Journey

On May 6, 2010, I traveled to Florida for a business meeting (yes, I offset the travel). The direct route from Seattle to Miami took me over the Gulf of Mexico. Just over two weeks before, on April 20, BP's Deepwater Horizon had exploded: to my horror, I could not only see the spill, but it was immense, mile after mile of brown sullying the otherwise blue waters. The oil would flow for two and a half more months before the wellhead was capped.

April 20, the day of the explosion, was also notable for another company. On that day, Nissan opened up their online system to take reservations for their first all electric car. I received an email inviting me to reserve.

Now, I'm not what marketers call an early adopter, nor am I a serial consumer. House, cars, cell phones, kitchen appliances, even clothing are bought used whenever practical. We don't even own a TV, so don't ask me what kind of DV-R we have or where we hang that huge flat panel. Only two things are always bought new: underwear and computers. The former for (hopefully) obvious reasons, and the latter pushed to the limits of their age before finding a second life with someone who can use them. But this email tempted me.

The week before I flew to Miami, I kept coming back to that email. Here I was buying offsets for my air travel, and we purchase green energy for our home. We line dry laundry and eat organic foods. This seemed entirely in keeping with our values, and there was no risk--we could always back out. I went online and placed my deposit, and put myself on the list.

Right before Christmas, I received the email: my number had come up, and I was free to order. The trickle of first deliveries started. I hesitated, not quite able to bring myself to buy new. I made spreadsheets, plugging in electric rates and usage patterns and battery life and years of ownership and tax incentives. I joined chat boards and followed tweets, listened in and asked questions. I looked at dimensions, and determined that the cello and my family would fit, but it was still cheaper, and arguably still environmentally sound, to keep my aging internal combustion car for another five years.

But still tar balls continue to wash up on the shores of the Gulf, and oil that has settled on the sea floor is not degrading. Countries in Africa, exploited for their petroleum are reeling under instability. I am sure the requisite media blitz will accompany the anniversary of the oil spill. Someone might even make a connection between revolution and gas prices. And everyone will shrug and say, well, gee, what can we do? And that's when I realized that this was not about the money after all.

Cayenne red, optional floor mats. No emissions. Delivery in 3-4 months.

Dodged bullet

I am traveling right now to attend a series of intense meetings that require me to be in top form. I try to "live clean" in the days leading up to my departure, to be able to concentrate on agenda items rather than a sinus headache. No matter how you slice it, airline food simply cannot qualify as healthy fare. I used to be the only one who boarded with her lunch in hand, so I'm pleased that everyone else is bringing food on board. It makes me a bit less of an oddity.

Though I am still quite odd. There seem to be plenty of takers for the airlines paid offerings, probably because of price: $6 oatmeal seems cheap when you compare it to the $10 version in the terminal (though Pizza Hut seems to be doing brisk business). On my flight, there were no takers for the oatmeal at 10:00 am, though bagels were a popular item. I had breakfasted at home, and waited until closer to the end of the trip to pull out my bag of lettuce and huge avocado that was destined to be my lunch. My seat partner stopped snickering when he smelled that delightful little tangerine, a perfect cap to a refreshing meal on a stuffy airplane. I saved the carrot chips and nuts for the second leg snack, and arrived feeling well and not overly thirsty from heavily salted fare that is typical of prepackaged snacks.

But it could have turned out very differently. Indeed, in the days leading up to the trip, I was racing around, trying to get things done. One evening before dinner, I ducked out to go to the store for a liter of rice milk I needed for dinner, and a bag of lettuce for the trip: While I much prefer real lettuce, I had only a half hour, so rationalized that this would do. As luck would have it, the store of choice was festooned with hundreds of red and white balloons, effectively barring me from entering (maddening latex allergy).  What to do? The Kroger market down the road has a decent organics section, even though it's not my first choice. So off I went. I plucked a brick of milk from the shelf, and headed over to the produce section, to the wall o' bags. And there I stood, paralyzed. I knew only that I wanted something fresh and crisp, organic and darkish green (no iceberg, please!). And the more I looked, the less I liked what I saw. When the morbidly obese clerk passed by and asked if I was finding everything I wanted, I realized I hadn't and put back the bag. The bag was Romaine lettuce, the subject of yet another E. coli recall--the very next day.

I am more thankful than usual for my personal farmer, who placed a head of tender local red leaf lettuce--the first of the season!--in my box this week, the eve of my departure. And while I do not feel vindicated, I certainly am more motivated to follow my instincts. So the next time you stand in front of the display (it is so much more than just a shelf) in indecision, ask yourself if you found what you are looking for. You may be surprised at your answer.

Bottom line

Like many these days, I have avoided looking at the bottom line of my bank statements. And like many these days, when I did look, I was shocked, and then scared. That’s a big chunk of our retirement gone, or, looking at it another way, many more years of working and less playing than I was hoping for. For some, it is dreams that are lost, for others, it is much more.

I think that those who choose to plug into the media are a bit worse off, as both journalista and advertising moguls try to get more blood from an increasingly dry stone. I had the opportunity break my usual television fast during my annual translation pilgrimage this year. I wanted to see election returns: my hotel room screen blared images of hope (the three big networks), and rheotric forecasting gloom and doom (my first encounter with Fox news). And yet, I still needed to eat every day, even as markets crash and foreclosures loom around me. And I still need to eat, even in a hotel. Navigating a restaurant menu is always a challenge, and after a week, I had exhausted the possibilities and was into reruns.

As is usual for these events, I am happy to return home, in spite of the things that may have piled up in my absence (though Darling Husband does hold down a fairly tight fort and is easy to come home to). Without a TV blaring canned messages, I am free to think about things and make up my own mind. Without a grueling conference and meeting schedule, I am free to respond to my and my family’s more human needs. Without the confines of a restaurant menu, I am free to eat as I wish.

And joy of joys, my inbox was replete with good stuff: an invitation to a birthday party, an invitation to what promised to be a congenial work party at school, and an invitation to join a box scheme from a local farmer. I found it easy to say yes to all of them.

And so yesterday, I picked up carpool kids and a huge crate piled with muddy potatoes (scads of them), carrots, parsnips, cabbage and kale, intoxicatingly fragrant bunching onions and a handful of sweet pears and apples. And it is good news for our bottom line: even with an unfavorable exchange rate, this bounty of local and organic produce, farmed by people we know and have broken bread with, cost us less than $30. I shall go to the market tomorrow, and invest in a $15 chicken, and improve our bottom line for the week.

Mileage

My “new” car (ok, it’s used) has a nifty little trip computer that tells me how many more miles I have on the tank, as well as calculating the mileage for that tank. Yesterday afternoon, a few miles from our friend’s alpaca farm (the same one where we saw a cria being born last summer), we stopped for petrol, and I checked the trip computer: 31.5 mpg.

Of course, that doesn’t tell the whole story. A quick check of the map reveals that we traveled about 300 miles yesterday, yet we drove for only about four hours and used only one tank of gas. No, we weren’t incredibly fast, and the car doesn’t have an unusually large tank: nope, we took the ferry.

Our choice was based on several factors: flying is a hassle and produces a lot of carbon, and we’ve done so much this year (and have more to come) that we really wanted to avoid flying; the airfares for half-term break were obscenely inflated, even for discount airlines; and we very shallowly wanted to have our own car because a) it felt stupid to rent one when we had just bought two cars and b) we wanted to go to IKEA in the UK for a few items. This left us with the ferries.

Based on the distances, the Rosslare to Wales ferry looked to be the shortest route, and broke up the driving. High speed ferries are mothballed for the rough seas of fall and winter, so we opted for the big slow one. We booked it online, and yesterday, at the crack of dawn, set out for our sailing. As we waited to board, the sun rose over the Irish Sea.

To say the ferry is big is an understatement. With ten decks, half of them for vehicles, the thing was immense. There were a few families in minivans like us—we figure most got out of town Friday evening—but the main event was the trucks. Passenger cars were boarded in fifteen minutes, but the trucks kept coming aboard for over an hour.

And as we disembarked, a truck wove in front of us in slow motion: Polish registration, coming from Ireland, with “Täglich frisch!” (“Fresh daily!”) emblazoned on the side. Pictures of happy, crisp vegetables completed the illusion.

And that got me thinking. Now, we arrived in the UK just after noon. We had three more hours of driving ahead of us to make it to our destination this side of London: that truck however, would be on the road until bedtime just to make a ferry across the channel, with driving through the wee hours just to get to a German-speaking border. The south of Germany, Switzerland or Austria would easily add another 400 miles to the vegetable’s trip.

We were only a bit tired when we arrived, but we had had the chance to stretch our legs, eat two full meals and breathe fresh sea air on our trip: those carrots and leeks had no such opportunity. So, while we’re feeling fairly smart for having chosen the more pleasant journey, we have found our resolve to eat locally reinforced by a ferry trip.

On the final leg of our journey, just after the petrol station, was an organic farm stand. Fresh vegetables, fresh daily. No gallons or tons or miles involved.

Larder-Bo

From the makers of Uno comes a game called Skip-Bo. It’s only related to Uno by the fact that both are played with colorful, numbered cards. But there the similarity ends. The goal in Skip-Bo is to draw down your stockpile to nothing by building up build piles, using a combination of your freshly-drawn hand, your recent discards and your stockpile itself. It is not a fast-paced game, and lends itself to knitting and chatting between turns.

It is hard not to see the similarities in what is happening on our kitchen. In a process similar to the familiar emptying the fridge to prepare for a few weeks’ absence, we have taken things to a new level. The objective of this game is to draw down the larder to nothing, building up meals using fresh veggies from the garden and the CSA, leftover odds and ends in the back of the fridge, and the dwindling contents of the larder itself. We are in the early stages, and things like tomatoes and blueberries manage to make even the most mundane noodles or baking mix seem like a summery treat. I imagine that as the season winds down, we shall increasingly turn to soups, with the ultimate concoction likely to draw sneers all around; vilified but for the thought of the airplane food to come.

For now, the last of the tomatoes join some leftover garlic oil in a quick sauté over a half-packet of elbow noodles, not bad for the start of a new game.

Summer by the numbers

Thirty-four days, 16 flights, 13,562 miles (21,816 km), 11 airports, 15 stamps in our four passports.

Two meetings, 92 degrees, 53 percent humidity, 4 monuments, .58 inches of rain in 25 minutes, four plates of mezze, one pizza. Sixty white-knuckled minutes to Dulles airport. Six hours and seven seats to spread out in to sleep.

Rowan House number 80, 62 degrees and overcast. Three fishermen in the Shannon, one swan, two coins for the dryer. Six back rashers, one white pudding, no eggs, but two glasses of orange juice and a mug of fair-trade (soy) cocoa. 087 377 2763 for ten Euro.

One silver Rolls Royce, one tiny church, 75 people, a 25-minute homily. Twelve siblings on the bride’s side, two for the groom. Two hours between ceremony and dinner, three rounds of Guinness. Four courses, one Euro each in the pool for how long the best man would speak; 30 Euros for the lucky winner at seven minutes.

One hour to Prestwick, three hours of windy roads, six pounds for supper from the chippy. 1865 semi-detached, four bedrooms, two baths, one still under construction. Five people piled in a car. A hundred feet of peat-built wall, one Victorian museum with 20 Roman altars, six NATO early warning radio masts, twenty rowing punts in a stunning lake, another two pints of Strongbow cider.

Three days apart (Two hour delay, twelve midnight arrival for him, two backpacks for the two of us). Countless meters of Hadrianic wall, one Roman fort, one priory, 70p for a bag of homemade butter toffee from the church shop. Five minutes to pick teeth clean.

Two flights, 50 minutes in Paris, two busses to the plane. Four busses, no jet ways, three airport fire departments, one ambulance with sirens blaring. One to greet us; Eight people in a three-bedroom house: two beds, one futon, one sofa, one air mattress.

Two brides, three hours at the hairdressers, twenty people in one room, one notary, ten minutes to marry. countless glasses of champagne, seven toasts, ten minutes of fireworks down in the valley. To bed at twelve.

Four hotel rooms, twelve rolls in a basket, nine at the breakfast table, already 25 degrees. Ten minutes into town, two trailers make a tiny market. Four aunts and one cousin, two swimsuits, two hours in the pool. Twelve tables in a single tent, two cases of champagne, one keg of Bier. Five floating candles in the pool, one thunderstorm, two speeches, dinner two hours late. One mosquito bite, one wasp sting, one swollen eye on one tired kidlet.

Nine o’clock breakfast, already 25 degrees Celsius. Two bottles remaining, nine glasses, ten minutes tops. Fifteen kisses goodbye, three cars depart, 40 minutes to the airport. Two popsicles and a candy bar from one aunt, zero wait for security. Three and a half hours in Paris, two terminals, three cafes, two baguettes, two oranginas, ten pains au chocolat, two cocoas, one chocolate fondant, six hands of Uno. Two non-EU passports, ten minutes to explain the itinerary. Two smiling faces and four warm arms to greet us.

Nine hours of sleep, three days of restful companionship. Third morning: seven alpacas grazing outside my window in the morning. Two cups of cocoa, a cool 18 degrees. Ten minutes pass, one more alpaca outside my window, freshly born, wet and cold in the dewy grass. Two hours pass before she nurses for the first time.

One pound coin for the luggage cart, two pounds for a sandwich and one for a chocolate croissant. Thirty-two pence remaining. One aircoach, forty minutes to Bewley’s, ten minutes to the B&B. Five minutes to freshen up, seven stops to St. Stephen’s Green. Three hours to watch the buskers, buy two sandwiches, watch seven swans in the rain, find a license plate for Little One’s imaginary car. Supper with five new-found friends, three cups of cocoa, two PIPs. One hour train and walk, three beds, three heads, three pillows.

One hour to breakfast, two hours to pack three bags, another air coach, two hours to Frankfurt. One luggage tag torn, fifteen-minute walk to the rental car. One dent, 20 minutes to walk back to report it and be able to leave. Twenty-five minutes to the hotel.

One floor, three rooms of family, one ironing board, two wrinkly suit jackets. Forty minutes to the park, fifteen people in a horse-drawn carriage, one sister lost (one GPS malfunction), bride 50 minutes late as well. Twenty minutes of ceremony, 150 guests and four stringed instruments running to the 17^th century barn to get out of the rain; 30 more minutes of ceremony. Two speeches, three toasts, seventeen chafing dishes, one more speech. Thirty balloons, one kilometer hike to the car, three tired people, but flight 491 from Seattle left on time.

Seven a.m. breakfast, flight 491 expected twenty minutes early. Three bags stuffed quickly into the car, 20 minutes to the airport, 45 minute wait for one tired Number One. Three and a half hour drive to the number two apartment at the farm in Oberzell.

Four windows, two window screens, 26 mosquito bites. Two trips over two days to the rental agency to pick up the car; not the right one. Third time’s the charm.

Three hours westward, 35 minutes with two godsons, one hour along the Rhine, ratatouille (not the movie) with four Alsatians. Five minutes to Cora, 25 bars of chocolat, three glasses of moutarde, 2 bags of sel marin (iode, fin), 2 jars of herbes de provence, and one tube of harissa. Three hours to picnic: two baguettes, three cheeses, four éclairs.

Four bells pealing at 11:30, processional of one happy couple, four children, four in-laws and four grandchildren. Three hymns, five prayers, fifty years blessed. Forty for champagne, twenty for cake and tea.

Three Meersburger wines, one secco, 200,000 liters in the cellar kept at a constant 16 degrees Celsius. Four-course dinner, Three speeches, two musical interludes from two grandchildren (one borrowed cello). Thousands gathered by the lake, twenty-five minutes of fireworks at eleven. Kisses, hugs, 40 minutes in the dark; a thousand and one stars overhead.

Breakfast for nine, dinner for 16 from a one-butt kitchen. Two go-carts, three ride-on tractors, four bicycles and one bee sting. Two aunts, one cousin, seven hours at an amusement park. One last meal, seven bags packed, one last rental car.

Four hours to Frankfurt, two beds for four people for ten hours. Three bags to check, ten hours, two meals, four movies, 20 minutes for the shuttle. One key, one cat, finally home.

Excuses

It could be that I’ve been incredibly busy. After all, I’ve travelled hundreds of miles, acquired a passel of stamps in my passport and receipts from airport restaurants. I have a stack of wedding programs and menus, from a high mass to civil union, garden party to formal buffet for one hundred—and we still have the highpoint of the trip in front of us, my Darling In-laws’ fiftieth wedding anniversary. So it might be that I could say I have a good excuse.

But the real reason I haven’t posted to the blog is simply that I haven’t written. I have started several essays in my mind: about my like-minded Scottish friend (to be entitled Two peas in a pod); something to celebrate witnessing the birth of a cria (that’s a baby alpaca to thee and me); possibly something about being chased by small children armed with latex balloons at not one but two weddings (summarily dismissed to not offend the brides.) There might even be a short ode to having long fingernails on my left hand because I’ve been away from my violin for so long.

I wanted to pour out words of joy about our whirlwind day trip to France, where we filled our pantry and travel wine cellar; lament how much I missed hearing Number One’s cello and even his whining (the former much more than the latter). Somewhere in my heart is a soaring ode to the German breakfast (worthy of a king) and Käsespätzle (the Swabian equivalent of mac ‘n cheese). I actually started a drafted a pretty good piece where I dissected this trip by the numbers (I think I may finish it some quiet morning on my return).

But I seem unable to write about what is occupying a large slice of my mind share these days. Even if it the gift of Blarney isn’t flowing, Ireland weighs on my mind—and not just because that Limerick wedding is shaping up to be one of the more pleasant of this trip (thought the one we stumbled on today in the town square was awfully sweet, with the bride and her policeman groom handcuffed together and serenaded by incongruous Swiss Alp horns.) The reason is simple: we will be living there for a year, beginning in September. Darling Husband’s employer made us a good offer, and the adventuresome spirit that led us to each other in the first place moved us to accept it.

Our handful of days in the west of the Emerald Isle gave us a wee taste, as we strolled mehodically and attentively through supermarkets, trying to envision a yearful of meals. For we recognize that even though the relocation agency assigned to our “case” will help us with finding schools and keeping stamp-happy bureaucrats content, the task of sourcing our nourishment falls to us, and will likely be our most immediate of needs. And so, in addition to long lists of broadband providers, car rental options and furnished apartments south of Dublin (with decent guest quarters), I scour the Internet and solicit referrals for farmer’s markets and good rice noodles.

So it seems that I have picked a good name for the blog, as we will be living the Irish life for the year to come. We may not eat the full Irish every morning, but we will find a way to weave it into the fabric of our lives.

Peas and potatoes

Tucked behind a brick house in the heaving metropolis that is Carlisle is a tiny vegetable garden, fastidiously tended by the husband of my bridesmaid of oh-so many years ago. He is a number cruncher by trade, she has meandered into insurance. They are seemingly normal people, but if you scratch the surface, you find thinking, delightfully quixotic folk. When not writing policies to protect cows from death by lightning (actually it reimburses the farmer for his loss, for there is simply no way to protect a cow in a thunderstorm), she works arduously to obtain and maintain fairtrade town status for her hometown. Her accounting spouse loves planting the beans more than counting them, and has decided to leave his high-powered post go back to university to pursue a degree in environmental studies.

It was at their table in their as-yet unpainted breakfast room that we shared the bounty of their garden, from courgettes (that’s zucchini to thee and me) to yellow chard, to fragrant heritage sweet peas and classic English shelling peas. Little One delighted in hunting for the plump pods, and we all dug into the ensuing risotto with gusto.

Nestled in a vale near the English west coast live the parents of Number One son’s first crush. Lest he blush, I should remind the reader that he was but four years old at the time, but must also note that she has not lost her charm, though it is currently crowned with blue hair. I am tucked into a cozy stone cottage across the garden from the main house on their alpaca farm, where we are awaiting the appearance of Flossie’s cria (that’s a baby alpaca to thee and me). My Little One and their smallest headed out to the potato patch with a basket, and came back lugging grubby new potatoes and fat broad beans (not just for broads, mind you). We scrubbed and shelled and chopped and roasted and feasted on these, and a few more handfuls dug this morning also graced a lovely vegetable stew at lunchtime. They are gentle folk, who quietly lead by example, and have chose quiet, gentle beasts to populate their fields. There are no other animals, not even a chicken, for they keep a vegan household and would have no use for eggs. Aside from the fresh-baked bread, I can relax about the food on the table, for I know it will be healthy and delicious.

Perched on a rocky hillside just inside Bavaria, we gathered for the weekend joining of two soul mates. The menu was predictable, and predictably unsuitable for our travel-weary bodies and thinking lifestyle. Bookended between the visits to our other two friends in England, it stands out, sore-thumb like. Prepared products, conventionally grown and highly-processed offerings were the rule here, and champagne, consumed in quantity, was likely the most traditional and purest consumable. Vaguely aware that we ate outside the mainstream, our hostess provided us with Ökotest margarine; similar to the American Good Housekeeping symbol, its name implies some sort of awareness, but the hydrogenated oil in the product belies corporate emptiness.

The weeks of peas and potatoes serve as healing times, inbreaths between the weighty weekend ceremonies, and I am thankful for the good food as much as the good company. I suspect that in the long run, I shall recall the tendrils and the mud with at least as much fondness as the toasts and vows.

Limerick

I shall resist the temptation to break into a Learesque poem as I announce that we are firmly ensconced in student hosing at the University of Limerick. We are here for the first of three weddings this trip, but have chosen this little refuge to recover from our weariness and jet lag. As I write on the first morning here, it is morning, and I am the only one awake, having chosen to drag myself out of bed at a respectable hour; no worries, there are 10 solid hours of snoozing behind me.

We did a little shopping before our early bedtime yesterday, enough to put together a simple supper of organic chicken breast, snow peas and rice, the latter two being leftovers from our in-trip stores. Earlier, we had had a good midday meal at Ciaran’s café, the little hole-in-the wall across the way. Absolutely delicious, organic and vegetarian, it was the perfect kind of healing food our travel-weary bodies needed.

***

I find I am missing Number One Son, and it surprises me. I always look for four chairs at a table instead of the three we need. I know there are certain moments when he would just roll his eyes, but then there are special ones, like Wednesday. We spent much of the afternoon (we got up late) tooling around south of Limerick, near a place called Lough Gur. It's a lake, like its name implies, but surrounded by a huge concentration of ancient sites—the largest stone circle (like a short Stonehenge) in Ireland is in some farmer's field, but he's opened it up for all to see, and there was a small passage grave. His neighbor though, has an electric fence around some 4,000 year-old stone ring forts, and there was a sign in front of the 15th century castle that said, "No Trespassing, Cross Dog" so we didn’t venture in there.

So we headed to some ruins of an unpronounceable Cistercian Abbey that looked very inviting from the road. We were thinking we'd hit another locked fence, but then Little One spotted a stile next to it. So we parked the car (a black Ford Focus, ugh), and climbed over. There were ruins to a smaller chapel and churchyard on the way to the Abbey, so we poked around. Then we headed toward the little bridge to take us over to the Abbey. The farmer had very thoughtfully put the electrified cow wire on a bungee, and rigged it so there were two to make sure the beasts didn't get out, but when we met the herd, they were led by a rather large bull who was drooling and grunting rather loudly. He didn't seem terribly friendly, and we realized that there were far too many of them, and they seemed hungry. The reader may or may not be glad to hear that we didn't throw Little One to the bulls as a distraction to get to the abbey (we would have needed a second distraction to get back to the car, and we didn't have Number One with).

On the way back to the car, Little One started talking about the Aer Lingus symbol, and we explained that the shamrock, or clover, was a symbol for things Irish. He wanted to know what they looked like, so we pointed down--they were everywhere. I was thinking about what his widow had said at a classmate’s father’s funeral, about how he always found four-leaf clovers, and mentioned to Little One how it was considered good luck to find one. He told me to find one, and of course, I had to tell him that in all my years of looking (and I have looked), I'd never found one. But here they were, hundreds of them, so we set to looking. We looked for a while, and were giving up, when I took two steps—you know how it is, you don't really want to stop looking—and looked down. There it was, a four-leaf clover! I picked it, still not believing it. Darling Husband took a couple dozen pictures, and then turned around and looked down—and he found one, too! At this point, Little One couldn't believe his bad luck, and started to cry. So we hunted for one for him, but of course, there are none to be found when you really need them. So I consoled him with the knowledge that he had found the stile that led us to this magical field, and that was far more useful.

***

And here it is Saturday and we are packing again, a musing half-written, our hangovers still fresh. The first wedding, that of an Irish colleague, was terrific, done in typical Irish style. Just as they can't work long stretches, they can't seem to party without frequent breaks, which means that everyone headed to the bar (at least two rounds of Guinness) between the ceremony and the dinner. The ceremony was high mass, meaning the priest was long-winded (his assistant priest actually fell asleep during the homily), and everyone took communion. There was live, Irish music in the church (the recessional was "Haste to the Wedding"), and then during the break between the three-course dinner and live band for dancing (another two rounds of Guinness or Bailey's on the rocks, since it was after dinner), a few people produced instruments and played a mini-session: two banjoes, a fiddle, and spoons from the table.

Little One sat through the entire mass ceremony (and is very proud of the fact), and we all made it until around 11 pm, when we decided it would be wiser to go home and sleep a bit than be completely wiped the next day. It's taken until now for my head to clear a bit (a hot shower and cocoa helped).

Fireflies

I saw my first fireflies two evenings ago. Magical, as if someone gave cameras to bugs, and they were taking flash pictures of the impatiens. We were coming back from a delicious Board dinner at New Heights in Washington, D.C. (the other Washington), a Zagat-rated restaurant that would have been pretty close to sublime in many ways if they could lose the attitude.

The next night saw us hot and sweaty from heavy-duty way too many monumements touristing, in the Lebanese Taverna across the street. We adults grazed on scruptious mezze, while Little One stuffed fresh-baked pita with chunks of the butter that our gracious server—no attitude here—provided him. I realized I had asked for a table for four: my mother brain seems to have forgotten that Number One was lodged with the Mistress of Indulgence, and is probably too busy cruising the mall with her minions to have time to miss us.

We were sorely tempted by signs and awnings reading Petits Plats, Murphy’s Pub, and Organic Chinese Food among others, but there are only so many meals we can eat in a 24-hour period, and the friction economy is alive and well, gobbling up far too much of our time, and forcing us to resort to grab and go meals far too often.

But this city seems to be at odds with itself: L’Enfant’s sweeping views and allées, heavily influenced by his contemporary Haussmann’s Paris, has been filled with enough concrete barriers to sink an island the size of Manhattan. Bollards and fences everywhere ignore the meandering nature of nineteenth century pathways, forcing tourists into TSA-like cattle chutes. A folly tucked into the woods is inaccessible from the reflecting pool on the Mall.

It is easy to see the magic that this city once hold, and perhaps I am jaded by travel and extremely muggy weather, but I can’t help but feel that the spirit and history of the city is being stifled in the name of security.

Concierge level

I have just returned from another board meeting, this time in the Lone Star State. The hotel that hosted our meeting was eager to book us for a full-fledged conference in San Antonio, and so pulled out all the stops. I was greeted at the airport by a limousine driver holding a sign with my name on it, and upgraded to the concierge level at the hotel itself. The room, a suite with a huge bed and French doors, heralded my arrival with a mini-buffet of cheese (Boursin) and crackers (Carr’s water crackers), mixed nuts (no peanuts!), a green apple and a tower of tartlets and chocolates. There was even a small bottle of wine (and a corkscrew) holding up a card with my name on it. I was beginning to feel special.

During the meeting, they fed us lavishly (fresh, local strawberries for breakfast, one of the benefits of the sweltering heat) and even secured reservations for us at the hottest restaurant in town, Boudro’s. This Texas bistro, surrounded on all sides by kitschy Tex-Mex places on the Riverwalk, delivered both the excellent and the unassuming. Tableside guacamole sounds like a gimmick, but it more than lived up to the hype, and I can see why the prickly pear margarita is on the list of 1,000 things to do before you die. I returned to my concierge level suite satisfied but not stuffed, slipped on the supplied fluffy bathrobe and worked my way through the cable channels and chocolates. I could almost get used to this. (Don’t worry, I missed recycling bins, and my knee still jerks at fresh towels every day.)

After our meeting, the hotel graciously provided a limousine back to the airport, perplexed that we were insisting on sharing rides, practical (read non-Texan) folks that we are. My flights home were uneventful, if full, but I was greeted at baggage claim by a young man with a sign with my name. Not my driver, but Number One Son, trying to make me feel special.

But here’s the thing: As nice as that designer hotel bed with Egyptian cotton sheets was, my bed, with down comforter and Darling Husband, is far superior. The soap in the white-tiled shower was full-sized (oatmeal soap from Ballard Organics), and my fluffy blue bathrobe was waiting on a hook for me.

I was woken far too early by a Little One eager to share his mother’s day gifts for me: a candle, a beeswax kitty, and a rock that he found that glitters in the sunlight. Number One made me a bouquet of Mexican tissue paper flowers and scraped up enough for a box of Theo confections. And they all brought me breakfast in bed. Sorry, Marriott, you may think you have the luxury thing down pat, but these guys make me feel like a queen.

Racing around

I’m hopping on a jet plane tomorrow, on my way to Texas, where it’s already (or always) summer. My to do list includes things like finding sunscreen that my sensitive skin can tolerate in a container that’s less than 4 ounces, and locating my sandals (when was the last time I wore them?). Also on my list is picking up the CSA box.

Last week’s box was a real treasure trove. I was expecting a selection of mostly imported organic produce (carrots, broccoli, radishes), much like what I find at the co-op, since it’s still early in the season. But we were pleasantly surprised by such delicacies as fresh tender lettuce in addition to greens, and rhubarb and spinach—all from the farm. Darling Husband loves his rhubarb, and so do his sons, much to his chagrin. With some token fruit, the only thing missing was potatoes, but that gives me an excuse to keep going to the farmer’s markets.

Yes, that’s plural. For there are now two markets “nearby”: The University District, with it’s all-weather can-do attitude, and the yuppified-crafty Redmond Saturday Market, which opened up last week. Both markets trumpeted spring loudly, with troops of tomato starts lined up at attention, ready to march home with you. All sorts of heirlooms, paste, and cherry, all vying for my attention. Almost enough to distract me from Perfect Pete’s disappearance (Where did he go? Is toffee seasonal?).

But my arms were too full of honey to do anything but lust after the tomatoes. Precious liquid gold, my Darling husband had chatted up a local beekeeper’s son, and ordered up two gallons of the sticky stuff. He was planning to pick it up, really he was, but Number One was sick enough to skip orchestra rehearsal last week, so the lugging fell to me this week.

Which means I shall send Darling Husband, aided and abetted by Little One, to that selfsame market during my absence, to pick out this year’s tomatoes (and get spuds and Golden Glen butter). My mother’s day present to myself will be transplanting those gems to the beds and pots prepared for them last week. That, and munching on whatever goodies come in this week’s box and from the Alamo.

Frozen coconuts

So we’re back to food safety. As we hunker down to winter fare, when we face a seeming dearth of fresh food, it seems normal that we should turn to boxes and cans and the freezer instead of the garden or the farmer’s market. But all is not well in Grocerilande: it appears that we have yet another case of tainted food, this time a frozen coconut dessert that contains the Listeria bacterium, as well as a particularly damning story showing high levels of harmful pesticides in everyday supermarket produce.

When I was in Alexandria, across the Potomac from Washington, D.C., I had a free afternoon to explore a bit. Besides an incredible chocolate shop (up some narrow stairs, I found Kingsbury Chocolates) and a great chili joint (I slurped up the Frito-chili pie at Hard Times Café), I went hunting for a letterbox at Gadsby’s Tavern. The day was incredibly clear, but bitterly cold. I descended the steps near the tavern’s north end, where thoughtful restorers had created a cutaway view into the ice well. Unsuccessful in finding my quarry (though I did locate a cleverly disguised geocache), I read the historical marker. The well served as an underground storage area for ice cut from the Potomac in winter, offering a way to cool drinks and refrigerate foods into early summer. It is empty now, but for two artfully arranged hay bales, and the Potomac is not frozen—yet.

I scratch my head and think how odd it is we should think to consume a frozen coconut dessert in January, when it was made months ago, and it’s really too cold to be thinking about slurping popsicles anyway.

An intrepid researcher also released his findings today: apparently, when kids eat conventional fruits and vegetables, they show traces of organophosphate pesticides. If they switch to organics, the markers in their urine and saliva disappear. What’s more, the markers show up in higher concentrations during the winter months, when we tend to import more foods. There are no surprises here, but the alarm is sounding because this is the same family of pesticides that the EPA was supposed to remove from the food chain. Chuck Benbrook, chief scientist of the Organic Center, dares to speak aloud what is on the tip of many of our tongues: "Given the almost daily reminders that children are suffering from an array of behavioral, learning, neurological problems, doesn't it make sense to eliminate exposures to chemicals known to trigger such outcomes like chlorpyrifos?"

Indeed. Once again, I bypass Grocerilande and head over to Co-opville, where I pick up some lovely local thin-cut pork chops (they will be paired with an apple past its crisp prime), some local blue potatoes (“Mommy, why do they call them blue, when they’re purple?”), and some fuchsia red-stemmed chard. Our plates are beautiful, dark like the season, but colorful and delicious (and organic) nonetheless. Dessert is an indulgent square snapped off a bar of Kingsbury chocolate (with essence of orange, dried cranberries and pecans), also dark like the season. But not frozen.

Creature comforts

As I bask in the comfort of my own home, I reflect on my travels last week. Every day, when I logged on to my laptop to check email and establish a video link with my family, I was greeted by the hotel’s login screen. This being an all-suite hotel “designed for the business traveler” they couldn’t help but extol their virtues: “Spacious two-room suites,” “Cooked to order breakfast,” “Evening Manager’s reception,” and so on. They have a business center where you can print things out (instead of frantically hunting for the nearest Kinko’s) and a playroom where the kids can blow out some steam with toys that were too big to pack. This particular hostelry had construction going in the central atrium, with a big pile of sand that gives me different ideas for a hotel playground.

But for me, the best part was having a fridge and a microwave. Combined with the fact that there was a Whole Foods across the street, it meant that I was not at the mercy of restaurateurs. Trying to get a non-allergen menu in a reasonable portion, not to mention sitting alone in a restaurant, is not my idea of a recharging or even marginally relaxing meal. Kudos to the hotel chain that finally figured it out: no one wants to eat in a restaurant for breakfast, lunch and dinner.

I think back to road trips in Europe with my Darling Husband (who was darling at the time, just not my husband yet). We would throw some things in a bag that was light enough to carry, and set off to the train station. We later added our own car, but our destination was always the same: a youth hostel. The bed, which seems to be the main feature in standard-issue hotels, was usually a Spartan metal framed affair with sagging springs, one of many in a sleeping dorm. But the rest of the hostel added to the experience. There is nearly always a full kitchen (and sometimes a laundry) at your disposal, where you can whip up something as simple as an omelet (pick up four eggs and some cheese at the fromagerie in Rennes), or as complex as a pot of soup (fresh vegetables from a market in Avila) and wash it down with a local vintage (a Côtes du Rhône in the Vaucluse Valley). And a room with a big table and some sofas and chairs to hang out in, often with outdoor spaces with fire pits or grills (sausage and pork chops from the butcher shop in Lorient) and lawn chairs and hammocks and such. Sometimes we would score a “family room” which only had four beds, and a lock on the door (I recall a particularly romantic one, under the shingles in an old Norman flour mill, with machinery running the length of the stone room). We could raid the kitchen for milk and cookies at midnight if we wanted (we dipped cookies in mascarpone at one a.m. in Ravenna). Try that in a Travelodge.

So, much as I prefer the comforts of home, it is good to know that the tide is changing, if only a bit (they still have those annoying paper lids on the glassware). Perhaps they realize they’re up against videoconferencing, which allows participants to stay home and sleep in their own beds every night. Odd to think of hotels cluing in to the more human comforts of the youth hostel that not only make travel pleasant, but contribute to the texture of the experience. Let’s hope for more fridges in the future, since curling up with Ben & Jerry and Harry Potter on HBO (and no kids to interrupt you) is something I can paste in my scrapbook.

On cocoa and airports

It is mid-morning, time for my cocoa break, and my thoughts logically turn to cocoa experiences on the road.

A cup of cocoa at an airport Starbucks was predictably disappointing. While not more overpriced than normal, the pale drink was bland enough that even Number One took one sip and asked, “Is there any chocolate in here?” I was relieved to know it wasn’t just me, but the long line at the counter (the fog had delayed many flights other than ours) dissuaded me from returning and demanding more chocolate.

As I reach into the cupboard for cocoa, I hesitate between Ghirardelli and Green & Black. Against my better judgment, I took the boys to Ghirardelli Square, which one tour guide now rates as “nothing more than a shopping mall.” The child in me recalls the factory that produced chocolate stars, and if you were lucky, Mom would spring for the little cardboard box shaped like the chocolate factory. The chocolate tastes different, and the place has truly become a tourist trap. I caved and bought the kids overpriced ice cream (at least it was Dreyer’s, from Berkeley); while we were waiting, Number One noted that a waitress was assembling a massive clutch of balloons in the back corner. Hoping to avoid a balloon Grinch incident I hailed our wait staff, and let her know of my allergy, but to no avail. Ten bites into my eight-dollar sundae, the latex-bearing waitress headed straight to our alcove. I picked up my bag and dashed to the nearest exit, but the clueless cookie followed, wanting to ask how far away she needed to be to keep from causing a reaction. If she’d had an ounce of sense, she would have been able to deduce the correct distance by how far from her I kept backing away—on the sidewalk. And Little One was clearly torn: here was his well-earned ice cream, and leaving it wasn’t something he wanted to do. Balloon Lady was standing between us, waving kryptonite at this Mama Bear. Not a good situation.

Then Number One, now officially a teenager, did something to make my heart soar: he barked at the waitress, forcing her to back off, then proceeded to find a paper cup and transfer Little One’s ice cream sundae to it. Unable to locate a spoon, he grabbed a straw. I am immensely proud of his composure in this situation, especially given that I would think having your mother freaking out on the sidewalk would be socially mortifying. I do have to add that I was extremely disappointed at the restaurant: no wait staff offered to help him, or even acknowledged that there was a problem that might require a manager (or a refund). Even the surly cable car brakemen could teach them something about customer service.

On the last day of the conference, my favorite waiter added a few cocoa packets to the breakfast buffet. Nestlé’s in a pouch is not my idea of real cocoa (nor is anything declaring “just add water” truly food), but I discovered it could be made relatively palatable with the addition of cream from the coffee station.

I decide on the Ghirardelli this morning, but make a note to myself to try the Dagoba drinking chocolate that I’ve seen appearing on market shelves recently. They’re in Ashland, and they may have the space on the shelf that was once reserved for my childhood.

The Ferry Building

It was enveloped in fog, only coming into focus around 11 in the morning on the second day of the conference. Just about the same time as we got our bearings.

Our hotel was a small one with what is usually termed “historic charm.” It could easily have been a dive, but cheerful paint and IKEA furnishings made it just the thing. With cable cars dinging outside our window and Market Street trolleys a block away, transit options were clear. We grabbed a bus pass, and made it pay for itself within 24 hours.

I was born in the Bay Area, Berkeley to be exact, so this is not an unfamiliar place to me. The City and clime felt immediately comfortable, even if I was stressed and preoccupied with association goings-on. But with elections (and a shaky-handed speech) behind me, we headed down to the Bay and walked along the Embarcadero.

In my childhood, this spot was the site of a freeway. Not just any freeway, but the ugliest, dirtiest-grey double-decker monstrosity you can think of. In the wake of the Loma Prieta earthquake, it was condemned, and the wise people of the City clamored for its removal. Politicians predicted traffic disaster, but they were wrong. It is no loss.

I remember many things about the City from my childhood: the steaming crab boilers in Fisherman’s Grotto, Ghirardelli Square (when they still made chocolate there), the empty-warehouse feel of the Exploratorium, The City of Paris Christmas tree (now gone), the waves crashing against the rocks at Fort Point. But I don’t recall the Ferry Building even being there. It didn’t make sense when my father talked about all the trolleys and cable cars meeting ferry passengers in the Ferry Plaza. But now I understand. The plaza bustles day and night: tourists, business folks, skateboarders, musicians, artisans and farmers all converge where once traffic noise presided. Trolleys and pedestrians have reclaimed it as their own.

Inside the Ferry Building is the Mecca of sustainable foodieness: restaurants, bakeries, organic provender, flowers and chocolate can all be found. We had been subsisting on conference hotel buffets, picking out the least offensive foodstuffs to nourish ourselves. But we didn’t feel we were really eating. Here, though, were sandwiches, roast chickens, chili, fruit smoothies and jicama and grapefruit salads (and amazing tortilla chips and guacamole).

I had come to the City uncertain of myself, unsure if I had what it took to merit the trust of my colleagues. The fog lifted, reassuring me with their vote of confidence, and placing me in incredibly good company.

And as the fog burned off, it became amply clear: in times of stress, comfort is necessary. Here was ours. Food that was safe and good for us all. We found ourselves returning to the pale grey arcades over and over, to enjoy the sights and sounds and smells, and to replenish ourselves.

Golden sunshine

The sun is shining today, but it is a weak light, barely able to warm the floor where it casts its rays. We have turned the corner into deep autumn, and Old Man Winter is waiting in the wings. So it is no surprise that the part needed to make our boiler produce hot water did not arrive in a timely fashion. Friends have provided us with space heaters, though we have learned that we can’t have heat and run the microwave at the same time.

The effects of living in a cold house, though, are showing: Little One woke pulling and rubbing at his ear this morning and we suspect his cold may be becoming an ear infection. The windows in our bedroom have condensation on them, and the room needs airing, something we dare not do, lest we lose any precious warmth. We have not sat in the living room as a family for a week, and our stringed instruments refuse to stay in tune.

Upstairs, suitcases are out, piles of clothing are mounded on our bed, and my desk has been cleared. We shall pack our bags and decamp to California, to the city of my father’s birth for the rest of the week. A professional conference is our official reason, but the forecast of 68 degrees and sunny, typical fall weather from my childhood beckons us.

Before we leave, we’ll finish up the leftover lentil soup and the last cucumbers and tomatoes from the Redmond farmer’s market. The doctor will swing by this evening and look in Little One’s ears, and British Neighbor has promised to turn on the space heaters if Jack Frost threatens to freeze our pipes.

Our local South 47 Farm shutters for the season tomorrow, but we know there’s a bountiful farmer’s market across the street from the hotel in the Ferry building this Saturday. We’re ready for a little warmth.

Homecoming

A sniffly Little One is curled up in my bed, fast asleep in the warm nest made by us getting up this morning. It was a full weekend, as I attended a choir reunion at my Alma Mater, and the boys made their way south to attend the culmination of two days’ intense rehearsal, an alumni choir concert. We arrived home late last night, after far too many hours on the road (think dark, rain, freeway), and all promptly fell into bed. Little One awoke with a cold.

Other than that, there were a few meals of note over the weekend: The Ram’s Head Pub in Northwest Portland, where I feted my re-found freedom (however brief) with a half-pint of cider and a hamburger and salad—said burger being made of Oregon Country Beef, the same stuff that makes its way onto our table regularly. In Salem, I opted for take-out Chinese from Kwan’s one evening: curled up in a motel room with parchment chicken, snow peas and cable TV harked right back to my college days, though a pan of half-baked brownies would have really completed the moment. I grazed on a few University-supplied meals, there were a few salads along the way, and a couple cups of tea soothed my rusty throat.

On the way home, we stopped at Burgerville. Understand that my poor, deprived children have never been to the golden arches (quick, call Child Protection Services!). Part of it is the principle: they occupy a medieval structure in our graduate University town of Freiburg, Germany, and had the audacity to prominently affix their name on the centuries-old plaster. Not to mention the doubtful quality of what they sell and the co-branding marketing strategy, often aimed at children. But dear old local Burgerville, unhip to us when we lived there, gets huge points for making their burgers from Oregon Country Beef (and slapping on a thick slice of Tillamook cheddar) and fries from Northwest potatoes, along with their commitment to using wind power and recycling their oil into biodiesel.

I can make only two admittedly picky suggestions: one, that they learn to make milkshakes as good as those at Dude’s. And if they could just convince their marketing folks to use a dictionary, we’d be set.

Romance of the rails

I’ve ridden the train more times than I can count, yet this is the first time I’ve found myself on an Amtrak train. Offered the chance to head south to my Alma Mater for a choir reunion, I took it: I have not returned to the campus for a good fifteen years or so, and wanted my kids to see where Mommy studied. Of course, with school and orchestra in session, I’ll spend much of the weekend on my own, but I think I can manage eating and sleeping on my own terms.

The problem is, I’ve never been good with distance driving. Any more than a couple of hours, and I tend to veer off the road. So if I was going to Salem, I was going to have to find a different way. There is a range of options, from the Green Tortoise bus (tempting, but they’ve moved from a sturdy bus to charter only), Craig’s List rideshares (no one quite matched up as far as dates were concerned, or they didn’t plan ahead), to flying. I opted out of flying early on. Sure the fare was a bit off-putting, but the whole burning huge amounts of fossil fuel to go 200 miles clinched the deal. As it turns out, I made the right choice: at this writing, Horizon has grounded a goodly number of its fleet for emergency flight inspections, so it’s very likely my flight would have been cancelled. Like any good European, I turned to taking the train.

I am happy to report that the romance of train travel is alive and well. Once in the train, the seats are comfortable, the scenery spectacular, and I can even plug in my laptop. Riding along the Puget Sound, under the new Tacoma Narrows bridge and through Steilacoom and Tacoma’s waterfront make me want to bring the kids along, and get off and explore. The rather large people who struggled up the steps are smiling, comfortable in their seats (“Oh, this is soooo much more comfy than the plane!”), and the elderly couple in front of me are truly relaxed by the end of the trip.

But all is not well. Once again, Europe has it right, and we remain amazingly clueless. The strong point of Euro-train travel is its convenience: buy a ticket anywhere—travel agent, train station, online—and board your train when you get to the station (some countries even let you buy the ticket for the route without specifying a date—you go when you need). If you’re traveling on a busy day or taking a long trip, you could opt for a reserved seat, but that’s about as complex as it gets. Even airlines in this country do this—why not Amtrak?

Now, I did go to Amtrak and book (and pay) online, but my real ticket had to be issued at the station. I tried to use the QuikTrac machine to print out my paid ticket, but it wanted me to insert a credit card. For a paid ticket. Hmm. I wasn’t the only one to be baffled by this, and joined the line for a real person. It took less than a minute for the clerk to print the ticket, once I found one whose computer was working, and then I was instructed to join the queue for my seat assignment. I scratch my head, but it’s the shorter one of the two, so I take it. It takes two conductors with really cool hats to man this booth: one punches my ticket, the other issues me a paper chit that instructs me to sit anywhere in Car 2. Well, that’s one decision taken care of. By this time, the long line for boarding is moving, as they have finally opened the door to the platform—even though the train has been in the station since I arrived half an hour ago. Finally, I think to myself, all I have to do is climb aboard. But once on the platform, I am greeted by yet another line, this time for boarding Car 2 itself. Hmm again. Once in the train, there are plenty of seats, and there is no problem finding a window seat facing forward.

It is my understanding that Amtrak is losing money and ridership. Now, I’m no economist, or even a rocket scientist, but it doesn’t take much to figure out why. If it’s the same amount of hassle as flying (though it’s nice to be able to bring a water bottle and knitting needles on board), and the same amount of time as driving (though admittedly cheaper), then people aren’t going to opt in. Let me buy my ticket online and open up the platform so I can board the train when I get to the station. Not to mention being able to wave to the men in my life as the train pulls out of the station.

The best things in life are really cheap

I am awake far too early, listening to the birds greet the day. My belly is grumbling, expecting dinner some nine time zones away. Not wanting to disturb my hopefully sleeping family, I am lying here, scheming breakfast. In Dublin, it was a full Irish, with thick back rashers and a fried egg, in Germany, a Bretzel, fresh from the bakery, filled with thick slabs of cold sweet butter. If I had broken my fast in France, it would have been with a pain au chocolat dunked in a bowl of hot chocolate. But I am home, and my body is begging for a respite from the onslaught of delicious and tempting allergens.

During my Dublin shopping expeditions, I cringed at the prices every time I took another item off the shelf, as they all seemed to have a price tag of at least €2.99. My first bag of not-so-special groceries set me back over 40 Euro. I’m not a great mathematician, but the knowledge that the Euro is hovering around $1.30 made me realize that most of what I was putting in my cart was exorbitantly expensive. Everything, that is, until I found a lone bag of “plain oats” at Tesco. An unassuming white paper bag, no fancy features or brand name, it promised me many breakfasts for a mere 49 Euro cents. I brought it back to our Dublin digs, and at every packing juncture, I found myself resistant to chuck it, instead tucking its dwindling self into the luggage. By the time we made our last stop, I had making it down pat and the boys would beg for some too: bubbling and thick, with a handful of raisins, a sprinkling of Demerara sugar, and a river of thick soy milk. There are probably only one or two servings left in the little white bag, but I am certain that at least one of them will disappear this morning.

It’s not that I’m cheap (indeed, next to the legendary tightfistedness of my Darling Husband, I could be seen as living quite high on the hog), but sometimes the inexpensive everyday makes a bigger difference than the big splurges.

On our last trip to Germany, Little One discovered the joy of dipping lovely sausages from the Vaterland into sweet deli mustard. He begged for one of the jars at the supermarket, and since it was only 25 Euro cents, I bought it. He has shown incredible reserve, using just enough to not waste a smidgen (though also not willing to share with anyone else, thank you very much). With only a few servings to go, a trip to Plus was on his agenda. His brother also wanted a jar, and since I know he’s going to hit a growth spurt any day now, I splurged and bought three—at 29 Euro cents each (and I get a free glass when I’m done!). When our luggage was overweight, I pulled two jars and put them in the carryons, which led to a dodgy moment at security: it turns out they’re considered a gel. To his credit, the security agent who escorted Darling Husband back to baggage check did see the humor in the situation: the mustard was only Mittelscharf, sharf being the German word for both spicy and sharp—and we all know there are no sharp objects allowed in aircraft.