As I type this, I'm headed north on I95, and one of many passengers in a van that's transporting our youth group back to Jersey, after a week-long stay at the Wilds, a church camp in NC. I have a lot of time on my hands, to reflect on the week-- the preaching, the fun, and my evil deeds, involving a crock pot..
For months we thought we'd figured out how to go to the camp, and only eat real, organic food for our entire stay. But about a week before the trip, the Wilds said we weren't allowed to cook in our room, nor were we allowed to use a nice large kitchen which was located down the hall. Why? I do not know. It was at this point, I knew the dream was over, and I cancelled my healthy plans.
In the days that followed, I came up with a new plan, because there was NO WAY I was eating processed meat and other mysterious camp foods, for a week. Nor was I gonna sit up against big sweaty men on that non air conditioned dining porch, like happened last year. We decided we would drive 30-ish minutes, into the city of Brevard, when we needed food. And I thought it would be a great idea to pick up some NC pulled pork barbecue to keep in a cooler, in the room, so we could make delicious sandwiches. But we'd need to warm them somehow. So I decided I'd bring along a small, one quart slow cooker. Because technically, I'd be "heating" the sandwiches, not "cooking" in the room.
But as the days passed before our trip, I began to worry. NC pulled pork is doused in a delightful vinegar sauce, and I knew that during the heating process it would become very aromatic, and waft up and down the hallways. Maybe we'd get in big trouble! Or we'd have to gather in the hallway, with everyone else, and pretend to marvel about the mysterious luring aroma. I asked one of my friends, what she thought I should do, and she thought the crock pot sandwiches were a marvelous idea. She said I should plan to eat them early in the week, but have a backup plan with cold deli meats , in case our crock pot operation was shut down. But still, I was haunted by thoughts of the Wilds staff busting into our room, and confiscating my slow cooker. I mean, it's not that I'd be out a lot of money, because I got it years ago at a Walmart, on Black Friday, for just $4. And I have another one at home just like it. But come Thanksgiving, I would need that one for the gravy.
Soon we found ourselves back in the South, and we scarfed down fried chicken and pulled pork all the way across the great state of NC, and also in the upstate of SC. And one of the Jersey kids had to ask for some Tums. I anxiously proceeded with the wild plan to illegally smuggle a crock pot into the Wilds. And on our first full day of camp, I prepared two thick "barbecue" sandwiches, and wrapped them in foil. Then I removed the slow cooker from the bag we'd transported it in. I removed the lid, and much to my horror, there was a small spider inside!
God had put an arachnid in my crock pot.
I should mention at this point, that I have OCD (Obsessive Compulsive Disorder) and a tremendous fear of spiders. I threw away some good Tupperware once, because of an incident like this.
I took a deep breath.
"Steve, we have a big problem." I explained to him how I thought we could save the cooker, as long as he removed the spider without squishing it inside my pot. Drowning it in there was not an option either. (OCD is not logical) So he very carefully removed the spider, and proved to me that no squishing had taken place. But now I was gonna have to cleanse the pot somehow. I'd not even brought detergent or a dishcloth, because I was gonna use foil for cooking- I mean "heating."
We had soap, but we had already used it in the shower, so that was out. (OCD) So then Steve suggested shampoo. The shampoo had not been in any public showers before, so it was "okay." (OCD) I squirted some into the crock and swished it around with hot water, but I realized I was gonna need to also scrub it, to feel safe. (OCD) A wash cloth, provided by the Wilds, (think hotel washcloth) was not okay. (OCD) But because I'd remembered that the Wilds only gave us one washcloth to last for the whole week last year, I'd brought some of ours from home, and that would sort of be okay -just this once- since the food would actually be in foil, and was never actually going to touch the crock. (OCD)
So I scrubbed that crock with all of my might-- and my moisturizing shampoo for color treated hair. And then I finally had to accept that it was no longer tainted with terrifying spider germs. (OCD)
In the end, we had some amazing sandwiches, and I'd been reminded that rebellion is not the answer when a camp won't let you have anything decent to eat. It was in love, that God sent me a spider. Next year, my conscience might have been seared, and I'd have been lugging in my big, fancy toaster oven, fully intending to "cook" something.
Oh, what a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive.
*Disclaimer- I do not believe it's healthy to cook with aluminum foil, but I will do it in a traveling situation, if needed. I'm saying this so health foodies don't attack me. Because they scare me.
Monday, July 22, 2013
Wednesday, July 10, 2013
The Mooned Pie
Each year, when Summer vacation arrives, I find myself overwhelmed with a sense of dread and concern, not knowing if this will be the year my kids will actually kill each other, or if I will end up in jail, because of some stress-induced psychological breakdown, followed by a wild, outrageous crime spree. And people would be whispering, "I always knew something wasn't right with her."
Don't get me wrong, I adore the kids. But one can only endure so many episodes of "America's Funniest Home Videos," break up so many arguments, and rescue the cat so many times. And they eat all of our food.
Okay, so I'm exaggerating a little. It's not THAT bad. And this year, it's seemed strangely easier. It's been mostly quiet, and everyone's been getting along. I have been assuming it's the onset of maturity.
But then tonight happened.
It's well understood in our home, that I won't buy highly processed foods. So when junk food does happen to show up, there's a lot of excitement. The other day, Steve came home with a giant box of Moon Pies, because we were going on vacation, and that means the rules get bent.
Upon returning from a few days of camping, someone noticed that some of those delicious Moon Pies remained. I managed to hold everyone off, until after dinner, but then they just started grabbing the last marshmallowy pies, like a pack of ravenous animals. Steve had one, Noah had one, and Elizabeth hid one in her room so it would exist when the time came that she was ready for it. I was planning to hide one too, but the box was empty by the time it reached me. Those jerks. And I'm telling you, there is more food secretly concealed inside this house, than there are hidden bones in a happy dog's backyard. Not only do Elizabeth and I hide all of our snacks, I'm often asked to hide things for other people. I can't even keep it all straight!
Within minutes of the Moon Pie grabbings, Elizabeth, who is 16 years old, was walking around with a recently acquired stuffed animal. It is my understanding, that moments later, Noah wished to hold, touch, or take the stuffed animal. She refused, and even took the toy into the bathroom with her, so he couldn't lay one finger on it. It was at this time, that Noah slipped into her room, pulled her covers back, and victimized her sheets with a naked butt wiggle. And during this process, she emerged from the bathroom, and discovered the debacle that was taking place. Then there was running and screaming and violence, and whatnot.
It wasn't until she returned to her room to strip the sheets off the bed for a good laundering, that she made the startling, disappointing discovery-- the last moon pie, that she'd hidden in her bed, was now a sad part of the "butt imprint" that Noah had left behind. You can't undo that kind of damage. Though it was still inside the plastic, it was forever tainted by naked butt osmosis. She ran into the kitchen, where Steve and I sat, enjoying a peaceful conversation, and plopped the contaminated Moon Pie onto the middle of my kitchen table, and told of the tragic demise of the last remaining processed baked good.
It was then that Steve responded by simply saying, "Well.. now it's a legitimate MOON PIE."
Don't get me wrong, I adore the kids. But one can only endure so many episodes of "America's Funniest Home Videos," break up so many arguments, and rescue the cat so many times. And they eat all of our food.
Okay, so I'm exaggerating a little. It's not THAT bad. And this year, it's seemed strangely easier. It's been mostly quiet, and everyone's been getting along. I have been assuming it's the onset of maturity.
But then tonight happened.
It's well understood in our home, that I won't buy highly processed foods. So when junk food does happen to show up, there's a lot of excitement. The other day, Steve came home with a giant box of Moon Pies, because we were going on vacation, and that means the rules get bent.
Upon returning from a few days of camping, someone noticed that some of those delicious Moon Pies remained. I managed to hold everyone off, until after dinner, but then they just started grabbing the last marshmallowy pies, like a pack of ravenous animals. Steve had one, Noah had one, and Elizabeth hid one in her room so it would exist when the time came that she was ready for it. I was planning to hide one too, but the box was empty by the time it reached me. Those jerks. And I'm telling you, there is more food secretly concealed inside this house, than there are hidden bones in a happy dog's backyard. Not only do Elizabeth and I hide all of our snacks, I'm often asked to hide things for other people. I can't even keep it all straight!
Within minutes of the Moon Pie grabbings, Elizabeth, who is 16 years old, was walking around with a recently acquired stuffed animal. It is my understanding, that moments later, Noah wished to hold, touch, or take the stuffed animal. She refused, and even took the toy into the bathroom with her, so he couldn't lay one finger on it. It was at this time, that Noah slipped into her room, pulled her covers back, and victimized her sheets with a naked butt wiggle. And during this process, she emerged from the bathroom, and discovered the debacle that was taking place. Then there was running and screaming and violence, and whatnot.
It wasn't until she returned to her room to strip the sheets off the bed for a good laundering, that she made the startling, disappointing discovery-- the last moon pie, that she'd hidden in her bed, was now a sad part of the "butt imprint" that Noah had left behind. You can't undo that kind of damage. Though it was still inside the plastic, it was forever tainted by naked butt osmosis. She ran into the kitchen, where Steve and I sat, enjoying a peaceful conversation, and plopped the contaminated Moon Pie onto the middle of my kitchen table, and told of the tragic demise of the last remaining processed baked good.
It was then that Steve responded by simply saying, "Well.. now it's a legitimate MOON PIE."
Thursday, February 21, 2013
Ski Trip Calamities, and a Spinach and Artichoke Coincidence
About a week before we left to take our youth group on a ski trip to Okemo Mountain Resort in Ludlow, VT, some boots went on sale and my daughter was about to pass a cow. She was sure she wouldn't live if she couldn't have them, and receive them before we went on the trip. I totally sympathized with her crisis, knowing the deliciousness of a new pair of Uggs on your feet, especially when you're visiting a ski resort. I also felt that I was partly to blame, having recently acquired some sparkly ones myself. So after much delusional thought and consideration, I decided to strike up a deal with her. I ordered the boots, but I gained possession of a gift card of hers that I'd been coveting (which she volunteered). She'd also have to do the dishes for 2 weeks. I even clarified, this wasn't gonna be an occasional dishwasher loading experience. She would actually have to do "every dirty dish that happened." She was elated, and I knew my life was about to be hard.
A few days later, the excitement over the boots, which had not even arrived yet, began to diminish. Washing the dishes was gross, and not fun, and we began to sense a great deal of unhappiness. I thought she was tracking the shipment of the boots online, so when they arrived on Wednesday, we hid them, just to see how long it would be before she had some big panic attack because the tracking revealed that a delivery had been made and they were missing.
Because that's the kind of parents we are.
On Thursday, Steve and I had to do some shopping for the trip, so we could feed all those people, and we left our kids alone for a few hours. By now she'd really gotten behind on the dishes, so I said to be sure to get the dishwasher loaded. That night, we had to take my car, "Cherry Pie" out because Steve's truck was in the shop because New Jerseyans can't stop crashing into him. Steve had to load hundreds of bottled waters into little Cherry Pie, along with all the groceries we'd need for several days of feeding hungry teenagers. I think that's when I began to sense the impending misadventures, that like any trip with our family, awaited us.
When we returned home, I checked the dishwasher, and found that Elizabeth had only loaded it with 1 large colander, 1 large bowl, a large pot, and a couple pieces of flatware. Meanwhile, the sink remained full of dishes, the counters were loaded, and the table was covered. I wasn't even sure how we'd eat breakfast. I couldn't say she didn't load the dishwasher, because technically, it was mostly full. She was already in bed, sleeping soundly. After overcoming my initial desire to squish her, I went to her Facebook page and posted, "Nicely played."
The next morning, I carefully planned a breakfast that wouldn't require me to wash anything first. I wasn't gonna touch those dirty dishes, no matter what happened. I didn't care what kind of infestation developed right there in our frightful family kitchen, be it flies, roaches, locusts, or wild animals. Not that I wasn't afraid.
We were scheduled to leave for VT, bright and early on Sunday morning, and thankfully, by Saturday afternoon, she had all of the dishes sparkling, and even did some additional cleaning in the kitchen. She even admitted that on Thursday, during her lowest of lows, she'd considered pulling clean dishes out from the cabinets, and loading them into the dishwasher, to avoid touching dirty ones. In all fairness, her schedule was unusually busy-bees that week. Then Steve called for her to come into the family room to grab a box to place into the recycling. Moments later, we heard her pull at the unopened box of Uggs, pause, and say,
"You people are horrible."
We know. We didn't even mean to wait until the last minute to tell her they'd arrived. I just kept forgetting. So she was happy, finally.
By late Sunday afternoon, we arrived in our caravan of 4WD SUVs and truck pulling a UHaul full of skis and luggage, at the condo we'd rented for our group of 21 people. Or 20. Whatever. The first thing we noticed, is that the interior of that condo is an assault on the eyes. Bright coral paint and tacky wallpaper adorned the walls of the main living areas. It turns out, the "slope side" condo, isn't really slope side. And much to our dismay, the bedding had been stripped from all of the beds, and lay in a giant, germ infested pile at the top of the stairs. There were crumbs on the tables, and debris on the floors. No one had cleaned. I wondered if I would hyperventilate.
Then we sank into a deep depression, and even tried to see if we could get into the house we stayed at last year. But it was booked. We thought we might have to wash that gross bedding, or we'd have none, but I couldn't imagine touching that stuff to load it into the washer. There's a reason I've never been a housekeeper. My friend, Sara, was even bothered that her boot touched it when she walked by it. All seemed hopeless, when suddenly Steve found some extra bedding stashed in a closet somewhere. Then one of the boys made all the beds. Ethan was a hero!
Things began to look up. Then we noticed there was a bathroom practically inside the kitchen. We'd assumed it was a closet. Having accepted that we were gonna be staying there, we announced to the kids, "This bathroom is for urination and hand washing only. No BMs." Then we claimed another bathroom as "Adults only." Don't worry, that still left 2 whole bathrooms for teen number 2s..
Then we saw this:
Anyway, we'd planned to have pizza delivered that night, but we were so traumatized by the dirty condo that we decided to get out of there, and go out for pizza, in hopes that housekeeping , whom we'd now contacted, would show up and scrub that place down. Online, we found one place that was open, called "Outback Pizza". The peculiar thing about Ludlow, is that the whole place shuts down by mid-afternoon, except for bars and a gas station or two. It was now dark, and incidentally, only 11 freezing degrees outside.
On the way there, fully sensing the inescapable downward spiraling course of the evening, we began to speculate about what kind of place "Outback Pizza" might actually be.
"What if it's a bar??," someone jokingly asked.
"Hey, maybe they'll have karaoke!" I exclaimed.
It turns out, the karaoke was only on Thursdays, and this was Sunday, but still, we had the entire youth group of our conservative Baptist church sitting in a big 'ol bar type place with loud music, where we soon found ourselves asking for group rates because they were out of large pizzas, and the smalls were $13 each. And we wouldn't let anyone have anything to drink until we found out if they offered free refills. (Think that doesn't happen anywhere anymore? Visit Vermont.) So they gave us a deal and we just told everyone to eat fast and try not to soak in the atmosphere.. Steve seemed to develop an insatiable thirst from all the anxiety, leading the server to eventually just bring him a pitcher with a straw.
With a new day, came new hope, and all the skiers were soon out for an exciting day. I woke up pretty early because kids in ski boots sound like a houseful of rambunctious elephants. I prepared a couple of homemade soups in slow cookers and went upstairs to take a shower. I knew no one had been in the shower for quite some time, but I still barely had any hot water, which seemed to overshadow my concern about the pink hue on the shower curtain liner. From inside the shower, I did have a lovely view of the raging snow falling outside, even though I had the improperly-hung blinds completely closed.
By 10 am, housekeeping had arrived. They cleaned some stuff, but they didn't give us any toilet paper, which no one noticed until about 10 pm that night. In Ludlow, you can't just go out for a late night tp run. So we had to spare squares, here and there, and hold out until morning.
There's nothing more refreshing than a cold shower after a day of skiing in 13 degree temps. So on our 2nd evening in that freak condo, we enjoyed piping hot soup and a "soup bar," and called the homeowner, yet again, because of frigid water. We got no help from him, so then one of the teens found another hot water heater. It was turned off, so we turned it on. I was never sure if it made any difference.
Obviously, we are never staying in that jacked up condo again.
The four of us adults turn into a bunch of germaphobes when it comes to kids touching our food supply, particularly the younger ones. So when Steve asked me to announce instructions for the "soup bar" we'd set up for dinner that night. I said,
"Get in line HERE, at this kitchen-bathroom. Wash your hands. Use soap. Then line up here, and take a bowl. Ladle out whichever soup you want, and select the toppings of your choice. Then walk this direction, and pick up a grilled cheese. Touch only the one you're taking. Don't do ANYTHING gross." By the end of the week we had drilled that "if you touch it, it's yours" rule into these kids, but that can backfire easily when donuts show up and big hungry guys are like, "Mine, mine, mine, mine."
One interesting oddity about Okemo, is that they sale fresh Belgian waffles right on the slopes, from a little cabin. I was beyond fascinated by this because I love waffles and I couldn't comprehend how it was possible to eat a waffle on the slopes. I didn't get to ski this year because of health issues so Sara bought me a waffle, bagged it, skied down, caught TWO lifts, and skied to the condo just to give me a waffle! She's so awesome! And it was even still hot! The waffles have the syrup built in. And the sugar on the outside caramelizes a little. Remarkable.. She said storing the waffle inside her coat had kept her warm.
That night, we'd planned to eat dinner at the ski lodge. So at 5:00 we waltzed into the lodge, only to learn that the kitchen was closed. Steve had mistakenly been led to believe they stayed open late. So we were really nervous for a few minutes, realizing we'd pretty much eaten all of our food, since it was our last night. We weren't sure that anything besides a bar would be open. So we were driving through quaint little Ludlow, when we saw this place:
Perhaps its beauty is what drew us in, or that it was called, "Pot Belly," or simply that it was the only place we saw open. Of course we were terrified this would be another huge bar scene because then that would be even more unpleasant stories coming back to the parents. Believe me, when kids get home, the first thing out of their mouths when they see their adoring parents' faces is stuff like, "We ate junk the whole time!" "Pastor Steve took us to a bar!" "We stayed up all night!" (And only ONE of those things happened this time--except me and Sara staying up one night.) But it was actually quite nice inside the Pot Belly, and quiet. In fact we were the only ones there because apparently, Vermontians don't eat dinner. Then we realized the entrees were $30... After we had a heart attack, having brought a whole pile of short-funded teenagers in there, Steve noticed that on the back of the menu there were sandwiches for around $9. We all breathed a sigh of relief. We then told the kids they'd need to plan to leave a minimum of 15-20% tip, which we never imagined would cause such panic and hysteria. So then Steve and Dan spent some time at the kids' tables, giving math lessons, and explaining why it's extra important for Christians to give at least what's expected. I learned myself that night, that servers only make $2 an hour before tips. Tip your servers!
I was excited to learn there was a grass fed local Vermont beef burger on the menu. I normally won't touch ground meat in a restaurant, but that sounded safe, and I was ready to shove a big juicy burger into my face. So after devouring some delicious bruschetta with melted cheese and topped with a basil and arugula pesto, my burger was placed before me. I took my first bite, and immediately was troubled by a strange taste. Then another. Then I got creeped out and stopped eating it. So then I scarfed down the best fries I've ever eaten. But the funky burger did nothing lessen my love for "Pot Belly."
Later, back at the condo, I admitted to others that my burger tasted "too fresh." -like maybe it had been mooing earlier in the day. Steve thinks I'm a big nut bag and he gave up on that conversation. So I began to ask others if they'd experienced the same thing, but no one had really had the Vermont burger. Except for one apparently nonobservant person. Then Sara told me she totally understood what I was saying. She said, it's as if my cow was slaughtered that morning, and the beef spent some time at the farm, just sitting around, absorbing the farm animal smell, and then arrived on my plate soon after. She understands me so well! Her only regret, was that she didn't realize it at the time because she wished she had tasted my farmtasticly fresh burger. Sigh. If only we could turn back the hands of time. I could have had some support on this. Because I KNOW, her discerning taste buds would have noticed it too. Meanwhile, Steve still thinks I'm a loon. But we loved the Pot Belly, except they didn't give free refills which causes me to experience anxiety, because I have to make careful decisions about rationing out my beverage, but we're going back next year. We'll have the kids practice tipping beforehand.
Steve sat comfortably by the roaring fire each night, and preached on the life of Joseph, while wearing his flannel Steelers pajama pants. The kids and adults listened attentively, while the aches and pains of a day of sliding down the mountain, sometimes violently, set in. This was usually followed by a game of hide and seek that involved a lot of very loud screaming.
We were very thankful to return from the trip with NO injuries this year. Days later, when Steve suggested that we might not go back next year, the kids all went insane. So, we know we have to go back, or face an angry teenage mob. I'm already looking forward to it too. I have a complaint about Vermont though. They claim to have moose there. I've been twice and kept my eyes fixed on every field and woods, the whole time, and I've never once seen one of these alleged real moose. I'm convinced it's all a sham.
This year's catchphrase: "Happy, happy, happy!"
Last year's catchphrases: "It flipped!"
"Are you serious??"
A few days later, the excitement over the boots, which had not even arrived yet, began to diminish. Washing the dishes was gross, and not fun, and we began to sense a great deal of unhappiness. I thought she was tracking the shipment of the boots online, so when they arrived on Wednesday, we hid them, just to see how long it would be before she had some big panic attack because the tracking revealed that a delivery had been made and they were missing.
Because that's the kind of parents we are.
On Thursday, Steve and I had to do some shopping for the trip, so we could feed all those people, and we left our kids alone for a few hours. By now she'd really gotten behind on the dishes, so I said to be sure to get the dishwasher loaded. That night, we had to take my car, "Cherry Pie" out because Steve's truck was in the shop because New Jerseyans can't stop crashing into him. Steve had to load hundreds of bottled waters into little Cherry Pie, along with all the groceries we'd need for several days of feeding hungry teenagers. I think that's when I began to sense the impending misadventures, that like any trip with our family, awaited us.
When we returned home, I checked the dishwasher, and found that Elizabeth had only loaded it with 1 large colander, 1 large bowl, a large pot, and a couple pieces of flatware. Meanwhile, the sink remained full of dishes, the counters were loaded, and the table was covered. I wasn't even sure how we'd eat breakfast. I couldn't say she didn't load the dishwasher, because technically, it was mostly full. She was already in bed, sleeping soundly. After overcoming my initial desire to squish her, I went to her Facebook page and posted, "Nicely played."
The next morning, I carefully planned a breakfast that wouldn't require me to wash anything first. I wasn't gonna touch those dirty dishes, no matter what happened. I didn't care what kind of infestation developed right there in our frightful family kitchen, be it flies, roaches, locusts, or wild animals. Not that I wasn't afraid.
We were scheduled to leave for VT, bright and early on Sunday morning, and thankfully, by Saturday afternoon, she had all of the dishes sparkling, and even did some additional cleaning in the kitchen. She even admitted that on Thursday, during her lowest of lows, she'd considered pulling clean dishes out from the cabinets, and loading them into the dishwasher, to avoid touching dirty ones. In all fairness, her schedule was unusually busy-bees that week. Then Steve called for her to come into the family room to grab a box to place into the recycling. Moments later, we heard her pull at the unopened box of Uggs, pause, and say,
"You people are horrible."
We know. We didn't even mean to wait until the last minute to tell her they'd arrived. I just kept forgetting. So she was happy, finally.
By late Sunday afternoon, we arrived in our caravan of 4WD SUVs and truck pulling a UHaul full of skis and luggage, at the condo we'd rented for our group of 21 people. Or 20. Whatever. The first thing we noticed, is that the interior of that condo is an assault on the eyes. Bright coral paint and tacky wallpaper adorned the walls of the main living areas. It turns out, the "slope side" condo, isn't really slope side. And much to our dismay, the bedding had been stripped from all of the beds, and lay in a giant, germ infested pile at the top of the stairs. There were crumbs on the tables, and debris on the floors. No one had cleaned. I wondered if I would hyperventilate.
Then we sank into a deep depression, and even tried to see if we could get into the house we stayed at last year. But it was booked. We thought we might have to wash that gross bedding, or we'd have none, but I couldn't imagine touching that stuff to load it into the washer. There's a reason I've never been a housekeeper. My friend, Sara, was even bothered that her boot touched it when she walked by it. All seemed hopeless, when suddenly Steve found some extra bedding stashed in a closet somewhere. Then one of the boys made all the beds. Ethan was a hero!
Things began to look up. Then we noticed there was a bathroom practically inside the kitchen. We'd assumed it was a closet. Having accepted that we were gonna be staying there, we announced to the kids, "This bathroom is for urination and hand washing only. No BMs." Then we claimed another bathroom as "Adults only." Don't worry, that still left 2 whole bathrooms for teen number 2s..
Then we saw this:
 |
| About a week before the ski trip, Sara and I both just happened to be at the Cheesecake Factory at the same time, and were seated no where near each other. We were both wearing almost identical owl necklaces, and some Uggs. Out of a 20 something page menu, we both happened to order spinach and artichoke dip as our meal, and a slice of cheesecake. So at the condo, this luxurious shag carpet in the loft (boys' room) looked just like spinach and artichoke dip.. Coincidence? I think not.. |
Anyway, we'd planned to have pizza delivered that night, but we were so traumatized by the dirty condo that we decided to get out of there, and go out for pizza, in hopes that housekeeping , whom we'd now contacted, would show up and scrub that place down. Online, we found one place that was open, called "Outback Pizza". The peculiar thing about Ludlow, is that the whole place shuts down by mid-afternoon, except for bars and a gas station or two. It was now dark, and incidentally, only 11 freezing degrees outside.
On the way there, fully sensing the inescapable downward spiraling course of the evening, we began to speculate about what kind of place "Outback Pizza" might actually be.
"What if it's a bar??," someone jokingly asked.
"Hey, maybe they'll have karaoke!" I exclaimed.
It turns out, the karaoke was only on Thursdays, and this was Sunday, but still, we had the entire youth group of our conservative Baptist church sitting in a big 'ol bar type place with loud music, where we soon found ourselves asking for group rates because they were out of large pizzas, and the smalls were $13 each. And we wouldn't let anyone have anything to drink until we found out if they offered free refills. (Think that doesn't happen anywhere anymore? Visit Vermont.) So they gave us a deal and we just told everyone to eat fast and try not to soak in the atmosphere.. Steve seemed to develop an insatiable thirst from all the anxiety, leading the server to eventually just bring him a pitcher with a straw.
With a new day, came new hope, and all the skiers were soon out for an exciting day. I woke up pretty early because kids in ski boots sound like a houseful of rambunctious elephants. I prepared a couple of homemade soups in slow cookers and went upstairs to take a shower. I knew no one had been in the shower for quite some time, but I still barely had any hot water, which seemed to overshadow my concern about the pink hue on the shower curtain liner. From inside the shower, I did have a lovely view of the raging snow falling outside, even though I had the improperly-hung blinds completely closed.
By 10 am, housekeeping had arrived. They cleaned some stuff, but they didn't give us any toilet paper, which no one noticed until about 10 pm that night. In Ludlow, you can't just go out for a late night tp run. So we had to spare squares, here and there, and hold out until morning.
There's nothing more refreshing than a cold shower after a day of skiing in 13 degree temps. So on our 2nd evening in that freak condo, we enjoyed piping hot soup and a "soup bar," and called the homeowner, yet again, because of frigid water. We got no help from him, so then one of the teens found another hot water heater. It was turned off, so we turned it on. I was never sure if it made any difference.
Obviously, we are never staying in that jacked up condo again.
The four of us adults turn into a bunch of germaphobes when it comes to kids touching our food supply, particularly the younger ones. So when Steve asked me to announce instructions for the "soup bar" we'd set up for dinner that night. I said,
"Get in line HERE, at this kitchen-bathroom. Wash your hands. Use soap. Then line up here, and take a bowl. Ladle out whichever soup you want, and select the toppings of your choice. Then walk this direction, and pick up a grilled cheese. Touch only the one you're taking. Don't do ANYTHING gross." By the end of the week we had drilled that "if you touch it, it's yours" rule into these kids, but that can backfire easily when donuts show up and big hungry guys are like, "Mine, mine, mine, mine."
One interesting oddity about Okemo, is that they sale fresh Belgian waffles right on the slopes, from a little cabin. I was beyond fascinated by this because I love waffles and I couldn't comprehend how it was possible to eat a waffle on the slopes. I didn't get to ski this year because of health issues so Sara bought me a waffle, bagged it, skied down, caught TWO lifts, and skied to the condo just to give me a waffle! She's so awesome! And it was even still hot! The waffles have the syrup built in. And the sugar on the outside caramelizes a little. Remarkable.. She said storing the waffle inside her coat had kept her warm.
That night, we'd planned to eat dinner at the ski lodge. So at 5:00 we waltzed into the lodge, only to learn that the kitchen was closed. Steve had mistakenly been led to believe they stayed open late. So we were really nervous for a few minutes, realizing we'd pretty much eaten all of our food, since it was our last night. We weren't sure that anything besides a bar would be open. So we were driving through quaint little Ludlow, when we saw this place:
Perhaps its beauty is what drew us in, or that it was called, "Pot Belly," or simply that it was the only place we saw open. Of course we were terrified this would be another huge bar scene because then that would be even more unpleasant stories coming back to the parents. Believe me, when kids get home, the first thing out of their mouths when they see their adoring parents' faces is stuff like, "We ate junk the whole time!" "Pastor Steve took us to a bar!" "We stayed up all night!" (And only ONE of those things happened this time--except me and Sara staying up one night.) But it was actually quite nice inside the Pot Belly, and quiet. In fact we were the only ones there because apparently, Vermontians don't eat dinner. Then we realized the entrees were $30... After we had a heart attack, having brought a whole pile of short-funded teenagers in there, Steve noticed that on the back of the menu there were sandwiches for around $9. We all breathed a sigh of relief. We then told the kids they'd need to plan to leave a minimum of 15-20% tip, which we never imagined would cause such panic and hysteria. So then Steve and Dan spent some time at the kids' tables, giving math lessons, and explaining why it's extra important for Christians to give at least what's expected. I learned myself that night, that servers only make $2 an hour before tips. Tip your servers!
I was excited to learn there was a grass fed local Vermont beef burger on the menu. I normally won't touch ground meat in a restaurant, but that sounded safe, and I was ready to shove a big juicy burger into my face. So after devouring some delicious bruschetta with melted cheese and topped with a basil and arugula pesto, my burger was placed before me. I took my first bite, and immediately was troubled by a strange taste. Then another. Then I got creeped out and stopped eating it. So then I scarfed down the best fries I've ever eaten. But the funky burger did nothing lessen my love for "Pot Belly."
Later, back at the condo, I admitted to others that my burger tasted "too fresh." -like maybe it had been mooing earlier in the day. Steve thinks I'm a big nut bag and he gave up on that conversation. So I began to ask others if they'd experienced the same thing, but no one had really had the Vermont burger. Except for one apparently nonobservant person. Then Sara told me she totally understood what I was saying. She said, it's as if my cow was slaughtered that morning, and the beef spent some time at the farm, just sitting around, absorbing the farm animal smell, and then arrived on my plate soon after. She understands me so well! Her only regret, was that she didn't realize it at the time because she wished she had tasted my farmtasticly fresh burger. Sigh. If only we could turn back the hands of time. I could have had some support on this. Because I KNOW, her discerning taste buds would have noticed it too. Meanwhile, Steve still thinks I'm a loon. But we loved the Pot Belly, except they didn't give free refills which causes me to experience anxiety, because I have to make careful decisions about rationing out my beverage, but we're going back next year. We'll have the kids practice tipping beforehand.
Steve sat comfortably by the roaring fire each night, and preached on the life of Joseph, while wearing his flannel Steelers pajama pants. The kids and adults listened attentively, while the aches and pains of a day of sliding down the mountain, sometimes violently, set in. This was usually followed by a game of hide and seek that involved a lot of very loud screaming.
We were very thankful to return from the trip with NO injuries this year. Days later, when Steve suggested that we might not go back next year, the kids all went insane. So, we know we have to go back, or face an angry teenage mob. I'm already looking forward to it too. I have a complaint about Vermont though. They claim to have moose there. I've been twice and kept my eyes fixed on every field and woods, the whole time, and I've never once seen one of these alleged real moose. I'm convinced it's all a sham.
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| Here, Vermont pretends to have moose. |
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| More delusions.. |
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| Products aimed at promoting the deception.. |
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| Ethan- Teenager. Computer genius. Boy Scout who took charge of the bedding crisis! Known for saying, "When I was packing, I actually, LITERALLY, wrote on my list, to bring my swag." |
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| We've made some great friends in NJ. This is Dan and Sara. Not that you can see them. Known for saying: Dan: "These kids are soft, like butter in the desert." Sara: "I brought you a waffle." ♥ |
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| That's Elizabeth, in the middle. Known for posting this on facebook: "Just crashed into the waffle house...that's right folks....hit the waffle house, scared the poor waffle lady, and did a split and fell under the window... Thus concludes my skiing adventure..." " |
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| Little Noah and one of the junior high boys connecting over ipad games. |
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| Those tongs had just been in the fire. |
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| Evening Service. |
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| The dueling Keurigs. An annual tradition. |
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| I don't know... |
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| When I first saw this, I couldn't remember what it was called and I said, "Look, it's a snow scraping thing." Southerner problems. |
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| Steve and his favorite new toy- a GoPro camera. Several of these cameras, worn by Steve, Dan, and Derek, gave us countless hours of amazing video footage. |
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| Noah making a snow angel. |
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| It snowed like crazy! |
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| Noah sliding down a snowbank, face down. |
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| This is what it looked like the whole time we were there! |
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| Okemo Mountain Resort |
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| Here's something that's actually real in Vermont, unlike those fake moose.. Delicious, real Maple syrup! |
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| The also have maple popcorn. I wish I had more! |
This year's catchphrase: "Happy, happy, happy!"
Last year's catchphrases: "It flipped!"
"Are you serious??"
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