fix in Paris or, if you're more Chevrolet set than jet set, you can hop in the car and drive six hours to get your Franco fill right here in North America.
Having seen much of the USA in a Chevrolet, we decided to swing by New York City to grab our daughters, 22 and 24, and head north for a whirlwind foreign adventure. The plan -- even though the plan is no plans -- was to fly The Boy up from college to meet us for his 19th birthday celebration. It came off without a hitch.

Montreal is très French without being in France, in fact, it is the second largest French speaking city in the world following Paris.

After rescuing The Boy from the airport and a quick clean up from the drive, we ventured into the heart of the former capital of Canada. Trailing behind the young 'uns, we walked a couple of blocks from our hotel to the clean, fast subway. When we popped up from underground we were surrounded by music.

What luck! To our delight we hit town during the 30th annual Jazz Fest. The Festival International de Jazz de Montreal is one of the world's most renowned festivals, attracting two and a half million people. The Guinness Book officially named it the world's largest jazz festival back in 2004. This year's fortnight of music featured 3,000 artists from thirty countries performing more than 650 concerts.

Two thirds of the shows were free outdoor performances that completely filled the downtown streets with summertime revelers. We were swept along from stage to stage with the crowd that had become an organism unto itself. After chasing the gleeful 24, 22 and The Boy from concert to concert, we ducked into a Vietnamese restaurant for a late dinner and decided to call it a night to rest up for the next day's adventures.

On a beautiful sunny summer day, the waterfront is the place to be in Montreal. The Vieux-Port (Old Port) is alive with activity. Several attractions are there along the river... cruises, jet boats, The Science Center and the original Cirque du Soleil.

We opted to skip the famous circus but were treated to a free show by the acrobatic troupe “7 Fingers” just outside at the Quays of the Old Port. This troupe is comprised of clowns and acrobats trained at Montreal’s National Circus School that have performed with Cirque du Soleil, the Cirque Eloize, Teatro Zinzanni, the Pickle Family Circus and Cirque Knie. They were performing their amazing feats of strength and agility combined with satire and humor thoughout the summer as part of the Circus Arts Promenade. We were all completely mesmerized by these guys!

After much walking and gawking, we needed some nourishment. The choices on the riverfront are endless. From elegant dining to casual walking around food. We were looking for a quick bite that involved chairs to rest our tired dogs. A British style pub fit the bill perfectly. It was here that we were introduced to the famous Québécois creation, poutine. French fries, turkey gravy and fresh cheese curds layered upon each other in an artery clogging parfait of tastiness.

Bellies filled, we heard the call of the water. Montreal is and always has been a river city. The St. Lawrence is one of Canada's busiest and most important port connections to the Atlantic for both passengers and cargo. We wanted to see it up close and personal... which, according to 24, called for a ride on a Duck. Guided tours are not normally part of our "low to the ground" travel style, but we had to admit that a Duck ride sounded pretty fun.

The Ducks are amphibious buses that begin by touring the historic downtown area, then drive into the river and with a splash become boats. The tour took us by the Notre Dame Cathedral where Celine Dion was married. The tour guide was very excited about this fact, it must be a Montréalaise point of pride, so we smiled and nodded and told her we just LOVED Celine -- especially with long hot baths and scented candles -- lest we were unceremoniously kicked off the Duck. We continued on past the old parliament building that now serves as a mall, The Champ de Mars and the City Hall where Charles De Gaulle made his controversial “Vive le Québéc libre!” (Long live free Quebec!) speech from the balcony.

Next thing we knew we were driving along tiny back streets among the warehouses and docks, then right off the edge into the St. Lawrence River. As a boat, the duck feels unwieldy and awkward, like it might go down any minute, but it was worth the scare (and the goofy embarrassment) to be right next to the giant ships and see Montreal from the water's perspective.

The short cruise took us along the shores of Ile Sainte-Hélène for a view of the La Ronde amusement park and the site of the 1967 World's Fair, Expo 67, with the stunning Biosphere and Habitat 67. Habitat 67 is a series of cubes built as a master thesis project by Moshe Sofdie. It was designed as a '60s example of futuristic economical urban living but, ironically, now each cube goes for $250,000 and must be bought in groups of at least five consecutive cubes. Looks like it caught on!

Back on dry land, we decided to seek some more serious sustenance. Vieux Montreal, the old town along the port, is filled with fantastic restaurants, many featuring the finest French fare this side of Paris. We stumbled upon Le Bourlingueur on Rue St-François Xavier and could not have been more pleased. The menu is la table d’hôte, so the incredible food is served without serious wallet destruction. Plenty of reasonably priced wonderful wines are also available to wash things down.

The great meal and relaxed atmosphere were an ideal segue to a night at the Casino de Montreal. The Boy is of legal age to partake in gambling and drinking in Montreal and 24 and 22 wanted to be a part of these rites of passage. Mom and Dad only had to wait about a half hour before all three kids lost their shirts. Ahhhh...teachable moments. No one got drunk and we were in bed by midnight.

The next morning we dropped The Boy at the airport and decided to squeeze in a couple more tourist activities before heading for the border. We happened upon the fastest go carts ever created and, to make it even more intense, they're indoors. All of the girls, Veronica, 24 and 22, have always been suckers for go-carts and Kart-O-Mania certainly didn't disappoint. Loud, reeking of exhaust and right on the brink of dangerously out of control on a slightly oily and slick concrete track and the wild-eyed euphoria on 24 and 22's faces was well worth the entry fee. What more could one ask from a go-cart?

Having survived the races, with a touch of helmut head, we took in the more sublime St. Joseph's Oratory of Mount Royal. Towering over Montreal's west side, this is Canada's largest church and features the third largest domed basilica in the world. It didn't begin that way, in 1904, Brother André Bessette built a small chapel that soon proved too modest.

A larger church was completed in 1917 to accommodate the ever growing number of pilgrims in search of miraculous healing. This was still not large enough so, to honor St. Joseph whom brother André credits for all of the healings, the basilica was constructed from 1924 through 1967.

Thousands of crutches line the walls as testimony to the cures. The believers can also garner new strength by viewing brother Bessette's disembodied heart on display upstairs or with one of the blessed bottles of cooking oil available for purchase in the gift shop. Small for $10.00 or the grande for 25. Ever the uncouth one, 22 decided to sneak a dab out of a bottle to rub on some dry skin. Nothing like some blessed Wesson to clear up the chapping.

Over 2 million visitors a year pass through this stunning structure, but to us perhaps the most striking thing about it was it's age, or lack thereof. The style is conspicuously modern when compared to the famous churches of Europe, especially on the inside. It seemed odd at first blush, but we all soon came to agreement that things need not be ancient to be very cool.

Thoughout the course of our tour we were privileged to be treated to a few songs from the magnificent pipe organ during a rehearsal. The majestic instrument, built by German master organ builder Rudolf von Beckerath in the late 1950s, was brought in from Hamburg and installed in 1960. With 5,811 pipes, it is considered one of the finest organs in the world. The huge sound reverberating through the basilica's stone walls was nothing short of spectacular.

As we headed south and back to the English speaking world, the echoes were still ringing through the dome. They probably still are.

David & Veronica, GypsyNester.com

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Stepping into an Empty Nest

noreply@blogger.com (David & Veronica) — Fri, 30 Oct 2009 17:14:00 +0000

We got some great news the other day. One of our best friends, Robert, is getting married soon. On the phone, once he announced his intentions, he gushed about the love of his life. We talked about the big changes to come.

The blushing bride to be, Julie, is negotiating the changes an empty nest brings as her daughters move on with their lives. She is also worried about how her daughters will react to a new man being in her life.

Robert doesn't have kids and is understandably nervous about venturing into this unknown territory. When the dynamic of forming a relationship with his step-daughters-to-be came up, a few points came to mind, some that we have learned and passed on here at GypsyNester.com:

- Having raised two girls, we know the importance of keeping an open line of communication. Hopefully Julie has kept her girls abreast of the relationship as it has evolved.

- Grown children can worry about “ulterior motives” and feel the need to protect their mother. Roger shouldn't be offended if he is quizzed a bit about his background, finances or his intentions. It's always best to be honest and open.

- Don't push things. Robert and Julie need to exercise patience. The timeline for bonding has to be written by the daughters and needs to evolve at THEIR pace. This takes time and there is no magic elixir.

- For God’s sake, Robert, don’t ask them to call you Daddy!

Robert has the chance to start out fresh with a relationship that is immediately adult-to-adult. No need to be “Daddy” or a disciplinarian. He has the luxury of being a new friend and stepping right into the situation we are all trying to navigate as empty nesters. Will the advantage of no baggage from previous battles outweigh the disadvantage of a lack shared experiences and a lifetime of love? Only time will tell.

There is always the chance that one or both of the daughters might feel like this new man is taking their mother away. With the biological father having been out of the picture for quite some time, the future step-daughters have had their mother to themselves for years and could be jealous or resentful. However, there may be a bright side being overlooked.

It is entirely possible that these young women will see the marriage as a blessing. This could allows them to freely pursue their new lives as adults without the worry of their mother being all alone. Their personal decisions will not have to be colored by concerns about Mom's well being and they will have more freedom to pursue opportunities that might arise in work, travel or their own relationships.

Robert needs to reassure his future step-daughters that he always has their mother's happiness and best interest at heart. Once the girls are comfortable with that, the rest of their relationship will fall right into place.`

We wish them all the best and are confident they can make it work and live happily ever after.

David & Veronica, GypsyNester.com
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SoHo Appy Crawl

noreply@blogger.com (David & Veronica) — Fri, 23 Oct 2009 19:33:00 +0000

We take making a meal out of appetizers very seriously. Having them at multiple restaurants is even better. For this appy crawl, in the heart of Manhattan, we enlisted help from our middle child, 22, the black-wearing, taxi-flagging, fast-walking, free-lancing, f-bomb-dropping, urbanite New Yorker.

Feeling generous, we asked 22 to decide on three restaurants she’d been waiting to visit until Mom and Dad could be there to pick up the tab. She rattled off three so fast that we knew she must have been waiting for us to ask and next thing we knew she was at our hotel room. The girl is like the wind.

Before we could catch our breath, we were chasing 22 around trendy SoHo -- NYC speak for “south of Houston Street.” Attempting to take in the sights while keeping up a brisk New York gait, we were abruptly chastised by 22: “Quit looking up -- you look like a tourist!” Apparently, being a tourist is not the optimal thing.

We arrived at Aquagrill in the blink of an eye.

Aquagrill
Spring and 6th

The oysters, oh, the oysters. Veronica was in heaven. She actually wept. We sat at the end of the bar near the oyster specialist to take in the full mollusk experience. We were handed a list of oyster choices -- assuming there would be two or three --and were bowled over at the medieval scroll we were given. There had to be thirty choices!

The specialist, picking up on Veronica’s bovine look, sweetly suggested that he choose for her. And choose he did. He shucked those fat bad boys like the pro he was and whomped down a platter of the most beautiful invertebrates we’d ever tasted. We might be ruined for life.

Making our way through SoHo, past the fashionable shops and even more fashionable people, it felt like we had stumbled into a Woody Allen movie -- or perhaps “The Devil Wears Prada.” Everyone was beautiful, dressed to the nines and sporting some serious footwear! Really? Those girls can walk that fast in those skyscraper heels? Impressive. Lacking the will to keep up, we sauntered on to our next destination.

Lure
Prince and Mercer

Walk into Lure and experience what it was like to spend some time with the Onassis clan aboard one of their ridiculously fabulous yachts. Wait -- really -- it’s a yacht in the middle of SoHo. We sat and watched the stylish New Yorkers blaze by through the portholes--it’s seriously groovy.

It’s a boat in the middle of Manhattan, it’s called Lure, it’s obviously a seafood restaurant. If the quality of their sushi is any indication, we’re guessing that the entrée menu is to die for.

Spring Pea and White Asparagus Soup
Somehow this soup was frothy AND hot. Had hunks of shrimp (oh the texture). We tasted mint. Loved it.

Sushi
We had the salmon sushi and the House Roll. This roll consisted of shrimp tempura and cucumber with an outer rim of spicy tuna and dollops of yummy sauce. Add the black sesame seeds in the rice and you’ve got the makings of one fine roll. 22 deemed it “freakin’ awesome” and 22 knows her sushi.

The stunningly huge wine list reads like a juicy romance novel. It had to be removed from Veronica’s sweaty hands by management. We have all kinds of inappropriate adjectives we could use here, but let’s leave it at sexy, shall we?

We elected to do a bit of a digestive stroll. It led us out of SoHo proper, but still within appy crawling distance. We were fortunate enough to experience a true NYC moment. This sign was found outside a posh shop -- not exactly something one would see in say, Sheboygan.

The best part? This guy sat down at his computer, chose a font, laid it out nicely and nestled it into a protective sleeve to save it from the elements. BRA-VO pissed off New York City bike dude!

22’s next suggestion was tapas, ba-by! A restaurant sanctioned appy crawl if there ever was one--tapas are small portions--so order away!

Café Español
Bleeker and Thompson

22 walked into Café Español and immediately pegged it for a great place to go on a date. It WAS pretty cute.

The menu contains five types of sangria--white, red, cava, mango and strawberry. We tried the red and it was delicious, but -- careful -- it's very strong. Order by the glass, just to be safe. Don't eat the fruit if you want to be able to walk out the door unaided.

Pimientos de Piquillo
Roasted spicy sweet peppers--yeah! These were REALLY good

Spanish Olives
Wonderful combo--some stuffed with nuts or pickles. Pimentos and capers, oh so yummy.

Tortilla Espanola
Very authentic egg and potato "omelette"

Champiñones Rellenos
Mushrooms stuffed with bland bread crumbs or what tasted like bland bread crumbs anyway. Skip this one.

Vieriras en Salsa Verde
Also not good. Scallops--only fair--and the sauce was bland. Really didn’t stand up well to the evening’s previous shellfish experiences.

Nata con Nueces
Saved the day--vanilla ice cream with a caramel ribbon topped with caramelized walnuts. Caramel. Goooood.

Also see: The Appy Crawl Philosophy, All Appy Crawls

David and Veronica, GypsyNester.com (Post a Comment)

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Love and Spit-takes

noreply@blogger.com (David & Veronica) — Tue, 20 Oct 2009 17:36:00 +0000

Have you noticed that the older we get, the less we laugh? As a mother and someone who has worked in academic settings, I find myself envious of teenaged girls who can work themselves into hiccup-inducing hysterics over the slightest thing. Admittedly, the tears come just as fast, and I have to say I’m glad I’m past THAT nonsense but just witnessing a spontaneous giggle-fest sets my heart a-singing.

As a society, we unfortunately chalk uncontrollable laughter up to immaturity. How sad is that? I feel blessed anytime I’m with someone who can find humor in everyday situations or can relate a hysterical life story. Give me somebody who can help me plot undoable practical jokes or an elaborate heist scenario any day. I have a criminal mind with luckily, no guts.

But -- alas -- it is exceptionally rare that any of these encounters evolve into the kind of laughter that physically hurts. David and I have our moments, but it’s when I’m with my girls, 22 and 24, that the demented stuff really gets underway.

Twice during a visit to Manhattan real honest-to-goodness public spit-takes happened. The first, involving me, red wine and a really nice Italian restaurant where 22 is a hostess on the weekends. The wonderfully charming restaurateur had just settled us in our regular window table with mussels, bread and Chianti, letting 22 sit with us as long as her duties didn’t require her to be elsewhere.

Feeling the effects of all day on planes, buses, taxis and trains -- I was properly goofy when I started relating a story of an erstwhile Google (no need to repeat it here since I’ve yet to find a single person that thinks it’s even remotely funny outside the three of us). Filling my mouth with the delicious Chianti, I stupidly looked up at 22 -- not my smartest move -- and the look on her face took me to the next level of mirth.

Realizing that swallowing had jumped out of the realm of possibilities, I raised my white linen napkin to my quivering lips in a vain effort to keep the red wine contained in my mouth. Not willing to let this situation pass, 24 upped the ante by tossing out an inappropriate comment. The ensuing explosion was spectacular. 24 likened it to a scene from a horror flick, as if I’d been impaled and coughing up blood. You can’t take me anywhere.

The next morning at brunch 22 repeated the action with her own spit-take, this time with a spiced tea latte. At a communal table. We’re quite the class act.

Unbecoming spit-takes aside, laughter makes life worth living. I am proud of my dynamic daughters, so full of life and youth, willing to turn me into a doubled-over mess of flying spew. It’s hard to believe there were times during their teenaged years when we couldn’t connect, were unable to share and when I was paralyzed with the thought that they would grow up and not love me anymore.

Now they graciously allow me to see the world they have created for themselves, tell me their stories, share their problems and fears -- adult women who are secure enough to call me Mommy.

I fervently hope that no matter how old I get, I’m never too “mature” to chance a spit-take or two with my daughters. Cheers!

Veronica, GypsyNester.com (Post a Comment)

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Having Our Cape and Eating It Too

noreply@blogger.com (David & Veronica) — Fri, 16 Oct 2009 03:22:00 +0000

Cape Cod, hmmm. We racked our brains and came up with romping Kennedys and a cocktail that involves vodka and cranberries. We didn't have any idea what we might discover if we drove all the way out to the end of Cape Cod but we had to do it -- it was just too enticing to resist, challenging us there on the map.

The pine trees dwindled and the sand dunes gained hold as we approached the very tip of the cape and found lovely, eclectic Provincetown. P-town to the locals.

Home to amazing restaurants, America's oldest gay bar and a massive monument recognizing the place where the Pilgrims REALLY first landed, P-town possesses copious quantities of character. Toss in the power and beauty of the Atlantic ocean encircling the tiny strip of land -- forming dazzling beaches -- and it becomes nearly impossible not to love this easternmost tip of Massachusetts.

For centuries the bitter end of Cape Cod was home to only whalers and fishermen. The population grew through the 1800s as numerous Portuguese sailors settled in P-town and their influence is still strong today. Every year P-town hosts a Portuguese festival in late June and "They Also Faced the Sea," a series of large portraits of Portuguese-American women living in Provincetown, is a beautiful tribute to the hardworking women who have kept tradition alive for over two centuries.

Through the years many writers, actors and artists sought the solace, solitude and inspiration that Cape Cod offered and settled among the seafarers. The eclectic mix worked well, with everyone adopting a live and let live attitude. Today Provincetown is very much a summer destination, with the population increasing nearly tenfold during the season. Only a little over 3,000 hardy souls are willing to brave the North Atlantic winters.

We started the day by making our way up to the Pilgrim Monument and Provincetown Museum. The monument is a huge tower modeled after the Torre del Mangia in Siena, Italy. With President Teddy Roosevelt laying the cornerstone in 1907, the tower was built to commemorate the signing of the Mayflower Compact and mark the place where the Pilgrims actually first landed in November of 1620.

Immediately upon arrival, our celebrated Pilgrims began raiding the local Nauset tribe's graves and food stores. None too pleased with these newcomers stealing their corn right before winter, the Nauset forced the would-be settlers across the bay to Plymouth and its famous, if not entirely factual, rock.

Staring up at the 252 foot structure, we girded our loins for the 176 step climb to the crown (sorry, no elevators!). Trudging ever upward, we dug in as we tried to disregard our aching calves and ignore the adolescent boys whizzing by. Showoffs.

At the top, we were rewarded with breathtaking panoramic views of Provincetown and Cape Cod Bay and hey, we got a sticker bragging that we made it to the top. Love us some goofy stickers!

Since parking is at quite a premium in P-town and the monument is near the center of town, we decided to take advantage of their lot and continued our exploration on two wheels.

Provincetown is incredibly bicycle friendly, it seemed like more bikes than cars were on the road. We brought our bikes with us, but rentals are readily available. Good thing too, because driving a car is nearly impossible through the narrow streets that are completely packed with pedestrians and cyclists in the summer months. Though we have to say, the bicyclists are just as aggressive as the motorists in Massachusetts, so we were kept on our toes.

We stopped for lunch at Enzo, in the heart of the Commercial Street district to sit outdoors and enjoy some bang-up people watching. Enzo, a restaurant and guesthouse in an old Victorian mansion, has a spectacular raw bar lunch. Imagine little neck clams for $1.50 each, Wellfleet oysters for two bucks or a lobster tail for eight. And the decadent spicy seafood chowder ($6). Uh, wicked delicious.

Sitting outside and watching the world go by at one of the many hotspots on Commercial Street should be mandatory doings in P-town. It makes one's heart sing to see so many happy couples strolling by, hand-in-hand, without a care in the world. We were lucky enough to see a wedding procession heading down Commerce Street (everyone on bikes, no less) and were swept up in the laughter of the revelers. We were given an enthusiastic "thumbs up" and a big happy grin as we snapped a shot of the beaming couple.

A quick note to first time visitors: It gets pretty raucous on Commerce Street as night falls, not a place for the kiddies or the easily shocked, so here's a good rule of thumb -- if the French Quarter of New Orleans offends you, so will Commerce Street at night. A big time is had by all.

As we continued exploring the waterfront, we stumbled upon Captain Jack's Wharf. A colorful collection of wooden domiciles, available to rent by the week, stacked upon an antiquey-looking pier jutting haphazard into the harbor. Captain Jack's looked like our kind of place. Several of the current inhabitants, boasting quite an array of European accents, were sunning, swimming and swilling a few drinks on the tiny strip of sand between their dock and the next group of houses. Not much of a beach, but its coolness factor more than made up for it.

After pedaling a few miles up and down the main drag, The Atlantic House seemed like it would make a good stop and give us an excuse for a little libation. Known locally as The A-House, it has quite a history. Opened in 1798 as a tavern, this is P-town's oldest bar. The Atlantic has also served as a stage coach stop, hotel and restaurant. Many artifacts from its storied past adorn the walls.

During the 1920s the A-House became a popular hangout for some of America's most famous writers. Eugene O'Neill and Tennessee Williams were frequent patrons. Appealing to artistic and alternative lifestyles through the years, The Atlantic House became known as America's first gay-friendly bar back in the early 1950s. This live and let live philosophy has served not just the bar but the whole town well.

As a sign on a trolley headed down Commerce Street said, "That 'Love thy Neighbor' thing? I MEANT IT...God."

P-town means it as well.

David & Veronica, GypsyNester.com (Post a Comment)

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Top Ten Ways You Know Your Kid is Grown Up

noreply@blogger.com (David & Veronica) — Tue, 13 Oct 2009 19:59:00 +0000

10. You have Thanksgiving dinner at her home. You sneak the inedible parts to her dog.

9. He drops the F-bomb right in front of you. With no fear of an Ivory Soap sandwich.

8. You realize that you are sitting in the back seat. Of her car.

7. He cleans up after himself. While visiting your house!

6. She absentmindedly pays for her own pedicure. Even though you are right there with her... and didn't forget your wallet.

5. He cooks you dinner. It doesn’t involve tortilla chips, top ramen, pizza rolls or a microwave.

4. She orders a drink that wasn't made in a blender with ice cream and maraschino cherries. Then she asks the bartender for one of those cute little umbrellas and plays with it for the rest of the night.

3. You stay the night at his house. The sheets don‘t smell like ass.

2. She actually asks what you'd like to do. You end up doing what she wanted to do anyway just out of habit. And shock.

1. He takes you out to dinner and offers to pay... knowing you won't let him. Hey, baby steps, at least he offered. Next time, let him. It’ll make him feel like a man.

How did YOU know when your kid was grown up? Leave a comment!

David & Veronica, GypsyNester.com

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Which Witch is Which? A True Salem Story

noreply@blogger.com (David & Veronica) — Sat, 10 Oct 2009 18:30:00 +0000

Salem, Massachusetts and witches are nearly synonymous but, in reality, it is highly doubtful there was any broom-flying, cauldron stirring, pointy hat wearing witchcraft actually going on back in 1692.

It seems a few young girls began to act strangely in what was one of America's busiest port cities and a hotbed of religious fundamentalism. Whether they were sick, drugged by fungus tainted grain or just looking for attention -- we'll never know. The convulsions they suffered could only be caused by witchcraft according to the Puritan minds of the late seventeenth century. Time to round up some of the usual suspects.

On March 1st, a beggar woman, a slave girl and a lady who dared not to regularly attend church services were hauled in and charged as witches. These three accused others and before long no one was beyond suspicion. Within a few months, sixty-two people had been arrested. By summer, the God-fearing folks of Salem were happily hanging folks on no more evidence than a few accusations, coerced confessions and the good old “touch test.” By the time September rolled around twenty people had been put to death. Many more died while in prison awaiting their "trials."

When eighty-year-old Giles Corey was arrested, he refused to enter a plea as a protest against the court's methods. Rather than hang Mr. Corey for daring to point out that the sanctimonious kangaroo court had run amuck, the pious Puritans decided to go with torture. Rocks were stacked on the octogenarian until he couldn't breath. Giles, being a true bad ass, survived for two days. He never entered a plea.

Perhaps old Giles Corey didn't die in vain. By October a few voices of opposition had begun to question the proceedings. By month's end, the Governor had prohibited further arrests and dissolved the court.

On closer inspection, the real reasons for the hysteria and brutality in Salem stemmed from a religious squabble between rival factions in the church and political pettifoggery between neighboring villages. Unhappy with the economic success of the harbor town, one rich family, the Putnams, decided to make a play for power. They separated from Salem Town by established a new church with a new minister in their home of Salem Village.

Since religious and political power were completely intertwined, this caused some rather sticky problems with tax collection and payment for the minister, Samuel Parris. Putnam and Parris needed to do away with some rivals and distract the populace. What better way than to hang some witches? There is no better example for the need of the separation of church and state than the events that took place in Salem back in the late 1600's.

We fully admit we were drawn to Salem by its sordid past. However, we were horrified to see that tourist trap economics trumps ugly historical facts in Salem. The wholesale killing of dozens of innocent men, women and children has been translated into throwing up goofy Frankenstein and Dracula “museums,” wizard schools, ghost tours, bizarre street theater and a cheesy statue of Samantha from Bewitched. No kidding.

There are wonderful historical sites in this beautiful seaside town, including the famous House of Seven Gables that Nathaniel Hawthorne wrote of (go there -- the hidden passage alone is worth the price of admission!) and the old cemetery where several Mayflower passengers and many of the participants in the trails are laid to rest. Nearby, there is a memorial to the victims of the trials.

The Salem Witch Museum, housed in a church built and used in 1700s, is one of the few “museums” in town that actually embraces historical fact with a minimal amount of sensationalism. Sadly, the bulk of the attractions run toward the Halloween-style stereotypes.

Altogether overshadowed by its infamous witch-related history is the fact that Salem was once one of North America's main seaports. The colony's early trade developed into huge business, mostly with the Far East. Thankfully, the old harbor is being preserved by the National Parks Service as the Salem Maritime National Historic Site. Many of the buildings are being refurbished and informative signs provide a guide while strolling along the gorgeous bay.

Directly across from the harbor we noticed a liquor store with a name that was a nod to Salem's old seafaring days -- The Bung Hole. Our only previous experience with the term “bung hole” had been as a slang term for the termination of the alimentary system, you know, the pooper, A-hole, bum, gluteus maximus, OK, OK.... butt. But, it turns out the term actually refers to the hole in the booze barrels that the ships used to haul, which is plugged with a stopper called a “bung,” hence, the bung hole. This fine establishment seemed intent on educating the startled tourists with clever pictorial explanations, showing pictures of barrels and ships. But their gig was up when we discovered the T-shirts with “I Got It in the Bung Hole” emblazoned across the chest!

Though there is no evidence that real witches were conjuring up spells way back when, the modern variety have fully embraced Salem and are Wicca-ing away throughout the town. Dare we say it has become the Wicca Mecca? Sorry about that.

For us, the Wicca explosion in Salem falls into the same category as the cheesy tourist exploitation -- ignoring the actual history while distracting from the real lesson to be learned from the Puritan mindset of the 1690's...

...don't ever let it happen again.

David & Veronica, GypsyNester.com (Post a Comment)

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Fear Conquering & Self Defense

noreply@blogger.com (David & Veronica) — Tue, 06 Oct 2009 18:16:00 +0000

I must confess I have anxiety concerning this GypsyNesting stuff. I have strong ideas about the way I want to live my life, but by nature I'm not exactly the bravest person around. I'm a bit of a worrier. Okay, a lot of a worrier. It doesn't help that half of our family and friends think that this whole GypsyNesting thing is quite mad.

In order to alleviate my fears, I decided to take a self defense course to fight the urge to cop out and just “grow old gracefully.” I wanted to be able to protect myself in that dark alley that was setting up roadblocks in my mind. I saw huge growth potential there.

My friend Kate was on board with me, which was great, because when Kate gets on board about something she gets balls-out on board. A close call in a dimly lit parking lot last summer gave her more incentive. Her husband, a karate guy, knew of a class at his gym, so she signed us up.

Our class instructor was Alda--beautiful, slight, middle-aged. My first reaction was “gimme a break with this women―even I could kick her butt.” We started off with some breathing exercises and Alda told us that the first line of defense for any women is to run away. This made perfect sense to me―by nature I'm not a hitter, I'm a runner. We worked on body awareness, muscle memory and strengthening exercises. We talked about trusting our instincts and keeping our cool. This was good, this was very “me.” I found myself comfortable with it.

But this Alda chick was a wily one―as the classes progressed I learned some surprising (and slightly disturbing) things about myself. After throwing Kate to the mat in a rape-simulating maneuver, I found myself looking down at her in stunned confusion. Prior to this exercise, Alda had told us to use the momentum of the maneuver to spring to our feet and then run like crazy.

This was not what my adrenaline-charged brain and body want to do at all. All I wanted to do was rush at my fictitious rapist and kick him in the face. How DARE he treat me like a victim! Luckily for Kate, I absolutely adore her and I ultimately decided that kicking her in the face was not the nicest thing to do. I have manners, after all.

Being the card-carrying, militant pacifist (wimp) that I am, it was a total shock that I can have such a violent reaction to a circumstance that would normally turn me into a puddle of melted Jello. This was not the growth I expected. Honestly, I didn't know I had it in me. It rocks, actually.

More importantly, in terms of growth, I am more confident about trying new things, being in new environments and stepping outside of my comfort zone. These are the gifts I most prize from the experience. And I don't need to be afraid to kick a little butt if I need to.

But Kate may want to reconsider having me as a sparring partner.

Veronica, GypsyNester.com(Post a Comment)

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THIS is Plymouth Rock?

noreply@blogger.com (David & Veronica) — Sat, 03 Oct 2009 18:05:00 +0000

True story: On our pilgrimage to Plymouth, Massachusetts we hit the visitor center to ask directions to Plymouth Rock. “Hope you guys brought a magnifying glass,” snarked the lady with the welcoming smile behind the desk as she pointed down the road. Ah sarcasm, we had to like her.

Without fully grasping the gist of the lady’s statement we headed across the road, past the replica of the Mayflower, toward the attractive ancient-Greek-esque monument that houses the famous rock where the first Americans landed.

Giddy with the exhilaration that can only come from setting one's eyes on a truly epic piece of history, we leaned over the rail and peered down into the hole where Plymouth Rock is displayed.

Holy crap! The thing is TINY! Only one pilgrim with REALLY GOOD BALANCE could "land" on this pebble! Call us gullible, but we always figured that

Plymouth Rock was towering cliffs, or at the very least, hefty enough that the Mayflower could tie off to it. We were flabbergasted, felt duped.

Thankfully people had thrown pennies at it, for luck we suppose, giving us some perspective for a photo.

Turns out that almost everything we were taught in grade school about the pilgrims and the first Thanksgiving -- while we were drawing turkeys from the outlines of our hands -- was a complete fairy tale.

The “friendly Indians” were actually just so emaciated and weak from the small pox they had contracted from previous European visitors that they had no strength to fight off the Pilgrims who were busy raiding their food supplies, digging up their graves and squatting on their fishing grounds.

Wait a minute, previous visitors?

Yup, the Pilgrims were no where near the first settlers in New England. White folks had been tromping around stealing food and spreading disease for decades -- centuries if you count the Vikings.

At Plymouth, a few leaders of the depleted remnants of the local tribe decided to employ the old “if we can't beat them, join them” strategy in the hopes of surviving. Not quite the “hey, welcome to America, here let us show you how to grow corn and eat turkey” that we were taught as youngsters while sporting our construction paper feathers and headbands.

Actually, this was the Pilgrims' second encounter with the natives. The first time around wasn't even remotely friendly. The Mayflower first landed on the tip of Cape Cod where the indigenous inhabitants had not been wiped out by the lovely little viral gifts of previous colonists. These Indians were not real big on having their buried food stores dug up and stolen so they were decidedly unfriendly.

Just a dad-blame second there hoss, first landed? Everyone knows the Pilgrims first set foot on North America at Plymouth! We've seen the pictures. There they are, stepping out of the boat right onto Plymouth Rock.

Wrong again, fact is there wasn't even such a thing as Plymouth Rock until over a century after the Mayflower's landing. It wasn't until 1741, 121 years after the Mayflower landed, that 94-year-old Thomas Faunce claimed he knew the exact rock that the Pilgrims first trod upon. A few years later, in 1774 the townsfolk decided that the rock should be moved to the town meeting hall.

For no apparent reason, the good people of Plymouth decided that only half of the rock needed to be relocated, so they split it in two. For the next century, the rock was moved hither and yon as chunks were hacked off of it for shows and souvenirs.

Finally, in 1880, with only about 1/3 of Plymouth Rock remaining, the famous stone was returned to its original spot on the waterfront in Plymouth. It was at that time that the number 1620 was carved into it.

Not surprisingly, Native Americans don't tend to hold Plymouth Rock in high regard. Twice, in 1970 and 1995, activists have buried it on the National Day of Mourning or what is more commonly known as Thanksgiving to us nonnative folks. Seems that the folks who wrote our grade school history books and the original inhabitants of this country don't quite see things eye-to-eye.

Across from the Plymouth Pebble Monument, near a statue of Massasoit (one of the “friendly, helpful” Native Americans), is a plaque commemorating the National Day of Mourning. Given by the town of Plymouth on behalf of the United American Indians of New England, it states, "Thanksgiving Day is a reminder of the genocide of millions of their people, the theft of their lands, and the relentless assault on their culture." It’s not fancy, but it is a nice gesture.

Scattered around the charming little seaside town of Plymouth are various statues and fountains, pretty parks, seafood based eateries and crap shops (GypsyNester slang for fine souvenir emporiums) selling the ever zany pilgrim-pirate-patriot humor t-shirts, lobster bibs, mugs and ships-in-a-bottle.

Once finished with our tour of revisionist history, we relaxed at an outdoor café -- sharing a lobster roll -- as the ocean cast friendly breezes to tussle our hair. The fake Mayflower shared a bay dotted with sailboats and pleasure cruisers. We stretched our legs and tilted our faces to the sun.

It’s no wonder the Pilgrims and Indians loved this place so much.

David & Veronica, GypsyNester.com(Post a Comment)

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Who's Kidding Who?

noreply@blogger.com (David & Veronica) — Tue, 29 Sep 2009 16:26:00 +0000

The last task of raising a child is letting them go. Allowing them to flap their cute little wings and fly... giving them a gentle nudge out of the nest to get them airborne. Ah yes, little birdies, spread your wings and fly. OK, sometimes it's more like a hard shove off a cliff... but the harder transition from the parent-child relationship to an adult-to-adult one must be made.

This process doesn't happen overnight. The ritual sounds easy in theory, but it can be a bit sticky in practice. It's difficult not to be mommy or daddy and even harder for the chicks not to revert back to being children.

Conversation is one of the biggest stumbling blocks during this process. Neither side has had practice speaking to one another as adults. It's too easy to return to the talking AT each other that dominated the teen years, not so long ago, instead of talking TO each other. The filter that prevents us from saying things we might regret to our peers leaks like a sieve when family is involved. Then suddenly it's right back to the old teenage screaming matches.

Physical distance can be helpful in this case. Not living in the same house removes several parts of the parent – child dynamic. The old “while you're living in my house, you'll live by my rules” answered by the “I'm an adult, you can't tell me what to do” argument is certainly not the recipe for an adult-to-adult relationship. Sure we miss our kids, but by not seeing them very often, our relationship has actually grown closer. It's more of a special occasion when we do get to see them.

It also means we talk on the phone a lot. As a father, I've found phone calls with our girls, 22 and 24, much easier than with The Boy. 22 and 24 are more open and nonchalant about what's going on in their lives and we chat easily on almost any subject. The Boy and I can talk like crazy about politics, religion and sports, the topics most people avoid when trying to prevent arguments, but not so much about personal stuff. He can still get somewhat defensive about things--like I'm trying to grill him. Some of it is no doubt my fault, still sounding too much like the old “did you do your homework yet?” dad. Some may be that we haven't had enough time apart yet.

A sure way to knock the legs out from under a fledgling adult-to-adult relationship is sticking one's nose in where it doesn't belong – especially when it comes to belief systems. We instilled our moral code while raising them, our offspring know what we believe - continually knocking them over their heads with it while they are trying to figure out life does no one any good. There's an old saying that goes “Don't try to teach a pig to sing. It just frustrates you and it annoys the pig.” It's important not to annoy the pig. It's a sure way to shut them off.

I want them to come to us for counsel, and they do. Relationships, bad bosses, fixing flat tires, culinary catastrophes – Veronica and I are the resident, non-judgmental experts. We listen, listen, listen and are mindful when we give out advice. We relish that role. Our life experience sure comes in handy, we have helpful hints and we're careful to let our kids know that – as much as we'd like to -- we can't fix their problems.

There is a delicate balancing act between hovering over every aspect of their lives and being there for them. Conversely, their asking for help or advice is quite different from them expecting us to support them financially. We made it very plain to our kids BEFORE they left the nest, that we would not be their source of income once they finished school. My father did the same for me and I'm sure glad he did.

Knowing this ahead of time gave our spawn time to plan, prepare and make arrangements... in other words, become adults. I think we were successful in conveying to them that they had to make it on their own while understanding that we will always be there for them if things ever get really bad – or when they just need to get something off their chest.

Up to this point, I can say that I am extremely pleased with the way the transition from our parent – child relationship has gone. Not only do we have three great children that are happy and successful, we have three new adult friends that we love like family.

David, GypsyNester.com (Post a Comment)

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The "Cottages" of Newport

noreply@blogger.com (David & Veronica) — Thu, 24 Sep 2009 19:11:00 +0000

It was called the Gilded Age, a time when robber barons and their useless offspring built excessive tributes to their self-proclaimed awesomeness. Newport, Rhode Island is the epitome of this unbelievable excess, aptly dubbed Conspicuous Consumption.

Newport is chock full of gaudy mansions erected by the “more money than class” club. In an embarrassing effort to one-up each other with their “summer cottages” these iconic American families of railroad, mining and steel fortunes, threw ridiculously lavish parties for their pets, sat atop carriages every afternoon to show off their new outfits, had notorious affairs, harassed their overworked staffs and backstabbed one another to get into the society pages. Oh, to be rich and bored out of one‘s mind.

Many of these cottages have become white elephants as family fortunes dwindled or heirs finally came to their senses and are now kept up by historical societies, available for touring by the public -- and to be mocked by The GypsyNesters!

In order to tell the story properly, we must start with Caroline Schermerhorn Astor. Caroline insisted on being called “The Mrs. Astor,” which in itself tells you a lot about the woman. Together with her social director, the notorious Ward McAllister, The Mrs. Astor put together “The Four Hundred,” a list of people considered worthy of their company. "If you go outside that number, you strike people who are either not at ease in a ballroom or else make other people not at ease," proclaimed Ward McAllister. Although rarely disputed by society columns and social climbers, this list was full of the nouveau riche, which goes a long way in explaining the goings-on of the eight-week-long Newport summer season in which these cottages were employed.

Caroline married William Backhouse Astor whose grandfather, John Jacob Astor, made a killing in fur and real estate and in his time was the wealthiest man in America. William, neither a captain of industry nor much into socializing, was nevertheless a big spender and bought “Beechwood” in 1881. Two million 1881 gold-backed dollars were spent on fixing the place up and New York’s Four Hundred showed up year after year to attend The Mrs. Astor’s Summer Ball.

Perhaps the most infamous newcomer to The Four Hundred was Alva Vanderbilt. In 1875, Alva, married William Kissam Vanderbilt, grandson of Commodore Cornelius Vanderbilt, whose fortune was built on railroads and steamships. The Commodore amassed wealth, his descendants spent it like there was no tomorrow.

Despite the Vanderbilt’s fantastic show of wealth in New York City, Alva could not properly break into The Four Hundred. The traditional acknowledgment of this honor was to be formally “called on” by The Mrs. Astor. Apparently the old Commodore had burned a few too many social bridges in his day, but Alva was not to be denied.

In 1883, Alva devised a plan to bust her way in. She put together a masquerade ball to show off her newly finished Fifth Avenue home in New York City. This little wingding had a guest list of 750 and all the young ladies of quality were feverishly practicing their parts in the much anticipated Quadrilles. Just prior to the ball, Alva banned The Mrs. Astor’s daughter Caroline from the festivities, citing Mrs. Astor’s lack of formal calling. Sure enough, The Mrs. Astor came a-callin’ and Caroline attended the ball. The Vanderbilts were in.

Alva and William arrived in Newport in 1892 upon finishing their eleven million dollar “Marble House.” A gift from William to Alva for her 39th birthday, the new cottage just happened to be right next door to The Mrs. Astor’s much humbler Beechwood. Oh SNAP!

A celebrated social climber, Alva was determined to marry off her oldest daughter Consuelo to a European aristocrat. Lacking the proper pedigree, drastic measures were necessary to make Consuelo into a suitable mate. Among other things, Alva forced the girl to don a contraption made of steel to force her to sit up straight. Luckily, Consuelo turned out to be a renowned beauty (likely helped out by a two and a half million dollar dowry). Alva shopped her daughter around the European gentry, finally landing the 9th Duke of Marlborough in 1895. To convince Consuelo to marry against her will, Alva faked a mysterious fatal illness. The marriage was later annulled with Alva saying, "I forced my daughter to marry the Duke. I have always had absolute power over my daughter." Nice, Mom.

In 1895 Alva blew everyone’s minds by divorcing William Vanderbilt, something that was just not done. She was granted a huge settlement and retained Marble House. Alva then married Oliver Hazard Perry Belmont, son of August Belmont and his banking fortune. She moved in to Oliver's enormous cottage known as Belcourt Castle, just down the road. Her wedding gift? The deed to Belcourt Castle.

The new Mrs. O. H. P. Belmont's castle/cottage was soon trumped by her former kin, brother-in-law Cornelius Vanderbilt II, when he built “The Breakers” in 1895. You just can’t win in Newport. The Breakers is so out of control, as our tour guide informed us, that Vanderbilt descendent Anderson Cooper of CNN fame won’t even visit because he is "too embarrassed by his ancestor’s self indulgence."

Much of this insane self indulgence was planned by the social directors. Perhaps THE job to have in Newport, one social director of particular note was Harry Lehr. Harry took over The Mrs. Astor’s schedule after Ward McAllister wrote a tell-all book, fell from grace and died alone. But it wasn’t until Harry Lehr was hired on by Mamie Fish that his true colors could shine. He had discovered his true partner in crime.

Mamie Fish, wife of Stuyvesant Fish, president of the Illinois Central Railroad, was not your typical Newport hostess. Mamie and Lehr hosted some pretty outlandish parties at the Fish‘s cottage “Crossways“ -- a dinner where everyone had to speak “baby talk“ and bring dolls, a three course dinner party for one hundred dogs, some dripping with diamonds, and an extravagant ball for the Prince del Drago, who when announced, turned out to be a monkey. The simian prince was seated in The Mrs. Astor’s usual seat of honor, causing quite a stir.

As The Mrs. Astor’s influence fell out of fashion, “The Triumvirate” emerged. Alva Vanderbilt and Mamie Fish had climbed to the top of the social ladder, and with Theresa Fair Oelrichs of “Rosecliff” The Triumvirate was completed. The trio became Society’s reigning dowagers.

Theresa, aka “Tessie” was the daughter of James Fair, a silver magnate. She and husband, Hermann Oelrichs built Rosecliff, a cottage with twenty-two master bedrooms in 1902. Tessie could throw a mean themed shindig including a fairy tale dinner and a circus. Her magnum opus was the thirty thousand dollar Bal Blanc, put together by Ward McAllister before his demise. All attendees wore white from head to toe, including the powder in their hair. Rosecliff was strewn with white flowers, the fountain full of white swans. But the pièce de résistance was the twelve white ships Tessie bought as decoration to float in the ocean.

Life was hard for these ladies as Alva Vanderbilt famously said, “I know of no profession, art or trade that women are working in today as taxing on mental resource as being a leader of society.” Well, honey, you should have thought of that before you decided to take on The Mrs. Astor. Dear, brave Alva.

Needing to get away from the “mentally taxing” work of looking at huge houses, we decided to head down to the marina to relax and take in the scene on the water. We found the Aquidneck Lobster Company where we picked out a lobster from their multiple tanks, had it steamed and ate it out of a paper bag on the beautiful back deck while watching the sailboats go by.

To burn off our seafood, we took a long walk/hike along Newport’s famous Cliff Walk. This beautiful trail alongside the majestic cliffs of the Atlantic gives a view of the sea-facing sides of . the most ostentatious cottages. Yes, it meant more opulent mansion, excuse me, cottage viewing but no trip to Newport is not complete without it, it is truly spectacular.

Alva Vanderbilt's famous Chinese Tea House is along the cliffs. Tucked away behind the Marble House, she used it to hold meetings for the Women's Suffrage movement. Apparently, later in life she wanted a vote that really counted.

After working up a new appetite on the Cliff Walk, we figured a full 180 from Newport's lavish luxury was the right choice for dinner. We hit Flo’s Clam Shack on First Beach for mounds of clam strips, decadent chowder and a fiery hot quahog. As far as we knew, Quahog is the town where the famous "Family Guy" lives, but always up for a culinary adventure, we ordered one anyway. Luckily, it turned out that a quahog is a type of clam, served stuffed with spicy clam stuffing and held together with a red rubber band. Excellent when washed down with an ice cold beer. Flo’s was well worth the trip, if only to hear “Veronicer! Yuh chowda is up!”

Got to love Rhode Island.

David & Veronica, GypsyNester.com (Post a Comment)

Can't get enough Newport Society madness? Check this stuff out:

The Age of Innocence
Edith Wharton

Pulitzer Prize winning novel that brought the Gilded Age to life.

The Age of Innocence

Movie starring Daniel Day-Lewis, Michelle Pfeiffer, Winona Ryder

The Gods of Newport
Jon Jakes

Wicked and fun piece of historical fiction based on the shenanigans of Newport.

Society As I Have Found It
Ward McAllister

The book that brought down social director Ward McAllister

King Lehr and the Gilded Age: With Extracts from the Locked Diary of Harry Lehr
Elizabeth Drexel Lehr

The ex-wife of social director Harry Lehr tells all. Unbelieveable stuff!

Wicked Newport: Sordid Stories from the City by the Sea
Larry Stanford

The title says it all!

Consuelo and Alva Vanderbilt: The Story of a Daughter and a Mother in the Gilded Age
Amanda Mackenzie Stuart

A Season of Splendor: The Court of Mrs. Astor in Gilded Age New York
Greg King

A Season of Splendor takes you on a spectacular journey through the Gilded Age, when old-money bluebloods and patricians confronted the nouveau riche...

The House of Mirth
Edith Wharton

For Wharton's charming Lily Bart, it was something else altogether: a gilded cage rather than the Gilded Age.

The House of Mirth

Movie starring Laura Linney, Dan Akroyd, Eric Stoltz

The Great Gatsby

Movie starring Robert Redford, Mia Farrow, Bruce Dern

Filmed at Rosecliff

Big Game Hunting

noreply@blogger.com (David & Veronica) — Sat, 19 Sep 2009 22:50:00 +0000

Summer's coming to an end but instead of lamenting, let's look at the bright side. Fall is arguably the best season for doing a little GypsyNesting right in your own backyard. The cool crisp weather is perfect for hiking and biking along nearby trails and the colors are spectacular. State and County Fairs are going on all across the country and, as we learned in Hillsdale, can be a smashing good time.

For us sports fans, it's football season. If there is a pro team nearby, the speed, the size and the spectacle of the NFL are pretty awesome, but so are the prices. Personally, I prefer leaving a sporting event with both of my arms and legs. The local college squad can provide some topnotch talent for about half the price, unless the nearest institution of higher education is one of those football programs that has basically become professional. For sheer bang-for-your-buck it's hard to beat good old high school football.

There's always a high school nearby and it doesn't need to be your Alma Mater, in fact, I think it's better if it's not. No reliving the old glory days, I'm just an impartial observer.

We were lucky enough to hit a homecoming game against an arch rival on a recent visit and, I can tell you, it's tough to beat. The big game on the field. The students, in their glitter and face paint, rootin' for the home team. And, of course, all the goofy pageantry that makes homecoming such a special event.

As the teams battled mightily on the field, we discovered the Future Farmers of America concession stand. What bargains and the money goes to a good cause. Plus, who doesn't want a pickle for just a buck at the big game?

As the second quarter ended, the hometown favorites took a 14 - 10 lead into the locker room.

The half-time show began as the Homecoming King, Queen and their Court of runners-up were chauffeured around the field in open-topped Jeeps provided by the local car lot. The three car parade came to a halt in front of the home stands to accept the wild applause and adoration of the student body that elected them. Just seeing teenagers actually smiling was worth the three bucks we paid to get in.

The cheerleaders did a short dance to “Hey Baby” before three of them raced off to play in the marching band. As the band took the field we noticed that in addition to the cheerleaders, another kid was not wearing the beautiful polyester quasi-military band uniform. On closer inspection, he was wearing football pants and Under Armour. Yup, one of the players had shucked his helmet, jersey and pads, scrambled out of the locker room, donned a band hat and grabbed a trombone just in time to do some serious jamming on a Blood Sweat & Tears medley. Talk about double duty! Just a side note... aren't these the same songs that we played back in school band?

The epic battle continued with much back and forth and plenty of abuse heaped upon the refs. Unfortunately the home town boys gave up the lead and lost the big game on a late touchdown by their hated rivals. They'll have to wait until next year, but we don't.

See you next Friday night!

David, GypsyNester.com(Post a Comment)

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Facebook and Memory Lane

noreply@blogger.com (David & Veronica) — Fri, 11 Sep 2009 18:38:00 +0000

About a month ago, a thought popped into my head. What ever happened to Tamera? Where did that gangly, sweet and truly unique little girl with the pig tails and big glasses that I went to Junior High with end up? What did she become?

We were the original Valley Girls. We hung out with boys who skateboarded, went to the beach every weekend and said “Like” and “You know” like, way too much, you know? I wonder if Tamera finds it ironic, as I do, when she hears today’s college girls speaking like this, while most of us old school Valley Girls don’t anymore? Actually, I’ve managed to completely kill off the “likes,” but the “you knows” keep sneaking in no matter how hard I’ve tried to subdue them. I fear it will be my lifelong homage to my California roots. Maybe I should just like, embrace it, you know?

I performed a quick scan of my life since Junior High, and wondered if Tamera's life paralleled mine at all.

Was she one of the “supermoms” that many of us, for better or worse, became? Did she struggle to balance career and family? Or did she become a career-first woman, living the life of “Sex in the City” on Manhattan? Maybe, she is on the high seas chasing down illegal whalers with Greenpeace. The more I thought about it, the more I HAD to know.

Initially, my Facebook use was limited to keeping up with my daughters, 24 and 22, who were part of the site’s original college demographic. When David and I left St. Croix to become gypsies, Facebook allowed me to stay in touch with the island gang.

Soon, things blossomed a bit -- people from my recent past found me. Suddenly I was receiving friend requests from folks I had known during our years in Nashville, students from the school where I had worked -- all in college now and scattered about the country -- even our buddies in Europe. I am now “Facebook friends” with some of 24 & 22’s chums and even a few of THEIR mothers, none of whom I’ve ever met face-to-face! It’s a remarkable tool. (At this point, I must add a little jab at The Boy, my 19-year-old college student, who STILL hasn’t “friended” me. -- I must remember to harass him a bit... for my own enjoyment, of course.)

Now that I had become Facebook literate, it was a simple process to see if Tamera was a Facebookite. To my delight, she was! I sent her a friend request and while I waited with bated breath for her reply, my mind wandered down memory lane…

Little incidents popped into my head. Like the time Tamera and I stayed up until three in the morning doing a left-off-until-the-last-minute history project -- fashioning the Pyramids out of paper-mâché. The details are unclear, but the next morning, one of us groggily stumbled out of bed and smashed them flat! We turned in what had to be the ugliest project in the history of man.

Back then, Monday mornings were spent with the gang recapping and spoofing the hilarity of the last weekend’s Saturday Night Live, brand new to the airwaves. When the Eagles released "Hotel California," it changed our lives. “Are You There God, It’s Me Margaret” was THE book we discussed while anxiously awaiting the onset of our first periods. We got the lowdown on R-rated movies from the kids with the “cool moms.” I experienced my first kiss, my first slow dance, my first heartbreak. I learned to shave my legs and paint my nails.

As with most people, I suppose, Junior High was a defining moment for me, a mixed up bundle of hopes and hormones. I was learning who I was, and the kids around me were a big part of who I would become. I learned through their action and inaction. We were a small, tight knit group at a tiny private school. Ours was a family-style dynamic. We didn’t always like each other, but woe to the outsider who tried to put any of us down. Junior High gave me my first glimpse into how I would fit into society.

Tamera turned out to be a beautiful, passionate supermom of two -- who just dropped her oldest off for her freshman year of college. Our lives were eerily parallel in some ways, strikingly different in others. “Stalking” each other on Facebook was so much fun.

In the space of a month, things have snowballed. Tamera is Facebook friends with Jason, who I caught up with in an hour long Facebook chat. Jason sent Mike, Tina and Tyrone my way. And so on.

Facebook walls are being written on: “Remember Christine? What was Gary’s last name? Has anyone heard from Lisa?"

Dusty yearbooks are being cracked: “In seventh grade you said you wanted to be a doctor. Are you a doctor?”

A reunion is already in the works. It’s incredible.

As a group, we are still a little society, a microcosm of the world around us. We are academics, artists, doctors, lawyers, studio heads (I am from California, remember) and peace officers. Together we have raised a small town’s worth of children, are happily married and happily single, are Republicans and Democrats, have paunches and wrinkles and, most importantly, have a shared past. And, sharing we are!

A few tips on getting started down Facebook Memory Lane- A GypsyNester Guide:

Ladies, when signing up for Facebook, include your maiden name as your middle name. Explaining who you are all the time gets old -- quick. This also makes it easier for long lost pals when searching for you.

Searched for someone and received multiple results? Let’s not kid ourselves, at our age, NO ONE looks the same as they did in school. You are not going to be able to tell who they are by their profile picture. Unless they are using their 8th grade school photo. How great would THAT be? The best way to ID someone is by stalking their friends list. Chances are that you will see siblings or parents on there.

Once you have made contact, stalk everyone’s friend list. See who else is out there.

Send a little message along with your friend requests. If they don’t recognize you, they aren’t going to “friend you back.“ Sometimes people need their memories jarred.

Facebook "Groups" are another great way to find people. My elementary school has a group. 24's community dance troop has a group. I bet you can find Boy Scout Troops, dorm floors -- who knows? I'm a hacker at heart and I love digging around. Start by using the search box on the top of the page.

If you’ve kept them, keep your yearbooks handy. Mine are packed in a storage unit a thousand miles away due to our GypsyNester lifestyle. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve wished I could have something more than my memory to rely on during this process! A small price to pay for the freedom of the road I guess.

Now that you have a little group together, be active. Post to their walls, comment on their statuses. That’s when the REAL surprises happen. As diligent as I was combing through friend lists, I missed quite a few people. Why? The most common obstacle is not knowing married names but one guy has an alias he uses just for fun. Another guy uses a new last name because... he somehow got adopted after high school? Has a stalker problem? Maybe he's in the witness protection program. Oh, I know, he must have married a rich widow and decided to take HER name. By commenting, Facebook shows your message to others and voila! someone recognizes your name. New contact.

Automate things a bit:

Facebook has a "find classmates" feature. From your "Home", click "Friends" on the top menu bar. Once there, scroll down the page and click on "Find former high school classmates." There is also a feature for college (no Junior High, unfortunately!).

To automate further, go to your profile page and add your high school and/or college. On the top menu bar: "Profile", then "Edit My Profile" under your picture, then "Education and Work." This enables your old buddies to find you when they use Facebook's "Find Classmates" feature.

As an added plus, every time I connect with someone new, the old ticker gets a little jolt. That has to be good for at us at our age, like, you know?

Veronica, GypsyNester.com (Post a Comment)

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Getting High in Toronto

noreply@blogger.com (David & Veronica) — Tue, 08 Sep 2009 16:28:00 +0000

Can a city with over 5 million residents seem open and uncrowded? It can if it's Toronto. Canada's largest metropolitan area is without a doubt urban, yet the feel is neither hectic nor claustrophobic. Toronto's city planners were careful to include open and green spaces in the waterfront and surrounding business district, lending the city it's unique feel.

In keeping with this unconfined spirit, Toronto is remarkably bicycle friendly. The city has about three hundred miles of bike paths and by 2011 that amount will more than double. Lake Ontario's Waterfront Trail makes up a part of these. Running all the way from Niagara-on-the-Lake to the Quebec border, the trail passes directly through Toronto's downtown.

Toronto is very much an international city with a huge variety of cultures represented. About half of the residents were not born in Canada -- creating a culinary jackpot and we couldn't resist eating our way through. An appy crawl had to be done.

We began our savoring and cycling adventure by picking up The Waterfront Trail at The Beaches Park just east of downtown. For the first few miles, we pedaled along the water on a wildflower strewn trail before entering the bustle of the city's main waterfront. Ferries and tourist boats line the docks while incredible apartments that look like the decks of cruise ships mix with shops and restaurants overlooking the lake.

We chose a perfect spot for a brief rest, a spot of refreshment and a relaxing nibble. Wallymagoo's has cornered THE prime location in Toronto's waterfront. Even though the Great Lakes are fresh water, something certainly seemed right about having oysters and shrimp while sitting on the dock of the bay. We were careful not to fill up, as there was more appy crawling to be done.

There are several parks along the the waterfront, our favorite being The Music Garden conceived by celebrated cellist Yo Yo Ma and landscape designer Julie Moir Messervy. The landscaped interpretation of Bach's First Suite for Unaccompanied Cello is a journey through the music with dances from Spain, Germany, France and England represented in the gardens. In the evenings, The Summer Music in the Garden Series hosts performers from all over the world.

After riding through the park, it was time for the second leg of our appy crawl. Sticking with our seafood theme, we choose Oyshi Sushi, nestled in the heart of downtown. Sitting at the sushi bar, we marveled at the beauty of the chef's creations. No detail was missed. Our fare was just as delicious as it looked, some of the best sushi we've had. The salmon was melt-in-your-mouth and buttery, the roe in the roll exquisite...oh yeah, and a seafood soup with life changing properties. Toronto was turning into quite a town for us Foodies.

The Toronto skyline is completely dominated by the CN Tower, billed as Canada's Wonder of The World. All day it had been looming over us, taunting us, perhaps even challenging us. We had to scale it.

Built to serve as a radio and TV communication platform in 1975, at just over 1,815 feet to the top of its antenna, it was the world's tallest free standing structure. The Tower held this title for over 30 years. It has since been dethroned but this is of little consequence as you are zooming up in an elevator with a glass floor. Who thinks up these things?

Next stop, 113 stories up. The Tower is fully surrounded by windows offering a full panoramic aerial view of the Toronto and Lake Ontario. Stunning.

We leisurely finished our appy crawl at 360, the Tower's restaurant, home of the world's highest wine cellar (changing the definition of "cellar," perhaps?). We indulged in the Bruschetta Three Ways, the first olive, second artichoke tapenade with pesto, and last an eggplant, caper and rosemary oil. Delicious -- gives new meaning to getting high and getting the munchies.

Properly fortified, we felt strong enough to gaze down through another glass floor. Tween-aged boys were showing their bravado racing around, performing gymnastics and mugging for their nauseous parents' cameras while an infant crawled across the two inch thick glass without a care in the world.

We found it harder to be so cavalier stepping out on to a transparent floor a quarter mile up in the air. It goes directly contrary to all of the signals that the eyes are sending to the brain. It also makes the stomach feel somewhat unhappy. We made our way gingerly out on to the glass. It was worth the experience but even now, we get a little queasy just thinking about it. Still, we obviously hadn't had enough since we continued our journey up another 33 floors to the Sky Pod.

The Pod does not feature see-through floors (praise God!) but the windows face downward enough to bring on the vertigo. They also bring on a truly spectacular view. We were graced with a beautiful sunny day so we could see all of the way across Lake Ontario, over a hundred miles. While we were taking in the entire panorama, some water rolled off of the roof and ran past the windows. Luckily neither of us are acrophobic because I have to say, there was something really, really freaky about watching the drops fall 1,500 feet. We decided it was time to get our feet back on the ground.

On our way back into The United States the customs agent asked us why we had stopped in Toronto. Caught a little off guard and being a sarcastic bastard at heart, David replied “because it was there.” That earned us a quick shake down and search. Those zany customs folks just don't have any sense of humor, do they?

Maybe we should have told him the real best reason to stop in Toronto is because IT ROCKS!

David & Veronica, GypsyNester.com (Post a Comment)

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Creating the ULTIMATE College Care Package - A GN Guide

noreply@blogger.com (David & Veronica) — Tue, 01 Sep 2009 16:40:00 +0000

Our youngest, The Boy, is entering his second year in college. He's the third kid that I have gone through the “away at school” process with, so I'm starting to run low on the groovy care package ideas.

I think most of us with multiple children have encountered the trails and tribulations of keeping the momentum alive when it comes to the youngest. My daughters, 24 & 22, have reaped many benefits from being older, not that they would ever agree that there WERE any benefits.

They, of course, think that we have always dotted on, and favored “The Prince” as they call him. They assume that from his first breath he was all that we paid attention to. However, 24’s “baby book” is impeccable. Ultrasounds, baby shower cards, locks of hair, countless photographs, even hospital records from the time she shoved a whole serving of peas up her nose -- it’s all in there.

And when 22 came along, we had discovered the camcorder. The video footage of her exploits -- from her first steps to butt-scooting around with a broken leg in a cast are lovingly documented. Big productions that she directed and starred in were never missed. Costumed in feather boas, dozens of necklaces adorning wild dresses and giant shoes she performed grand scenes. All of this was captured on miles of video tape that has now been burned to DVDs.

I'm not even sure The Boy has a baby book. If he does, it’s probably more like a baby pamphlet. Nor can I think of a single photo or video of him as a youngster that doesn't include one or both of his sisters. Hardly the chronicles we would have kept for the favorite, I'd say.

With the prospect of The Boy's sophomore year's first care package upon me, I realized that I had once again lost my edge with The Boy. The excitement I had felt while creating fun care packages for 22 & 24 was gone. I really needed some help. I decided that I should hand it over to the experts. Our scholarly readers.

I figured they could help me create a care package so amazing that it would make up for the fact that The Boy’s baby book is a mere leaflet and that he never made it past “best supporting actor” in our family videos.

#1 Suggested Item -- Homemade Baked Goods

Jan, a reader from our Facebook Page suggested: "How about brownies and ch.chip cookies - NOT out of a box! Nobody gets homemade any more it seems."

Jane, also from Facebook added: "Homemade caramel fudge brownies..."

I am SO not a baker. And brownies? Don't get me started. My only attempts have turned out runny goo or a black brick-like substance. Jane had inadvertently suggested the impossible. But since we have the smartest and most clever readers, I dove right in.

Because we are purposefully homeless, I borrowed a kitchen (don't ask) and started with Jan's cookies. Easy, really anyone can do cookies. I didn't burn the bottom of a single one! The trick is to actually allow the oven to preheat.

For packing, I put four to a baggy, for busy college student grab-n-go ease.

Believe it or not, the brownies were perfect! Well, until the caramel topping part. That's not cheese in the picture. I really thought I had followed the directions to the letter, but as usual, things went terribly awry. The caramel wouldn't spread without decimating the brownies underneath and then it cooled into a rock-hard mess. Cutting them into squares -- well "squares" is a very flexible term when applied to my baking style-- took a Herculean effort that required sculpting tools and techniques. I sent them on anyway and hope to God The Boy doesn't yank a filling out. Still tasted good, though, and will give the jaw a nice workout.

@WendyWillis1 from Twitter said: "Anything local that they can't buy where they are now. My kid is from Hawaii, live in NYC, so Crack Seed Shop care pkg is (love.)"

I really related to Wendy (after googling what "crack seed" was -- it's safe!) as our kids all graduated high school when we lived on a small tropical island. The conch shell horn is family tradition, 24 drove her dorm-mates crazy with her incessant blowing. The Boy chose a college with a rich sports tradition, so the horn will come in handy at sporting events.

Laurie from Facebook:"Rolls of quarters for the laundromat were always a hit!"

Mary Anne, who tweets, blogs and facebooks exclaimed, "Money!"

LOVE the rolls of quarters. Especially since we expect our kids to work for daily basics while in college, it's a good way to give them a little money without ACTUALLY giving them money. Jeez, college is ridiculously expensive and we feel strongly that to appreciate it, they must pitch in. Though, like Mary Anne, we sneak them checks for their birthdays and such. (Shhh...don't tell anyone!).

Another no money cheat is gift cards for groceries, restaurants, clothes, etc. The Boy doesn't get a gift card until he cleans his room. I'm guessing he "loses" things in there on a regular basis. I also have to wonder how much money is wasted by people not redeeming gift cards. Come to think of it, The Boy is better off, I'd probably be constantly nagging him about using it. Yeah, he's definitely better off.

@SpringStCandle from Twitter: "Lots of storage solutions if there is a dorm involved!"

Absolutely wonderful idea. Dorms are tight spaces and anything you can find to create space would be most welcome.

The Boy received a laundry basket for this suggestion, as he is now post-dorm.

Now for a little "mental health break" -- no one is better for cracking an inappropriate wickedly hysterical joke than The Boy's "Uncle" Rich: "How about a stack of nudey magazines and a 5 pack of Red Stripe."

While The Boy may well enjoy those things, I found a magazine that I hope he will find equally stimulating: Entrepreneur. The lead story "Young Millionaires, How They Did It."

Family friend, Devin, was equally as scary: "Technology. Some cool gadget he doesn't have yet... but for entertainment, not education. (ipod, psp,video watch...) Or, the funny option: Magnums."

Holy crap! Devin's kids get video watches? I think I'm sticking to the GypsyNester gang on this one!

We got The Boy a movie (movies are technology, right?), he's a pilot, so Airplane! is a cult classic among his friends. Again, I'm ignoring the condom suggestion, I'm his Mom for God's sake. He'd kill me for blogging about his condom situation.

Another note on movies. We sent both 22 & 24 "best of" video DVDs in their first care package. They included funny clips of them, family antics, theatrical productions, band & choir recitals, etc. They LOVED it! Of course we have no footage of The Boy, so he didn't get one.

Thank you notes. Make sure you include stamps. Get the most masculine ones you can find if your spawn is a male.

Doesn't mean that they will actually be sent, but it ups the odds. I'm happier to get a thank you phone call myself, seems much more personal (and fun!) but am satisfied with an e-mail. For some reason the older crowd consider these means of communication rude. My mother-in-law included. So my kids send real live old fashioned thank you notes (sometimes).

Easy Mac is Top Ramen for rich kids. This just-add-water comfort food is great for care packages, and time and time again students put it way up on their favorites list. Also works as a nice packing buffer for breakable things!

Other nice packing materials -- local newspaper sections (homesick babies read these), small bags of chips (the ones with lots of air in them) and sanitary products (sounds strange, but these are EXPENSIVE and are appreciated).

Other GREAT ideas from our brilliant readers:

Favorite snack foods: (Jalapeno Chex Mix and pretzels for The Boy, entire boxes of cereal for 24, nuts and candy for 22)

Toiletries: Shampoo, creams and potions, deodorant, contact lens solution, special soap, acne lotion, perfume -- that kind of stuff. The Boy got toilet paper this time. He and his roommates can't seem to keep it in stock. We sent it as a joke, but I'm sure it will be put to use.

Things for their computer: Print cartridges, computer paper, etc.

Pics from Home: Stick 'em in a frame if you are feeling fancy. Or not. They'll love 'em either way.

Make sure you send enough food to share: College kids are ravenous wolves. No better way to make a new friend then to share a cookie or two.

Veronica, GypsyNester.com (Post a Comment)

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The Chronicles of Petrolia

noreply@blogger.com (David & Veronica) — Thu, 27 Aug 2009 17:17:00 +0000

Who knew that there was a little taste of Texas way up in Ontario? Yup, oil that is, black gold, Texas tea, a Canadian story ripped right from the antics of the Beverly Hillbillies. Like Jed Clampett, the locals thought the greasy goo oozing out of the ground was just a nuisance – until some city slickers came along and wanted to pay for it, that is.

The whole story is told at The Oil Museum of Canada in Oil Springs, just South of Oil City and Petrolia, on the corner of Oil Heritage Road and Gum Bed Line. By way things are named around here, we started to get the idea that oil's big in these parts.

So big in fact, that it's been immortalized in the stained-glass windows at the Christ Anglican Church in Petrolia. Yup, those panes next to Jesus, usually reserved for the saints and such, are all filled with scenes from the nearby oil fields. Under his feet reads "And The Rock Poured Me Out Rivers Of Oil." We had no idea that Jesus was so into fossil fuels. 150 years ago, the few folks scratching out a living on this strip of land between Lake Huron and Lake Erie didn't think much of the nasty, black tar they called gum. All it was good for was ruining their land and water. But then, in 1858, someone hatched a plan to use the gunk for asphalt to pave roads. The men started digging up the gum, standing in the awful muck, scooping it up in buckets and sending it off to the Big City where folks had use for it.

This digging of gum revealed an unexpected surprise, underneath the tar there was oil! Back then oil was used for lamps, lubrication, paraffin, medicines and other necessities but not so much as a fuel. The gasoline that was left over in the refining process was burned off as waste since there were not yet any internal combustion engines to use it. All of that "waste" would come in quite handy about now, wouldn't it?

An Oil Rush commenced and this southernmost section of Canada was absolutely crawling with prospectors. In fact, the first commercial oil well in North America was in this area.

Here's where the Mother of Invention stepped in, an ingenious device called a jerker system was invented to pump oil from numerous wells at the same time using just one steam engine. Remarkable in its complex simplicity, a maze of cables, connectors and wooden rods harnesses the power from the large engine and sends it to pumps all over the field – some of them thousands of yards away. In fact, a working example is still in use, pumping away on the Oil Museum grounds.

The Oil Museum sits right on the site of the first well and the smell of oil literally hangs in the air. Inside the main building there are two floors of exhibits. The first housing displays of interesting oil business and technology memorabilia. Antique oil cans, service station signs, advertisements are mixed in with diagrams and discriptions of the geology and machinery that make up the history of the oil business.

One display seemed a bit too excited about what it called “the world's first oil spill!” The flow from this gusher decimated the area with 100,000 barrels of crude fouling the fields and water all the way to Lake St. Clair. Now that's something to celebrate! Not.

The main floor also includes a theater showing a short and somewhat hokey film that gives a fact filled look at the story of North America's first oil patch through the eyes of a letter writin' Oil Rusher's wife.

The basement is another story (no pun intended). A strange conglomeration of artifacts with nothing whatsoever to do with oil, or even Canada for that matter, are laid out for perusal. Bugs and guns, a collection of eggs, scarves and clocks, knives and spears from around the world are all displayed in glass cases and along the walls. But, wait, there's more -- what arrangement is complete without an opium pipe, a conch shell or an elephant tooth? The curators vaguely tied the items into the museum by pointing out that there is oil in the places where they came from and that oil men kept them as souvenirs.

For us, the most entertaining part of the museum was the Oil Springs Heritage District Driving Tour. We drove the two mile loop on the nearby roads and found goofy life-sized dioramas of odd metal sculpted men and beasts of burden in old-timey oil production scenes. Each spot has its own radio frequency, so we tuned into narrations from Angus “but you can call me Slick” (get it--like "Oil Slick") in his Texas drawl over a background of delta blues music. Of course, this IS the deep South, of Canada, so that makes it all fit right in, eh?

Y'all come back now, y'here?

David & Veronica, GypsyNester.com (Post a Comment)

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More Grandchildish Behavior

noreply@blogger.com (David & Veronica) — Thu, 20 Aug 2009 20:31:00 +0000

I am drool resistant, attract dirt, love to wallow, don't mind eating things off of the ground and sometimes need changing. I fit right in with kids. I am a sucker for the little buggers, most likely because a good part of me still is one. I can get down to and play at their level with no effort whatsoever. So... I guess I want grandkids more than Veronica does.

As she pointed in “Grandchildish Behavior,” she doesn't want to push things and neither do I. I am a firm believer in letting our adult children live their own lives. But while I agree with her points in the essay, I can't help thinking about how fun it would be to have some new little rug rats running 'round.

I think of the possibilities. Sofa cushion forts to be constructed, trash can lid dog sled races to be run, old lawnmower / tricycle / roller-skate / beanbag chair vehicles to be made and crazy mud-filled attempts at tunneling under the neighbor's house to be dug. All accomplished with nothing more than a sack lunch and a big idea.

A huge advantage to grandchildren, the icing on the face (oops, cake)... they have to go home at some point and Veronica and I get to go on with our GypsyNesting lives. All the fun without all that pesky responsibility. Even better, since we've sold the nest, when the sippy cup does a slo-mo two and a half gainer with a lid releasing twist across the room, I would just be a spectator. I'd give it an 8.5 with wild applause.

That peanut butter and jelly face print on the hall closet door? Nice likeness.

The terrarium complete with amphibian wildlife in the bathtub? Cool.

That chemistry / cooking experiment involving chocolate pudding, Cheerios, a two liter bottle of diet Pepsi, a bag of frozen peas and the blender? Nourishing and builds character.

As long as I don't actually join in on the mess making, something I've been known to do, it's not my problem. I might offer to help clean up... but I don't have to.

There is also an educational factor for our kids. No child ever really knows what their parents went through until they have children of their own. No, I'm not wishing the old “I hope you have a kid just like you someday” revenge on them... actually, I hope they are that lucky. I'm just saying that it is, without a doubt, the world's biggest learning experience.

So I definitely look forward to the day when I can roll all over the living room floor with my kids' kids... at their house. I will boldly face the possibility of projectile vomit all over my shirt (I certainly was a target for it in my daddy days), gum-based food products in my shoes, melted mystery candy-like substances in my pockets and the inevitable stains everywhere else. It's nothing a little Tide and a Kenmore can't handle.

I only hope my chiropractor can handle my achin' back when the time comes.

David, GypsyNester.com (Post a Comment)

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Woodstock Turns the Big 4-0

noreply@blogger.com (David & Veronica) — Sat, 15 Aug 2009 19:50:00 +0000

Woodstock. The name instantly brings to mind a whole era to any of us who were old enough to listen to music when the concert happened. I didn't go to Woodstock, I saw the movie -- at a drive-in, no less – with my brother pretending to be my uncle / guardian because it was rated R for showing muddy hippy-chick boobs... oh, and maybe that part where Country Joe led the crowd in a chant. I may have been too young to get into an R movie forty years ago but I was old enough to know something big was happening.

Four decades later, while driving through the Catskills in upstate New York, I was surprised to find that we were right by the place where it all happened. How could that be? We were miles away from the town of Woodstock. It turns out that the famous festival that bears its name took place nowhere near the actual town. It happened in a farmer's field just outside the tiny town of Bethel, near White Lake. We had to go see it.

The first thing that struck us when we pulled off the main highway onto the winding little route towards the Mecca of modern music was the preponderance of Orthodox Jews walking along the road. What's going on?

This area is home to what are known as “bungalow colonies” – enclosed clusters of small cabins where Jewish families have been spending summers to escape the New York City heat and smell for decades. In its heyday, the Catskills area was dubbed the “Borsch Belt.” This is where many entertainers, especially comedians, cut their teeth at the famous hotels and showrooms. With the advent of cheaper, easier travel and air conditioning in the city, fewer and fewer folks come up to these Catskill camps. The colonies that remain are now mostly exclusively Hasidic.

I've got to say, it struck me as a bit strange and out of place to see so many people walking these mountain back roads in full black garb, with the hats and tassels and curls and all. Call me plumb Western, but that just wasn't something I'd seen growing up in the Rockies. As we drove by one colony, a volleyball game was in full swing with all of the participants wearing full regalia in the summer sun. It seemed to me that all those clothes might limit one's game, but hey, they were having a great time so more power to them.

Pulling into White Lake, I expected hippy stuff to be everywhere, a veritable psychedelic tourist trap, but no. Very few signs that the biggest love-in in history took place a couple miles away. Just a typical upstate New York lake town. Moving on, we found ourselves in beautiful rolling farmland with a smattering of the bungalow colonies and couldn't help but wonder how several hundred thousand hippies would fit into this mix of lake town tourists, rural farm folks and orthodox Jews, all living in harmony around the famous sight of the “Aquarian Exposition.”

“By the time we got to Woodstock, we were half a million strong...”

Not quite, for us it was more like half a dozen. It was getting late in the evening and the museum was closed so we just stood there looking at a big, empty, sloping field in the middle of what once was Max Yasgur's hog farm with a handful of flower children refugee pilgrims.

For years and years nothing was here to commemorate the biggest event in Rock & Roll history except a plaque. Finally, in 1996, entrepreneur and “local boy made good,” Alan Gerry bought the farm – so to speak – and created The Bethel Woods Center for the Arts. Forming The Gerry Foundation, he launched the $100 million project using hundreds of local laborers and artisans, taking a decade to complete. Gerry's idea was not only to immortalize the hallowed ground but also to provide an engine for economic growth in his home region.

The Center has several state-of-the-art venues for events and concerts, and a fantastic Woodstock festival museum. The site is beautiful and hosts dozens of concerts throughout the summer and early fall. Featuring acts like Crosby, Stills & Nash, Bob Dylan, The Dave Matthews Band, Bad Company, The Doobie Brothers, Loggins & Messina, POCO, The Allman Brothers, John Mellincamp, Earth, Wind & Fire and Chicago, it is becoming a premier stop on many tours.

This year, in honor of the 40th anniversary of The Woodstock Music & Art Fair, many of the original lineup are performing at The Center. Richie Havens, Canned Heat, Arlo Guthrie, Ten Years After, Mountain, Country Joe McDonald, Jefferson Starship (Airplane), Big Brother & the Holding Company and John Sebastian are all returning to make the scene four decades later.

The Center is not only a Rock venue, all musical styles are embraced. The Boston Pops, The New York Philharmonic, B.B. King, Willie Nelson, Brad Paisley and a Mountain Music Festival offer something for almost every musical taste on this year's calendar.

The museum is an amazing visual achievement. Walking in, we were hit with wall after wall of stunning imagery. In a breezy walk-though fashion, the museum first took us on a cultural tour of the sixties,leading up to the hippy movement. Civil rights, the cold war, television, the space program, Vietnam, the Kennedy and King assassinations are all covered. The “1968 Theater” has a phenomenal blend of news coverage, speeches and TV commercials that transports viewers back in time. Every aspect of Woodstock is showcased, from the planning to the aftermath.

Why was the festival in Bethel instead of Woodstock?

How did it grow from the original expectations of a few thousand people to become New York's third largest city for three days?

How did they feed all of those people?

How did the local folks, politicians and the police react?

What was the social impact?

It's all covered in interesting and original fashion. Want to know how all those people got there? Sit in a “magic bus” and watch through the windshield. “The Festival Experience” Theater put us smack in the middle of the concert, seriously, it was great. Surrounded by huge screens, floor to ceiling, and laying on bean bag chairs we were wonderfully bombarded. The music, the scene, the announcements from the stage, the chants from the crowd, right down to the lightning and rain and even a little quasi acid trip... “don't take the brown stuff that's going around, man” and Jimi Hendrix playing The Star Spangled Banner are happening from every angle. We had to watch it twice to catch everything.

The fact is not everybody was thrilled to have a festival like this take place in their community and there was some public outcry. Local opposition near the original intended site in Woodstock, NY is why the festival ended up being moved to Bethel. But once the site was set, Max Yasgur, the owner of the farm and staunch conservative, said to his neighbors:

“Look, the reason you don't want them here is because you don't like what they look like. And I don't particularly like what they look like either. But that's not the point. They may be protesting the war, but thousands of American soldiers have died so they can do exactly what they're doing. That's what the essence of this country is all about.”

So that brings us back to our big question, how did several hundred thousand hippies fit into the local mix? Surprisingly well, it seems. The curators are proud to point out that there were no major incidents or arrests during the festival and that many of the area's residents came to the rescue by bringing in food and supplies when the original supplies proved woefully inadequate.

It really WAS “three days of peace and music.”

David, GypsyNester.com (Post a Comment)

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Grandchildish Behavior

noreply@blogger.com (David & Veronica) — Wed, 12 Aug 2009 18:25:00 +0000

I’ve had two unexpected conversations recently that have given me pause for reflection. The first was with my father-in-law while dining over Mexican food in Kansas. While catching him up with our kids’ lives, he asked me if they were dating anyone of note. I told him that at the moment there were no significant others. Then -- the bolt out of the blue -- “Oh, you must be sad that you won’t be having grandchildren anytime soon.”

The next exchange was with my daughters, 24 & 22. We were sitting on the subway in New York City and -- BAM -- 24 says, “How come you aren’t nagging us about grandkids like our friends’ parents do?”

It started out as gentle teasing, but during the course of the discourse I got the feeling that 22 was a little miffed my lack of interest. Even though I know -- good AND well -- neither 22 or 24 are even remotely at that point in life and that one of them finds the actual birthing process totally repulsive (she wants to be “knocked out like the good old days“). Besides, if I even hinted at them producing me a grandchild, I know I’d get a tongue lashing that only a resident of NYC could provide.

Having never really pondered the subject, except in the abstract, the very process of answering these questions was the beginning of flushing out my feelings.

If I were to have a grandbaby, I would be the best grandma ever. That child would the most loved and cherished little guy ever. I think David would be even nuttier than I, he’s crazy about kids and they love him right back. It would be a battle just to pry the youngster off of his broken “horsey“ back.

BUT, if I never have grandkids, that’s all right, too. I’m not one of those “passing along the genes/carrying on the family name” kinda gals. There’s no inherent longing in my breast -- I actually view that stuff as sort of archaic. Maybe that comes from the incessant “hints” my mother-in-law dropped as soon as David and I got hitched. In her defense, David is the fourth of five children and was the first to marry -- she had waited a LONG time by then. All of her girlfriends were winning the “grandma game” in a time when the baby tally really meant something. Hey, I might even get antsy at that point, too -- who knows.

It doesn’t seem to be part of our generation’s psyche -- the nagging part -- not the grandma part. Facebook has opened my eyes on THAT one. Once one of my friends becomes a grandparent, their profile becomes a never-ending barrage of baby pictures. They’re worse than the new mothers (OK, admittedly, I look at every one of the pics).

I admit that one of the reasons for my lack of longing is unabashed selfishness. I like having my kids all to myself when we visit. No boyfriends, wives or diaper changes to disrupt my time with them. I feel I’m just getting to know them as adults and I am loving the process. I don’t want to share. That day will come soon enough.

Genetics may play in my thinking as well. My mother was wet-her-pants excited when I announced my upcoming bundle of joy. My Dad reacted a bit differently. You would have thought I purposefully shot him in the foot. He was shocked. On some level he must have known that I was at an age where this type of thing could happen, he’s not an idiot, he just couldn’t believe HE was.

Grandfatherdom seemed to be a direct affront to the youthful image he had of himself. As taken aback as I was at the time, I have to admit that I get it today. Personality is something I inherited from my Dad and -- honestly -- the IDEA of ME being a GRANDMA stings a bit. (Note to self: hide this little selfish feeling when you get the “I’m Pregnant!!” call yourself).

Finally, I have to wonder how conditioned I am to think this way by outside influences. In our society, we are past the point where we need to quickly pump out babies to help out on the farm, carry on the family name or populate our religious faith and the Wild West. There are an awful lot of people out there and I have to say I’m glad we’re slowing down with the kids per capita bit.

Honestly, is this something I really need to stick my big pointy nose into? My offspring need to set their reproductive itinerary at their own pace. There are too many negatives when a person is nagged into breeding before they are ready, whether by a parent or society. When my kids are ready, I’ll be there with helpful hints on nausea, mood swings, vomit stain elimination and the like. I know that they will ask me when they need me. And that’ll be really cool.

One last thing, a quick message to my kids -- Are you EVER going to have a baby?! Just kidding (I think).

Veronica, GypsyNester.com (Post a Comment)

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The Maple Leaf Spangled Banner

noreply@blogger.com (David & Veronica) — Sat, 08 Aug 2009 17:39:00 +0000

From GypsyNester.com

The rockets red glare, the bombs bursting in air.... YEAH CANADA! What? Turns out Independence Day is not the only patriotic fireworks-laden midsummer festival in North America. Canada Day is on the 1st of July and celebrates Canada's “birthday” with familiar cookouts, picnics, parades, fireworks and a communal cake. Cake? Of course, it's a birthday party! We found ourselves a beauty of a celebration by the banks of the River Thames in London... Ontario that is.

It seems that Canada hung on with the Brits until 1867, almost one hundred years after the U.S. did. Then, with the enactment of the British North America Act and formation of Parliament, the Canadian Colonies formed a federation that technically became a kingdom in its own right. With typical Canadian restraint -- no shots were fired -- it took over a century to become fully independent. That finally happened in 1982 with the Constitution Act, however they still remain loyal to the crown.

While visiting the London on our side of the pond, we were pleased to discover there was birthday revelry going on. Naturally, we joined in. Our day began at a town celebration with food, fun, music and a ceremony for the swearing in of new citizens. After sampling some of the fare, we were excited to observe as citizens took the oath.

Canadians, new or old, love their country with fervent patriotism. Polling shows that fully 90% of Canadians say they live in the best place on Earth. Like the U.S. on the 4th of July, newspapers and TV newscasts were filled with man-on-the-street interviews, flag-waiving and folks wearing maple-leaf inspired paraphernalia. Looks like those of us in the good old U.S. of A. don't have the market cornered on love of country, eh?

As U.S. citizens, we found the ceremony riveting as we were fairly ignorant about the politics and policies of our neighbor to the north. A judge presided, flanked by a Royal Canadian Mounted Policeman (“Mountie“) in full Dudley Do-right regalia and other officials. There was much pontificating from His Honor and several Members of Parliament gave calls to service of their nation. Volunteerism is big in Canada.

The oath, administered in both English and French, included a pledge of loyalty to Elizabeth II, Queen of Canada. Yes, Canadians view the Queen of England as THEIR queen. As a welcome gift, each new citizen was given a tree to commemorate the occasion and help maintain the beautiful environment of their gorgeous country. The service ended with a rousing rendition of “Oh Canada” and a photo op with the Mountie (we were pretty sure that meeting the cute Mountie was why the two girls from Ireland chose to be on the Canadian team). People from fifteen different countries, including the U.S., were sworn in that day.

At the close of the ceremony we were lucky enough to spend a few minutes chatting with Member of Parliament, Irene Mathyssen. As a representative of the New Democrats, she is extremely proud of her party's leadership in bringing healthcare to all Canadians. With the current debate raging in the States, it was interesting to learn more about their system. In stark contrast what the U.S. health insurance lobbyists say, the Canadian system enjoys huge popularity, with two thirds of the public consistantly approving of their public health care. The Honorable Ms. Mathyssen explained to us that even the most conservative politician in Canada would never, ever call for an end to public healthcare.

Having just witnessed people from all over the world complete the three-year process to become Canadians, we asked Ms. Mathyssen about immigration. She explained that the Canadian birthrate is in decline, so they actively seek new people in order to remain completive in the global market. New residents with different skills and backgrounds are needed and Canada strives to add at least 1% of the population in new citizens each year.

After Ms. Mathyssen presented us with Canadian flag lapel pins, it was time to partake in the gigantic Canada cake frosted up like the flag. Ours was a massive twin flavored confection. The red part of the flag was chocolate and the white vanilla, handsome AND tasty.

Speaking of the red and white parts of the flag, if you let your eye see primarily the white and use the red as a background, there are two faces -- forehead to forehead -- at the top of the maple leaf. Legend has it is an Englishman and a Frenchman arguing what is best for Canada. We can't remember who showed this to us, we’re gonna go out on a limb and say a bartender, but he was right when he said that once you see it, you always will. Even in the little lapel pins.

What patriotic American holiday would be complete without baseball? American? Yup, as Canadians are quick to remind us, America is a CONTINENT and Canada is part of it. We caught the second half of a double header between The London Majors and the baseball version of The Toronto Maple Leafs (NOT Leaves!). London's Labatt Park, in the Guinness Book of World Records as "oldest continually operating baseball grounds in the world," dates back to 1877. Quite a piece of American baseball history. And for those who say it's hard to define irony, try this...a ballpark named for a famous brewing company that doesn't sell beer.

After the game, it was just a short stroll along and across the River Thames to the downtown fireworks display. It IS London, so there must be a Thames, but this one looked more like the Creek Thames or the Stream Thames or the Brook Thames than a river to us. Still, the riverside at The Forks of The Thames is a pretty jammin' site for a big old patriotic fireworks hootenanny.

The display was spectacular and unlike in the U.S. the crowd watches in reverent silence. No Lee Greenwood to turn your stomach while enjoying the show. Just some oohs and ahhs and the occasional “YEAH CANADA!” from the back of the crowd to remind us we weren't in Kansas anymore...

David & Veronica, GypsyNester.com

Help! There's No One to Eat the Leftovers!

noreply@blogger.com (David & Veronica) — Wed, 05 Aug 2009 01:17:00 +0000

From GypsyNester.com

Pretty much everything about life changes when that last kid walks out the door. Veronica and I think we should make the most of these adjustments, that's why we started GypsyNester.com, to celebrate life after kids. Most of the changes were easily anticipated but as always, some things are unforeseen.

Over the past year, we have had to relearn how to shop and cook for just the two of us. That fell into the unexpected for me. I don't know why, but it was not something that I thought of before the clearing out of the nest.

Throughout our nearly three decades of marriage I have been the primary cook in the house. The kids call me at least once a week to ask things like “how long do you cook a chicken?” or “what's in that stroganoff you make?” or “ what was that stuff you made that one time that was so good?” About two hours, cream of mushroom soup and carbonara.

I like to eat, so early in life I figured out how to cook the things that I wanted to consume. A natural offshoot of cooking is shopping, so I learned to do that too. I'm such a hunter-gatherer. With three kids, I had to be!

Usually a trip to the grocery store involved multiple shopping carts and severe wallet damage. By the time the three bottomless pits were teenagers it required a small truck and a second mortgage. Should the spawn choose to come along, only perfect weather, no traffic, fast driving and sheer luck could get half of the provisions home before ingestion. One red light and there would be nothing left but empty wrappers, paper products and canned goods... but that's only because they didn't like to eat paper and I had learned to check them for can openers before we left. On one of these homeward sprints I'm pretty sure they were trying to start a fire in the back of the van. Luckily I pulled into the driveway right as I started to smell smoke and they were tearing open the meat. After that, I learned to check for matches, lighters, flint, sticks, charcoal, grills, skewers, and long handled forks... even if we were just going to the Kwik Sack for gas.

So there's been a bit of an adjustment from shopping for a ravenous pack of teenaged wolves to supplying two middle aged wandering gypsies. Even more so when the eating habits of said gypsies are completely different.

I like meat. Almost any meat. If it squeals, moos, gobbles, baaas, swims, pinches or clucks, I'm all over it. Skin it, pluck it or scale it and lob it on the fire. Veronica calls herself “a meat avoider,” not a vegetarian, an avoider. As near as I can tell, that means “Let me try a bite of that pork chop, it looks way better than this salad.” She claims that it's my fault that I never get a carnivorous dish to myself because I make things look so good while I'm eating them. I can't help it, I like food.

But back to the point, it's hard to find foods sized for just one or two people. We are now punished for not buying the “family pack” of half a cow. I used to celebrate finding 27lbs of grade A beef on sale for pennies a pound. Now I get to buy the one strip steak for tonight's dinner at $27.00 a pound, what a deal!

Yes, I could break up the giant bargain packs and freeze the portions but how long will it take for me to go through a side of beef all by myself (and of course Veronica's bites as she avoids the stuff)? The answer is.... longer than it takes frozen meat to turn into that strange crystallized cardboard space-food product it becomes in your freezer. The bargains may not be available, but these days the final bill is certainly less of a shock. Dozens of dollars instead of hundreds, I'll take that and like it.

Still, my transition from vats of spaghetti, cauldrons of soup and Fred Flintstone slabs of meat to dinner for two is far from complete. I know there are only two of us and I know that Veronica hardly eats any of the same things that I do (sneak attacks from her fork notwithstanding) but sometimes I can't help myself. I must have burritos. Then I have to buy the whole can of green chiles, tortillas come by the dozen, there is only one sized can of refried beans and nobody sells less than a pound of meat or cheese for one or half heads of lettuce... so... I either eat burritos for three days straight or we get a really cool science project going in the back of the fridge.

I've found that there are some things can help. First, cook different things. No more big pots and whole chickens, now it's grilled or broiled meat and a smaller side dish. No more striving to fill bottomless bellies with massive amounts of starches. I bake a couple potatoes instead of mashing several dozen. I cook a small pan of rice, not a washtub full, a small bowl of pasta with tuna instead of literally pounds of the stuff with gallons of red sauce. Pasta and rice are great because I can cook just the amount needed for today and the rest keeps almost indefinitely. Tuna is one of the few things that actually comes in a can the right size for one or two people. Not so much with the crushed tomatos.

It also helps to plan ahead a bit. I try to think about a second meal when I'm shopping. A small roast makes great sandwiches the following day. Fish goes into a salad. That extra steak or pork chop is mighty good with eggs the next morning. Most anything can be tossed into a can of soup to dress it up or mixed together with other leftovers to form a new meal. To me cooking is all about experimenting anyway.

Oh, and by the way, there are a lot of fates worse than eating burritos for three days straight... no doubt I'll do it again soon.

David, GypsyNester.com

All kidding aside, here are some great books to help out any GypsyNester in need (they make great gifts, too!):

Healthy Cooking for Two
Tips on shopping for two, streamlining your kitchen, plenty of 30-minute recipes, plus meatless meals and desserts!

Cooking for Two
Modified ingredients so that instead of having to store, and a week later throw out leftovers--just the amount necessary!

BH&G Great Cooking for Two
No one does cookbooks like Better Homes and Gardens and as much as we would like to, we can't go out for every meal.

U.P. and Over Big Mac

noreply@blogger.com (David & Veronica) — Wed, 29 Jul 2009 21:13:00 +0000

From GypsyNester.com

Michigan's Upper Peninsula is the red headed stepchild of the Great Lakes region. Like kids left alone who've formed a tree house club, the people of the Upper Peninsula have developed a domain unto themselves, even a secret language all their own. A conversation about a moose walking through town would sound something like this:
“Just seen a snow cow at da stop and go light.”
“Yah, Hey!?!”
“Youbetcha.”

Or if hands and head need to stay warm while cutting firewood:
“Get my chuke and choppers, I go make wood.”
“I go with?”

Completely separated from its own state, yet attached to another by its only border, should the U.P. join up with Wisconsin, its only land neighbor? Or Canada, whose shores are actually closer than the lower portion of Michigan? The UP just doesn't fit in, so the ever clever Yoopers have decided to embrace their uniqueness and just be themselves.

They have proudly dubbed themselves Yoopers (U. P.-ers). All other Michiganders (who live on the “mitten”) are Trolls. As in:
“We go cross da bridge to DA mitten, see DA Trolls, eh?”

We had encountered the “Troll” label several times before discovering its meaning. Yoopers look down on the rest of Michigan...only geographically, of course. There is a huge bridge that connects the UP and the mitten, and the Trolls live below the bridge. Pretty clever, eh?

The two peninsulas of the Wolverine State are linked by the magnificent Mackinac (pronounced Mack-in-naw) Bridge. Spanning the five miles of The Straits of Mackinac between Lake Michigan with Lake Huron, Big Mac is an engineering wonder. Its 8,614 foot center unit suspended between two 550 foot high towers makes it the longest single span suspension bridge in the Western Hemisphere.

In the shadow of Big Mac's span lies quaint and quirky little Mackinac Island. Folks there rely on horse drawn carriages, bicycles and their feet to get from point A to point B, as motorized vehicles have been banned on the island since 1898. The only way out to the island is by boat. Well, sometimes by "ice bridge" when the miles of open water actually freeze over. Oh yeah, it gets crazy cold up there.

Preferring to visit at a time of year when fishing, golf, softball and bridge don't begin with the word ice, we booked passage on the ferry. We disembarked into a sea of “Fudgies” fighting their way inland. We brought our own bikes on the ferry, for a small fee, but they are for rent all over the island. This creates a multitude of mobile maniacs maneuvering on two wheels for the first time since childhood. It's pretty insane.

Once clear of the chaos around the docks, the island is a lilac festooned cyclist's paradise. Roads and trails lead anywhere and everywhere of interest with no cars to worry about, just a few horse apples to dodge along the way. The state highway, Michigan 185, encircles the entire island along the coast. It's a gorgeous eight mile ride on the only state route in America that doesn't allow cars.

We, of course, were Fudgies too. Hey, wait, there's nothing nasty going on with the name, it's just what locals call anyone who visits the island because of the tourist's inability to resist partaking in the wares of the island's famous fudge shops. Being human, we had to sample the goods.

We visited Murdick's, a Mackinac staple since 1887, to take in the making of the famous confection. The workmen of Murdick's are a lively bunch, walking us through the process, adding in little anecdotes along the way. Our guides had even hatched up a business plan for their lives after Murdick's, taking their fudge making skills and moving to a part of California that had deregulated the use of marijuana. They figured when the “munchies” set in they'd basically have a captive audience. They did worry about the health hazard of the plan, however. Eating fudge with the munchies could very well end up in diabetic coma.

Other candy shops offered umpteen varieties, our favorite being “Krispies,” a Rice Krispy treat impaled on a stick then coated with fudge, because the gooey marshmallow squares simply are not nearly sweet enough on their own. The smell of cooking sugar and chocolate is overwhelming along Main Street. Luckily, some friendly horse always comes along and leaves a gift that changes the olfactory landscape.

Many of the horses on Mackinac Island are in the employ of The Grand Hotel. Home of the longest porch in the world, the hotel is opulent, expensive, beautiful and a bit uppity. Biking up the hill to check it out, we were stopped by a sign that read “After 6 PM gentlemen must be attired in coat and tie. Ladies may not be attired in slacks.” Having foolishly set off bicycling without our evening apparel, we felt it best not to upset the sensibilities of those called to a higher standard of vesture. We did notice however, for some reason they dress their horses in what look to be some sort of S & M outfits. We chose not to investigate further.

Back on the mainland, it was time to sample the staples of the U. P. diet -- whitefish and pasties. Yoopers can and will serve whitefish any and every way imaginable. Whitefish dip, smoked whitefish, whitefish chowder, whitefish cakes, broiled whitefish, deep-fried whitefish, whitefish boil, baked whitefish, whitefish jerky... We tried many, our favorite being the cheesy, smoky flavored dip, but holy cow, how could we possibly try them all? It seems the only thing a Yooper won't do with whitefish is stuff it in a pasty.

Pronounced pass-tee, pasties are a sort of meat, potato and rutabaga turnover. Brought to the iron and copper mines of the U. P. by Cornish miners back in the 1800s, pasties were invented in Cornwall for the miners to carry a portable meal that would stay warm while they worked underground. The crust is made tough, it is said that a proper pasty should survive a drop down the mineshaft without breaking open, and the filling is dense to hold the heat. A pasty can also make a good hand warmer while sitting around in your pocket. If it should get cold, just warm it up on the miner's shovel held over the headlamp flame. The later groups of Finnish and Swedish immigrants also embraced the pasty, making it something like the Yooper's national meal.

We sampled several pasties across the peninsula and found some small, subtle differences in seasoning or the ratio of rutabaga to potato. Generally a pasty is a pasty and most of the establishments that sell them, sell only them and only one kind of them (to the purists, there is only one kind: meat, potato and rutabaga). A typical menu is: hot, cooled, frozen and pop. “How many ya want, eh?” and “What kinda paap you want with?” Ketchup is the condiment of choice. Sometimes gravy is poured over the top, but only if you want to get all fancy about it. Like pizza in Brooklyn, Yoopers each have their own favorite pasty place.

We never had to go far to find a pasty, even though towns are few and far between in the UP, pasty stands don't need no stinking town to spring up. They are everywhere, nestled into the fabulous natural beauty like the abundant wildlife that dominates the landscape.

From the rolling copper and iron rich Porcupine Mountains around Crystal Falls, through the old mines of Iron Mountain, past the stunning formations of Pictured Rocks National Shoreline and a town where it is always Christmas, to the old French fur trading settlements of Sault Ste. Marie and St. Ignace ("a drinking town with a fishing problem"), every one of the Yoopers that we encountered was friendly, helpful, and always ready to buy another round.

Youbetcha!

David & Veronica, GypsyNester.com

Lamb on the Lam

noreply@blogger.com (David & Veronica) — Thu, 23 Jul 2009 15:23:00 +0000

From GypsyNester.com

“All aboard for Hayward, Hurley and Hell!” the train conductors would yell. Northern Wisconsin had become a playground for gangsters, politicians and the “beautiful people” of Chicago during Prohibition and the Great Depression.

Al Capone had a hideout on a private lake near Hayward where he had bootleg whiskey flown in from Canada on seaplanes. The town of Hurley boasted lively “soda fountains” fronting the famous brothels upstairs. Sam Giancana, Joe Saltis and Jimmy Hoffa vacationed in the area. The new movie, “Public Enemies,” starring Johnny Depp as John Dillinger portrays a raid and shoot-out in nearby Manitowish Waters that was just part of the madness in the Northwoods of the 1930s.

Things are calmer nowadays but the Turk’s Inn, just outside of Hayward, harkens back to the heyday of supper clubs and inns tucked away amongst the lakes and trees.

Celebrating its 75th year in business, the Inn's clientele may not be quite as colorful as it once was -- and there is no longer a two hour wait for dinner -- but a trip to the Inn is a jaunt through time that shouldn’t be missed.

Opened by George “The Turk” Gogian and his wife Isabella, affectionately known only as “Mom,” the establishment boasts rooms called the Harem Lounge, the Kismet Dining Room and the Sultan Room. The menu boasts that it's "Overlooking the beautiful Namekagon River as if it were the Black Sea.” Now we've never seen the Black Sea, but we’re pretty sure you couldn’t chuck a rock across it. But hey, we get what The Turk was going for.

Rich reds and dazzling golds combine with tassels, ibriks, crazy amounts of photos of the famous and infamous, quirky relics and personal heirlooms depicting the rich history of the place. The result is a veritable museum of an bygone era. We spent hours enthusiastically snooping around.

Pictures are unceremoniously crammed in amongst the copious quantities of memorabilia. No playing favorites here. We uncovered photos of singers, actors, politicians, sports figures and celebs like Priscilla Presley, Mickey Rooney, Dina Shore, Jim Ed Brown, several Kennedys, Russ Feingold, Thommy Thompson, Walter Mondale and Supreme Court Justice Harry Blackmun. Anyone who’s anyone and been in the neighborhood has stopped by The Turk’s Inn, some, with severe mugshot phobia, declined to be photographed.

At the age of 16, George The Turk left Istanbul and arrived in Philadelphia to live with an uncle. After a few years, his uncle decided George was “having too good of a time” and a marriage was arranged with Isabella, a college student in St. Paul. Isabella and The Turk were married for 55 years.

After losing a successful candy company in Philly to the Depression, George, with twenty-five cents in his pocket, headed to Hayward and the Turk’s Inn was born.

Today, the flat-out, hands-down finest attraction of the Inn is the daughter of George and Isabella, Marge Gogian. Most likely in her eighties (she won’t tell), and standing well under five feet tall, Marge is a spitfire. She still runs the kitchen, makes a special appearance at every guest’s table (as her always father did) and will tell stories that will leave you wide-eyed with disbelief.

Marge has changed nothing, literally nothing. The Inn is exactly the way her dad left it. The kitchen is vintage (Marge “doesn’t believe in microwaves“), the cash register with the handwritten “No Credit“ sign underneath (in The Turk‘s own hand), the bar and the tables are all original, perfectly functional and wonderfully whimsical. Always prepared, The Gogians (including Marge) have the bar stocked with enough booze for several Wisconsin winters and must have ordered bazillions of paper goods decades ago -- the cocktail napkins, match books (strike on the FRONT cover -- when is the last time you saw that?) and postcards are truly classic. Each emblazoned with The Turk’s personal motto “Don’t worry ‘bout.“

Marge says they “had quite the time in the old days.” The local sheriff kept tabs when “government men” were hanging around and kept The Turk abreast on the situation. As a young girl, Marge would be helping out in the kitchen and remembers the “racketeers” showing up with their entourages. She recalls being afraid only once, when a particularly menacing set of gangsters came in one evening. Even as a child Marge had keen instincts, as later that night gunshots were exchanged in town.

In the off season, the family traveled. Marge told us of a trip she took with her father as a teenager. They happened to be at the hotel where King Saud, founder of Saudi Arabia, was also staying. George, never having met a stranger, chatted him up. They ending up hanging out together and a picture taken by the King’s photographer of seventeen year old Marge is hanging on the wall in the Inn's dining room.

In the '60s, Marge wanted to visit Afghanistan even though Americans weren't allowed to. The Turk’s answer was, “Why the hell do you want to go to Afghanistan?” The ever feisty Marge decided to head on over anyway. She arrived in India but was not allowed through, so she stubbornly sat at the Embassy until they relented. The terms of her visit were that she would be escorted by “two Englishmen and a driver,” could only travel within a 50 mile radius and would have to stay in Afghanistan for two weeks to qualify for an exit visa. Marge arrived during the holy month of Ramadan and there were no women to be seen. She remembers thinking, “what kind of place is this?” As soon as The Turk got wind of the situation, he called Bobby Kennedy. “He put a trace on me,” laments Marge. “They knew every hotel I stayed in during my entire trip.” An exit visa was finally obtained and Marge was sent home.

George attempted to arrange a marriage for his headstrong daughter-- once. The poor boy showed up in Wisconsin, and Marge put her foot down. “I told my father to send him back where he came from,” she says with a mischievous smile. “I’m glad I’m not married -- I’m so fussy, but my parents were fussy and I learned that from them.”

So instead Marge went to Washington, D.C. for college. There she met John and Ted Kennedy. Later on, when invited to JFK’s inaugural ball, Marge took her father, after some strong convincing. The Turk was concerned about attending, as Hayward was a “Republican town and the Kennedys were Democrats.” But Marge says, “Dad loved to have a good time, so he ended up going anyway. No one in Hayward cared.”

Completing college in D.C., Marge attended New York University and took the city by storm. She became a fashion designer, stylist and modeled shoes and hats. Marge bemoans that she couldn‘t be a fashion model because of her diminutive size. Believe you me, she was absolutely stunning.

When her father’s health began to decline, Marge was brought back home to help out at the Turk’s Inn and she has been there ever since.

The opulent atmosphere compliments meals fit for a sultan. Marge still ages and hand cuts every steak on site. The pilaf is magical and the lamb legendary. The cucumber-horseradish dressing tickles your taste buds like an undulating belly dancer. Our meal ended with the Inn’s fresh and homemade baklava. Marge explained that she prepares her syrup with rosewater and lemon juice, so it is different and less sweet than the Greek version.

Not ready for the night the night to end, we were glad to accept when Marge invited us to try Kruškovac at the bar after the customers left. We chatted and sipped while she and the staff cleaned up and cashed out. Marge works hard, and expects the same from her staff. She‘s tough on them and they love her right back. After all, she and the Turk‘s Inn are institutions. The running joke among the employees is “half of us quit every night” but they're back to say it again the next night.

When you visit the Turk’s Inn, bring cash. The Turk didn’t take credit cards, and neither does Marge. Remember nothing changes.

David & Veronica, GypsyNester.com