An Afternoon at the Movies

 

       My wife Anne and I have been trying to make it to all of the holiday movies playing for free at our wonderful local theater, The Playhouse. Saturday afternoon, the movie was “White Christmas” with Bing Crosby and Danny Kaye. As we walked down to the theater, I expected our typical experience at the movies. Some nice, fresh popcorn, and sitting in community with at least a handful of others who still believe in seeing movies on the big screen. The cold air and the walk invigorated me on the way down. I was pleased to see that the seats were quite full. I have sat in the theater plenty of times with only a handful of others, so this was already a remarkable day. The smell of popcorn greeted us as we entered the theater. We found our seats, and I went to the concession window for our usual popcorn and a drink. Back in our seats, we chatted with people around us and everyone seemed to be in a good mood. 

The lights dimmed and the movie started to play, but there was no sound. There was a clatter at the back of the theater as Tom, the manager, went upstairs to try and troubleshoot the problem. The chatter in the audience resumed. An announcement was made that Tom was working on things, but it might take a few minutes. The movie started again several times with the same result.  The opening credits rolled silently by and then the actors appeared on screen, only mouthing their lines. One of the board members of the Playhouse got up and talked about upcoming movies, showing off a magnificent white hat that looked like a giant snowball on her head. She was stalling for time, of course, but she did it with style, a sense of humor, and grace.

Tom asked for patience as he rebooted the system to try to fix the problem. He is well aware of the first thing that IT always tells you to do - “turn it off and turn it back on again”. Conversations picked back up. Two young boys (ages 1 and 3) from a family we know in town cavorted at the front of the audience, providing real entertainment as the parents tried to corral them while understanding that these kinds of situations try the patience of kids this age. I was encouraged by the patience demonstrated by the parents, especially once the boys’ attention was drawn to the Christmas tree at the front of the theater. There were plenty of ways for two curious kids to get themselves into trouble. 

Tom started the movie again, still trying to determine how to correct the stubborn problem. This time, he let it roll a little further with subtitles turned on. After the opening scene, Bing Crosby was on stage singing, “White Christmas”. With the lyrics scrolling across the bottom of the screen, a couple of audience members started singing along. Others joined in, and soon the song could be heard clearly throughout the theater. Just at a point where we were starting in on a second chorus, the sound on the movie magically turned on. The crowd cheered and clapped at this development. Tom started the movie from the beginning; this time with sound, and we all settled back into our seats to enjoy the show. 

No one got mad. A few people left, but the majority of us waited things out. We watched the antics of the two young boys, talked to friends, neighbors, and even to strangers. We all sang together in this community building that has been showing movies since 1919. We laughed at the old movie, marvelled at the elaborate dance numbers, and all clapped at the end. Even though it was a small thing in a small town in Vermont, it felt a little like a Christmas miracle.

 

Simple Pleasures

I take great pleasure from simple things. Like a solid set of stairs. I’m not talking about elegant, spiral stairs or ornate steps lined by a banister of fancy turned posts. I’m talking about a basic, yet solid, extremely practical, set of stairs. In this case, they lead to our basement, a place which, by the way, I don’t take great pleasure from. The joists that support our floors are just a little too low. When I’m there, I have to walk slightly hunched over or risk getting a face full of cobwebs. The basement stairs are a very small piece of a breezeway makeover that has been underway at our house for the past month.

The project started when we decided to have our back stairs (to the mudroom) rebuilt to offer something a little more standard in terms of the tread and the amount of rise for each step so there would be less chance of one of us or a hapless guest doing a header as they leave our house. There was also an awkward corner where you navigated past a railing into the swing of the storm door which was always trying to close too fast on you, especially if you were carrying something. After the old stairs were removed, we started to get a more thorough handle on some existing problems. The wall on one side of the breezeway was resting on….well, nothing really. The old wooden sill had rotted out and you could see daylight from outside.

Then there was the basement stairwell constructed some unknown number of decades ago from stacked up cinder blocks. Over time, the sandy soil had been leaking out from between the blocks, and they were slowly caving in. The width of the old cellar stairs was just enough for me to fit through, so doing things like getting a new furnace or hot water heater were complicated at best.

After a little consulting with a concrete contractor, we decided to go all in. Create a new foundation for the one wall currently supported by faith, build a proper stairwell down to the basement, and pour a whole new slab because most of the old, cobbled together mess would be dug out to make room for the concrete forms. After a flurry of activity spanning a couple of weeks, all the excavating and concrete work was complete. The next step was for our carpenter to build new stairs to the basement and the back door and to rebuild the wall and doorway to our back yard.

Our carpenter, Mike, came the other day to build the basement stairs. We had agreed on a design that would be sturdy, but nothing elaborate. Just four steps with a wide enough tread and a rise that won’t be too much as we age in place in our big old house. Mike showed up mid-morning and set up his saw in the driveway. He had built the stringers (I’m learning stair lingo quite thoroughly) at home. Those are the zigzag shaped supporting members underneath the stairs. I heard him outside working on the assembly. Turning the raw lumber into a new form with a specific function. I don’t like to stand over him while he is working so I busied myself with my own chores until later in the day.

When I finally went out, he was attaching the treads. He squeezed out a bead of adhesive along the surface of the stringer under the tread. “I don’t like creaky steps,” Mike explained, and I gave him a thumbs up as he set the tread in place to screw it down. We were heading out on a bike ride, and he finished his work while we were gone.

I had to try out the stairs when we came back. I knew the dehumidifier would be full, so I went down the new stairs, enjoying the solid feel under each step. I noticed the little details, such as the tiny notches in the treads so that they fit perfectly against the face of the new concrete walls. I truly appreciated the way each step was evenly spaced and wide enough so I didn’t feel like I was taking my life in my hands just to go down a few steps.

This particular set of stairs has evolved since we bought the house 30 years ago. At that time, the stairs consisted of some old wooden planks sitting on top of uneven brick and loose sand. After one near disaster where the bottom step slipped out underfoot, sending me into a crumpled heap at the bottom of the stairwell, I determined to make some new steps. I calculated them out and made them with my passable carpentry skills. They were a huge improvement, but still a bit narrow and steep. Now, the stairs have been taken to a whole new level. The stairwell has almost doubled in width. Everything is at right angles and faced with smooth concrete instead of crumbling cinder blocks covered in sand and moldy leaves.

You don’t appreciate the simple beauty of something like a set of steps until you have them and realize what you put up with for so long. I don’t need a fancy McMansion with elaborate woodwork and twisting ballroom stairs. Give me a nice, solid set of stairs that will last the rest of my lifetime. I think I need to go check on that dehumidifier again.

Artist Collaboration

Cherie Landie is an artist who lives in my neighborhood. I also count her as a friend. I am so grateful that Cherie and I agreed to a collaboration based on her latest work. I was honored when she agreed to have me write poems inspired by three new drawings. The creative stars lined up so that her show was on display at the People’s Gallery in Randolph, Vermont for the month of April, which also happens to be National Poetry Month. This type of poetry is called ekphrastic poetry, which is a written response to a piece of art.

Usually, poetry is meant to conjure images or feelings in the reader. In this case, I started with Cherie’s drawings and captured in words the images and feelings they evoked in me. I enjoyed the process; especially the quiet Monday when I sat on the wooden bench with the spring sunshine streaming through the window that looks out onto Merchant’s Row and sat with each of the beautiful black and white drawings. I hope you enjoy Cherie's art and the resulting poems.

I wrote one poem that was essentially an overview of the three drawings and how I felt after spending time with them. Each of the other three poems follows the drawing by which it was inspired.

The Doorway to the Universe

Simple lines on paper

And yet not so simple

The flat wall takes on depth

 

Curves and shades in motion

Taking viewers on a journey

Far from this cozy space off Main Street

 

Other worlds are calling

All you have to do is stop

Let yourself see them

Let yourself go there

 

Flow along the line and feel

The paper beneath you

Dive below the surface

Emerge in a new time and space

I. Growth Rings

I am a tree

My spine is the trunk

My lungs are the leaves

Taking in the air around me

Ribs are branches

Reaching out


I am a tree

Rooted to a place

Living in partnership with

My environment


I am a tree

Xylem and phloem are veins and arteries

Blood flowing like sap


I am a tree

Growing tall and bending as years slip past

My bark now old and weathered

More wise and patient


Knowing that

One day I will fall

II. The first haircut

Those little curls that wrapped around your heart

Drifted down to black and white checkerboard tiles

Joining other wisps of trimmed hair

 

Your child growing up with each snip of the scissors

You almost leap from the chair

To grab that little curl

 

So delicate and pure

To hold onto it

To make time stop

 

You want her to remain

In this youthful innocence

 

She turns to look at you

With the fresh cut bangs

The perfect edges

 

The broom sweeps the fallen curl

And you are all swept into the future

III. Perpetual

The ocean is never still

Always moving

With its tidal push and pull

 

Look out to the horizon

Over the flat blue black plain

Watch the waves wash towards shore

 

White tipped and wild

The sea curves up in a perfect arc

A moment of space exists

 

Before the crest and crashing foam

The rhythm as one wave follows another

 

Washing over my feet

As they slowly sink into the sand

 

The line of surf retreats to greet the next breaking wave

Beckoning me to join this game of hide and seek

Back on the bike

 

    Riding a bicycle is probably my favorite activity. My primary type of riding is on the back roads of central Vermont, where there is less traffic and more amazing vistas and peaceful stretches of classic scenery. Over the years, I’ve learned to enjoy time off the bike during winter. It’s always a little hard when the days grow short in the fall and the temperatures make it less and less pleasant to ride. Finally, usually near the end of October, after that one ride where my fingers and face grow equally numb, I lube up my chain one last time and hang my bike from its hook in the garage. I won’t say it’s a tearful goodbye (I’d never admit that), but it’s a hard one.

    Over the winter I get out and enjoy all that Vermont has to offer by taking winter walks and hikes and going cross-country skiing and snowshoeing. I revel in the cold air, taking in the browns, blacks and different shades of white that the frozen landscape offers. I tried a fat bike one winter and I will admit that it was fun. I was surprised at what the big, balloon-like tires could roll over. Despite the urging of one of my regular bike riding partners, I just couldn’t pull the trigger on buying a fat bike. Using it would mean either putting it in or on the car and driving it somewhere with the right trail conditions. I’m lucky enough to have access to walks and bike riding right from my house, so driving somewhere to ride a bike is always difficult to do. 

    I can’t say that I don’t think about biking over the winter. I’ll see an article or YouTube video of some great bike ride and start to get that itch. As the calendar flips over to March, the itch grows a little bit stronger. Then a day like today comes along. The temperature climbs up into the 50s or close to 60 and I find myself outside in a T-shirt as if it were the middle of summer. The sun has picked up some strength and I can actually feel warmth on my pale white skin. The birds are making a ruckus, and I can smell the muddy earth starting to soften up. Just over the last week or so, the glacier-like piles of snow along our driveway have receded and started to show the flattened grass underneath.

It’s way too soon to get out on the dirt roads. Venturing there would just be an exercise in frustration as the soft mud would suck at the bicycle wheels and mire me in a wet mess. Who knows, I might never make it back from one of those ventures. So I grab my old road bike. The one that I bought with the ambitious idea of riding across the U.S. I didn’t make that ride (not yet anyway) and this bike is a bit worse for wear. The steel frame has a few rust spots, and the back gears don’t quite work the way I’d like them to. But it’s a comfortable bike and very suitable for hitting the paved roads heading out of Randolph village. 

    I can’t find my bike shoes at first but eventually track them down in our guest room closet after a few minutes of frantic looking. I dig out my bike headlight and taillight, aware that drivers won’t be expecting to see someone out on a bike in the middle of March. I wear long pants that I sometimes use for cross-country skiing and pull on my brightest neon yellow bike jersey to make sure I’ll be visible.

    It’s exciting to be back on the bike, even in the first few minutes and after all these decades of riding regularly. I get that exhilaration like when I was a 10- or 11-year-old and taking the old Schwinn Stingray down a local hill. I roll through town, thrilled to be out again on two wheels and under my own power. I soon leave the village behind and hit the first little incline. I’m asking a lot from my legs and lungs, even though I haven’t been a couch potato all winter. I’ve experienced this every spring. No matter how active I have been during the winter, there’s always a little adjustment to getting back on the bike. Now I’m getting into a rhythm, my legs turning the cranks at a good clip. The snow is receding from the side of the road, revealing grass and also, unfortunately, revealing the refuse tossed from windows over the past few months. I make a mental note to see when Green Up day falls this year. It’s the usual collection of beer bottles, Twisted Tea and fast-food containers. I’m always hopeful that one year this annoying habit will cease, but it doesn’t. 

    The miles of pavement roll out under my wheels and I have a vague thought that connects the fact that today was “pi day” (March 14) with the two round wheels I’m balanced on. I pass by muddy driveways glistening in the sun as their vehicles imperceptibly sink down into the muck. I’m aware of the traffic coming up behind me (my rear-view mirror is one of the best investments I’ve ever made) and keep an eye on them as they approach. Everyone gives me plenty of space and I wave as they pass by. About half way through the ride I can tell that I’ll be feeling this in my legs later. Another random thought comes along wondering why no one has invented a more comfortable bicycle seat over the past few months. Each year I have to go through a “break in period” of getting used to being in the saddle again. 

    A few miles out, in the very Vermont-named little village of “Snowsville”, a tractor is chugging along in the opposite direction. We greet each other and keep rolling. Then it’s on to the Brookfield Gulf. The gulf is a winding road that ascends through a narrow passage between hillsides that flank each side. Adjacent to the road is a brook that is tumbling and rumbling its way down to join larger streams and rivers. As I gaze left or right, the hillside looks like the back of a giant cow. Patches of snow intermix with patches of bare ground. Runoff from the snow melt on higher ground forms pop-up streams that careen downhill, often with little waterfalls. It’s like the water can’t wait to join up with the larger roadside brook and its journey. All of this makes for a magical landscape that distracts me from my muscles working to power me uphill. I make it to the high point on the road and turn around to enjoy the downhill on my way back home.
 

    During the return trip, I’m blessed with the streams and tributaries that run near and under the road. The afternoon sun casts silver reflections off the rolling surface, and I find a smile on my face. A crow croaks out a greeting from a nearby tree, then takes off to join one of its fellows in flight.  I look out across the fields of white and see the remnants of last year’s corn crop poking up through the snow. It’s a reminder of the cycle of the seasons in this little corner of the universe.
 

    I’m on the home stretch now. I look down at the mud spatters on my shirt and legs and decide to stop at the bike shop on the way home and find out about fenders. I roll up to the shop and as I go to park my bike, I step into what I thought was gravel but turns out to be a big mud hole, which completely engulfs my foot. I smile as I give thanks for the joys of riding a bike and spring in Vermont.

Home for the Holidays

 

    I think it is pretty well established that holidays and tradition go hand in hand. This is especially true for Christmas. I am not a religious person, at least not in terms of any mainstream religion. Does that mean I’m not spiritual? I guess that depends on how you define it. I can see the wonder in the world. When I walk through a secluded patch of forest with the wind weaving through the trees and I sit down on a log to enjoy the natural rhythms, I feel a kinship with this environment. Is that spirituality? I guess I don’t need to put a label on it. Anyway, back to traditions. 

    Some traditions are tied to food. If you were to ask anyone about a traditional Christmas meal, you probably would hear about ham or turkey, although I have heard some rumblings about Christmas oysters but I don’t know what that’s all about (and honestly, maybe it was just made up by someone trying to pawn these slimy creatures off as food!). So it’s no surprise that, as the family cook, I received a lot of flack for the time that I decided to prepare a meal of baked haddock on Christmas Eve. It’s not like it was a meal that our family didn’t like. Normally it got rave reviews. But you would have thought I had served up a batch of Rocky Mountain oysters (not a shellfish, by the way - look it up if you don’t know) by the reaction I got. And to this day, probably 10 or 15 years after the offense, a Christmas doesn’t go by where one of our kids doesn’t pipe up about, “That year Dad made the Christmas fish,” said with a heaping serving of disdain and an expression of pure disgust. I learned my lesson. I just barely skated by this year with a sort of Tex-Mex chicken and rice dish. I think everyone was just hungry, feeling seasonally generous and willing to give me a pass.

    Another big family tradition for us is Christmas music. Over the years, we amassed quite a pile of CDs that ranged from Vince Guaraldi (Charlie Brown Christmas in case you’ve been living under a rock) to the Boston Pops to Brenda Lee, Bruce Cockburn and a very cheesy rock n’ roll Christmas compilation that usually elicited a few groans when I managed to sneak it into the rotation. All complaining and arguing aside, this diverse set of music has become the backdrop to our holiday season for years. Somehow, over time, we also created some rules around Christmas music (what’s a good family tradition without a few rules!) We determined that no Christmas music can be played until after Thanksgiving. Without this guidance in place, who knows what kind of chaos might ensue? 

    We recently did some downsizing of audio equipment and no longer have a CD player. I have fully embraced the digital music and bluetooth speaker revolution and was tired of the furniture size speakers taking up space in our house and mostly gathering dust and cobwebs. This resulted in some family discord as we no longer had the means to play those cherished Christmas CDs. Luckily, our daughter took on the task of compiling a Kaplan family Christmas playlist on Spotify. Many of the albums could be found in their entirety, but it was no small accomplishment to search out some of the more obscure songs that had been featured in one collection or another. One bonus (at least from the perspective of some family members) is that she could simply omit those songs that no one really cared for. 

There is one particular Kinks Christmas song - “Father Christmas” - that always drew frowns when I cued it up from the rock n’ roll collection. I don’t know what The Kinks' intent was with the lyrics. I always took them as being somewhat tongue in cheek or maybe a condemnation of Christmas greed. “Father Christmas, give us some money. Don’t mess around with those silly toys. We’ll beat you up if you don’t hand it over. We want your bread, so don’t make us annoyed.” Ok, now that I read those lines, it is a pretty cynical view. But it was always in the mix when those CDs were shuffling in the changer and playing whatever came next.

Probably our most cherished holiday tradition is decorating the tree. This is another topic on which there are strong opinions. One year we got a slightly small tree, although certainly not of the Charlie Brown variety. The jeers and distressed looks taught me to never go small on the tree again. Better to have it scraping the ceiling and have to do something creative to fit the star on top than to get one that is too small! We typically decorate the tree as a family, although with all three of the kids living away from home, that has become ever more challenging. I usually do the lights and garland on my own just to get us started and then we do the ornament hanging together. We have a running joke each year once we finish, standing back to gaze at the tree and to proclaim (for the nth year in a row) that this is the “best tree ever”. There is some truth in that statement, because every holiday where we are all together as a family is “the best ever” and a time for which I am truly grateful. 

I like to say that we own the most eclectic mix of Christmas ornaments. I love getting the box out each year. I hand wrote “Christmas Ornaments” on the top in black sharpie. This is supplemented by Olivia’s handwritten “crismas ordmins” applied so many years ago. We have some classic ornaments like little Santas, who for some reason this year all have their backs to us, gazing at the inner part of the tree. There are the regular different colored balls, although I think we need some more red, green and blue to balance out the many silver ones that have taken over. And that’s where things go a little bit off the rails. The box of miscellaneous ornaments includes some made by the kids in kindergarten or even in preschool. There are Star Wars ships, snowflakes, puffins (my childhood nickname and a common gift from my parents), musical instruments, an LL Bean boot (where did that come from?), a star of David (ironic), bicycles, a plastic-wrapped candy cane of unknown vintage (I’ll have to remember that for when I’m starving to death in the post-apocalypse), two (one would have been plenty!) leprechauns, and a host of others. Every year, as we pick items from this box, there is at least one that I swear I never saw before. I have an unproven theory that each year, perhaps through the magic of Christmas, a few new ornaments are spawned in this box while it sits in the closet for 11 and half months. No one has been able to prove me wrong about this!

I think you get the drift. Somehow it all works.Once everything is on the tree and the lights and silver garland form the backdrop, it all comes together. This year’s decorating occurred with a minimum of arguments. No snatching of any prized ornaments. We do have one that is a bit of an homage to theft, having been pocketed by a young Isaac when visiting a neighbor’s house many years ago. What’s Christmas without a little lawlessness? In a nod to my Dad, there are a couple of clear glass ornaments that I held onto after he passed away. One is a 6 inch long twisting icicle that comes to a vicious looking point (note to self: if you are ever desperate for a weapon, this has potential - not sure why the holiday is bringing up all these desperate scenarios!) The other is a sphere that has little tunnels of glass radiating in towards the center. For me, it symbolizes accomplishment of the impossible. I can’t fathom how the glass maker was able to create it. 

We should relish impossible things in our lives. Things that cause us to pause and wonder about the magic in which we go about our humble lives. The magic of a planet spinning perfectly on its axis at just the right distance from a star out here in a little corner of the universe. The miracle of a bird or any of the myriad other living creatures. The sublime art that comes from a brush held delicately between fingers. The notes of music that bring tears to our eyes. All this beauty created by the human brain, body and spirit. That is the real source of wonder and it doesn’t limit itself to the holidays.

 

A truly frightening Halloween

Halloween 2024. Just like many Halloweens before this, the ghosts, ghouls, goblins and the undead are around us. Skeletons loom over front yards and spider webs stretch to give their giant 8-legged denizens a place to pray on unsuspecting passers by. Yet this is a truly scary time. Scarier than we might ever have imagined. Because a true monster is walking among us. And this monster is real. He hides behind his orange makeup but this is only a thin veil and really he is hiding in plain sight. He is tapping into our fears. Making us worry about the “other”, those who are different from us. He conjures up horrific acts, getting us to imagine that rapes and murders are taking place on every street corner. And these are being done by the “others” that only he has the power to control. He will cast these others out, like the witches were cast out of Salem, Massachusetts all those decades ago. Cast them out and only then can we be safe. If you doubt these claims about brutal crimes, he taps into more sinister fears. Fears that your dogs and cats, your beloved pets, are being eaten by these others. Eaten in the streets of Ohio. No neighborhood is safe. And he speaks of a very demonic sounding “enemy within”. This conjures up images of that Alien life form that took up host in the unsuspecting space explorer, only to be birthed in a blood outburst after reaching its first stage of life. But this monster will not tolerate the “enemy within”. He will call down wrath upon them, even using the U.S. military against them if he deems fit. We have all seen him in one of his unholy trances, under control of the evil spirits as he swayed on a stage for almost 40 minutes, communing with his evil overlords. His earthly minions march like hordes of the undead to hear him speak. They wear blood red hats in homage to the bloody sacrifice and bloody vengeance they yearn to wreak in his name. Sometimes at these gatherings, he speaks in another language that no one can understand, yet somehow they all still cheer and support him. He cares not a whit about anyone but himself. He wants it all. He wants to have power over all of us. He wants to rule with an iron fist like those other walking monsters that he reveres - Hitler and Mussolini and Victor Orban. He is a defiler of women and sees them only as objects for his pleasure. He doesn’t see the Earth as a fragile home for humanity. It is another object for him to plunder and expand his riches. He may be the most formidable monster we have ever had to deal with. But, collectively, we have the power to destroy him. It won’t take a cross or a wooden stake through the heart. All it will take is your vote. Don’t let the monster live. Send him back to the underworld to live with his kind. Vanquish him from our lives forever.

A Chance to be Cool

    For once I felt like I was part of the “in” crowd. I had been invited to a party at the cool kids house. In this case, the cool kids were Jim and Cherie. I’m using the term “kids” somewhat loosely since most of the guests, including yours truly, were in their 50s, 60s and maybe beyond. You know that warm, fuzzy feeling you get when the invite comes your way. My inner kid was beaming. The occasion was the aptly named “pestopalooza”. I guess that means you can put “palooza” after almost anything these days and it makes it into some kind of grand extravaganza. I had heard of this celebration of all things pesto in the past, but for some reason, the stars had never aligned properly to allow me to attend. Luckily for me, Jim and Cherie live a mere 5 minute bike ride from my house. The invite came with a promise of sending me home with a jar of pesto, so how could I say no. I even had heard rumors about the possibility of basil-infused desserts, which sounded exotic. I wasn’t too sure I would like those but, hell, I’ll try almost anything food related at least once.

    The weather was not going to be a factor as this particular Vermont fall was serving up day after day of near perfect temperatures and azure skies with wisps of clouds to ensure killer sunsets. Earlier that day, the warmth had encouraged wasps around our house into a kind of frenzy and while we were finishing up a painting project accessed from a roof, they took to buzzing close to my head like miniature alien spacecraft on sinister black wings. If I ignored them, they mostly went about their business (whatever that was) and let me continue with my painting. After cleaning up from the painting project, I dressed in my very casual (and typical) Vermont outfit of jeans and a T-shirt. As soon as the sun started going behind the hills to the west, the temperature started to drop. I threw a fleece into the bag on my bike in case it got really cool. I wasn’t sure if this was a fully indoor or outdoor event or some kind of hybrid, free flowing from the house to the back yard. 

    Since I know Jim and Cherie, I wasn’t nervous but you know how it is when you head over to the cool kids house. You don’t want to make a social gaff that lands you in the undesirables corner for an undetermined amount of time until you get back into good graces. I had some guesses about who might be there since we live in a small neighborhood where I know most of the residents. Jim has recently joined the ranks of the retired (good choice Jim, I don’t think you’ll regret it) and Cherie teaches and makes art. I figured there might be some artsy types at the party and that was OK with me. 

    The invite said that drinks started at 5 PM (BYOB) and I showed up at a fashionably late 5:30 with a single can of beer in tow. I mean, this wasn’t like those high school days of bad keg beer and bottles of liquor stolen from Mom and Dad’s cupboard. I knew that Jim was known to partake not only in basil but in another leafy green plant that grows buds and I’m totally cool with that. But I had my days with Mary Jane and, at least for now, she and I have parted ways. 

    I thought about my trip to their house the day before. I had mistakenly put the event on my calendar for Saturday when it was actually set for Sunday (could have been a major faux pas). I swung by on Saturday to let Jim know I wouldn’t be able to help with the pesto manufacturing process but would be by later for dinner. He was sitting on the steps with a large bowl full of green buds. I had to examine it closely to identify their variety and recognized them as basil. If they had been that other cash crop, it would seem that Jim was really getting ready to party! Jim gently corrected me on the date and I admitted to my mix-up. When in doubt, admit fallibility. Don’t try to fake your way out of one of these situations, it will always come back to bite you. 

    I put aside my musings about the day before and entered the kitchen to see Jim busy with several pots of water heating up on the stove and alternating between checking them and slicing up fresh tomatoes and mozzarella for a salad (surely there would be some basil added to that as well). I recognized a couple of neighbors but other guests only seemed vaguely familiar. It’s a small town, so recognizing people is not too surprising. The first person I get introduced to is named Jonathan. So, with me being there, this was at least a two-Jonathan party and who could ask for better than that? My friend Larry was there, getting button-holed about his legislative work. Poor guy never gets a break. He put on a brave face and dove right into the issue. I guess if you’re drinking a pint of double IPA, almost anything is tolerable. 

    I meandered outside to grab some chips, veggies and some of Jim’s famous basil dip. There was already a fire going in the middle of a circle of chairs. Guests were either sitting or standing around it balancing plates and drinks as they chatted. The mosquitoes were making a last ditch end of season effort to siphon off as much human blood as possible. Thankfully, smoke from the fire was doing a decent job of keeping them at bay. I hadn’t brought a hat, so my bald head made for a great target. Cherie was at the grill cooking a large pile of sausages to go with the pesto pasta under Jim’s watch. Dinner was imminent. After a long day of climbing in and out the third floor window onto our roof, dodging wasps, and painting, my stomach was growling. 

    Dinner was buffet style and once the food was set out the kitchen became a chaotic maelstrom of plates, silverware and food getting piled up. There was an approximation of order as people served up salad, two different kinds of pasta and picked out their sausage. I sat at a large round table on the screen porch where our once a month poker group meets when the weather allows. I almost expected to see a deck of cards and felt a slight panic when I realized I hadn’t brought any pennies. I was introduced to people around the table and we talked about old Vermont houses and how we all came to be in this little central Vermont town. I guess I’m somewhat of an “old-timer” now. Not in Vermont terms, because I don’t come from 7 generations (or whatever the current metric is) of Vermont farmers living in the same town. Regardless, I still consider myself a Vermonter and have lived in Randolph for 29 years, which is the longest I’ve lived anywhere.

    As the conversation evolved, I learned that Vermont is already seeing some climate and political migration. In one case, a couple had moved from the Shenandoah valley because they couldn’t stand the politics. I wasn’t sure exactly what they meant. I always pictured that place as a bastion of peace and tranquility. I was shocked as they described a local militia with the sole entry requirement of new members coming with their own AR-15 (yikes!). Then they shared the story of a Black Lives Matter march that had been buzzed by a pickup truck full of rifle carrying folks who didn’t seem too sympathetic to the cause. They had had enough and moved to Vermont. Good choice and now they got to take part in pestopalooza. 

    I learned that Jim and the other Jonathan are a couple of New Jersey jamokes. I guess I can excuse that since I was born in Manhattan. Vermonters like to look down on what they term “flatlanders”, but really, this is the darn 21st century folks. It’s going to take all types to keep Vermont from devolving to a museum and playground for second home owners. But I don’t want to digress into my own fears and apprehension about the future of our beloved state. I’m just glad I got to party with the cool kids! I’m even glad that I got to try a basil infused brownie (although I have to admit that when I saw a plate of brownies, I wondered what Jim might have infused it with).

    As the party wound down, the last remaining attendees gathered around the fire pit, watching the sparks float up to the sky. The crickets serenaded us and Homer (the cool dog at the party), weaved his way around our legs. The logs snapped as the flames warmed our faces. I didn’t ask, but I’m hoping that I can now be considered one of the cool kids and get invited to whatever palooza comes next.

Wooly Bear Redux

   

At the floating bridge near Pond Village, Brookfield, VT

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

My wife and I spent the weekend exploring central Vermont on two wheels. No, we weren't cruising around on a Harley. We prefer the non-motorized variety, namely our so-called "gravel grinders". These bikes look like the traditional road bike with  drop handlebars, but they allow for beefier tires and have low gearing for humping it up all the hills around our picturesque little valley. Both days were sublime in terms of the weather. When the sun was out from behind the few puffy white clouds, it was warm and welcome as we turned our faces to smile back at it. The afternoon light filtering down through the multi-hued leaves was magical. There is nothing like the quality of sunlight in Vermont in October. It felt like a beam from another world that might just sweep me up and transport me somewhere else. Somewhere with no wars, no political strife, no climate change. A world of hope and promise. 

        On Saturday, we biked out to an unmaintained road that we used to mountain bike in our younger days. We biked up as far as we dared, then parked our bikes against a tree and changed into better shoes for walking and started out along the old road. I imagined horses pulling wagons along this track, maybe hauling apples just picked from a nearby orchard. I imagined a simpler time that may have been tougher in some ways, but easier at the same time.After a round trip of about 4 miles, we re-mounted our bikes for the ride home. With the colorful leaves and fresh air, the miles rolled away with almost no effort. A long swooping downhill was the reward after all of the climbing we had done.

        Sunday started out with a thick layer of fog, but by mid morning, the sun had burned this away to reveal blue skies. We packed up the bikes again and rolled out of our driveway. Soon we were climbing out of the valley and towards the little settlement of "Pond Village". This collection of several residences and the Brookfield Old Town Hall is laid out along a dirt road that connects to the very unique floating bridge crossing Sunset Lake. The Old Town Hall had its annual fall market underway and we had planned on a lunch stop for some soup and bread. We sat outside in the sun on an old tree stump across from the hall and enjoyed our repast and fresh bread. We followed this up with some locally made cookies and coffee before getting back on the bikes for the return trip home. This included another joyful downhill with hundred year old maples lining the side of the curvy dirt road. Views to the distance yielded a tapestry of color against green fields and azure skies. Cows dotted the landscape to round out this Norman Rockwell-esque scene. 

        Throughout the day, we had encountered the wooly bear caterpillars that make their presence known this time of year. Some of them had not survived the trek across the road, but we carefully avoided them and announced their presence whenever we came across them. "Ooh! That one has a lot of brown. Doesn't that mean it will be a snowy winter?" I never remember the predictive criteria ascribed to these little creatures, so I'll believe what anyone tells me. Of course, we kind of hope for a snowy winter so we can enjoy the outdoors on cross country skis or snow shoes. The lore surrounding wooly bears is just another example of humans' desire to predict the future. We would love to know how things will turn out, even though that is mostly wishful thinking. Maybe there is another insect we can use to  assure ourselves that the election will result in a win for our candidate. One that will tell us that the wars will stop and people will treat each other with respect. One that will indicate that our home planet will survive the onslaught of man. When I find those tiny creatures and figure out how to read their patterns, I'll be sure to let you know.

    For now, though, please consider revisiting my blog post from last year about the lowly Wooly Bear. You might learn a thing or two and hopefully be entertained.

Ode to the cassette tape

 

 

    My wife and I are clearing out our big Victorian house in Randolph, Vermont. The house was originally built in 1905 and is three stories tall with about 3000 square feet of space. We have reached the proverbial “empty nesters” stage of life with the last of our three kids on the verge of moving out this weekend. It’s bittersweet for sure. We always wanted them to become successful, independent adults, but walking by those empty rooms yields a sense of nostalgia. We have a rough plan for downsizing to a smaller house, but many pieces have to fall in place to make that happen. One thing is for sure, there is no way we can, or should, take all of our current belongings with us.

    Anne calls to me from upstairs, “Jon. I think this box is yours.” I climbed up to the third floor, ducking instinctively as I negotiated the oddly configured third floor staircase that was not designed for anyone over 4 foot 6 inches tall. I pulled the cardboard box over to one of the twin beds, sat down and took off the cover. It was like being transported back 40 years. I was staring down at my own handwriting on the labels of about 50 or 60 cassette tapes. I browsed through the labels and even though my musical tastes have broadened over time, I saw many artists I still listen to - Allman Brothers, John Hiatt, Bob Marley, Paul Simon. I also noted a few that I had forgotten about over the years and made note of them. 

    In my head I knew that I should be throwing these tapes into the trash, but my heart was telling me something different. After all, I haven’t owned any kind of cassette deck in years and honestly I wasn’t sure this box of tapes still existed. The partner box (or maybe it was boxes) hadn’t survived a previous purge. After all, I have fully embraced the digital music format. In my pocket, I have access to literally millions of songs via my music app. That is, provided I have a good internet connection and my phone is working. 

    It was somewhat of a quirk of fate that I became a cassette afficianado. For some reason, when I bought my first stereo back in the late 70s when I was probably a sophomore in high school, I went with a cassette player and not a turntable. Back in elementary school, I had started with one of those portable cassette players that had a single built-in speaker (terrible sound quality), but that meant I already had the beginnings of a collection of albums on cassette. If memory serves, I had Close to the Edge by Yes, a couple of Elton John albums (Honky Chateau and Don’t Shoot the Piano Player) and maybe something by the Rolling Stones. I also had Toys in the Attic by Aerosmith and that was the first album I played on my new stereo once I had it set up. I’m sure this was much to the horror of my parents who were both professional classical musicians. 

    I did eventually get a turntable and a few LPs, but nothing beat the convenience of the cassette (that is until the time that the car player would “eat” the tape and you would gingerly pull it out, trailing the thin brown tape still hung up in the guts of the player). Then I discovered the art of recording albums. I probably saw this as a great cost-saving innovation. All I had to do is buy a few multi-packs of 90 minute blank cassettes and then borrow albums from friends for a few days of recording. My “go to” brands of blank tapes were TDK and Maxell. If you are somewhat near my age, you won’t have to use too much imagination to recreate the Maxell tape ad where the black-clad, very laid back dude is reclined in a chair positioned in front of a speaker. The music is literally blowing his long hair straight back from his head like a strong wind. I can see you nodding your head as you think back to that heyday of music recording. 

    The box of tapes at my feet represented dozens, maybe hundreds, of hours of effort. Making all of these tapes had been a labor of love. The idea of just tossing them in the trash was really hard to contemplate. It would be like throwing a piece of me away. The practical part of me knows that I’m not going to keep them around, taking up space in all of our future residences. I have a brief future vision of me ushering guests through our modest home after getting them a beverage of choice. “And over here are the last remaining cassettes I labored over in my teens and early 20s. Note how much care went into labeling them and getting all the song titles squeezed onto the small paper insert. Note the musical genre and artist diversity. Now, over here is my Monet.” No. That won’t be how things play out. 

    I love Spotify. Don’t get me wrong. But there was something about the art of making tapes. Like having the realization that there are a few seconds of leader before the recordable part of the tape starts. After a couple of mis-steps, it just became a habit to let a few seconds of tape roll before I started recording. The mix tapes were really my prize possession. Essentially, you were playing DJ for yourself, figuring out which songs would go together well. For now, there are a half dozen of these mixes I have held onto so I can reproduce them as a Spotify list. I did finally convince myself to let go of the regular albums I had taped, although I did jot down a few artists I had forgotten about - how could I not have any Joan Armatrading on my Spotify lists?  And what about Sonia Dada? I really liked them at one point. I wondered if they might be like some of the old books I’ve tried to re-read. At least a couple of times I have gone back to what was an old favorite and only made it maybe a dozen pages in before saying, “why did I like this book?” I suppose we don’t remain the same beings we were back in high school and college. We evolve. Tastes change. We get shaped by life and world events. We listen to new music. 

    So, now I’ve gone almost entirely digital with my music collection. I take my phone out of my pocket, unlock it and find the Spotify app. I open one of my 20 or so playlists - Folksy, Bluesy, Rockin’ Out, Jam Bands - scroll through the songs and hit play. If a particular song isn’t striking my fancy I just remove it with a couple of taps. I can always search for and re-add it later if I change my mind. In high school and college I couldn’t even have dreamed of this technology. I wish I had dreamed of it and found a software engineer to work with, then I could have retired quite a few years ago instead of just recently. 

There will always be a part of me that feels like it has all become just a little too easy. I wonder what we have lost now that no one has to make sure that the needle gets dropped in just the right groove with the tape deck paused and ready to start. No longer do you have to work on your handwriting and add your own personal touch to that mix tape for yourself or someone you care for. Are the new ways always better than the old ones? I’m not sure. Maybe I’ll go search for a cassette deck on ebay.

The Pantry

 

The Pantry

An active imagination can be a good thing. Or not. In my case, it’s both, but a few nights ago, it was decidedly not a good thing. We have a small pantry in our kitchen above a small broom closet. The pantry consists of two shelves where we store various dry goods: cereal, cans of tomato products and beans, and a number of old yogurt containers with nuts, dried beans, and grains. I first noticed the smell while reaching into the cupboard for some crackers. I wrinkled my nose at the foul odor. I stood there for a few seconds contemplating what it might be, but then I stuck my head further in and took a big sniff and the smell was gone. I grabbed the box of crackers and went back to fixing myself a snack.

A couple of nights later, while watching TV, I went back to the cupboard for a cookie. There was the smell again. There was no mistaking it this time and it wasn’t going away. We were almost ready to go to bed. That is decidedly a bad time to start thinking about what might be causing a bad smell in your kitchen. The end of the day is when my energy level bottoms out and pulling everything off the shelves was definitely not something I was willing to tackle. We vowed to deal with the cupboard in the morning. But I couldn’t let it go. I lay in bed and started cycling through the possibilities.

Unfortunately, one of my first ideas was that something had died up there, like that time I forgot about the mousetrap set in the back of one of the kitchen drawers during an ongoing mouse outbreak. That was another time a smell had alerted us to something being amiss. We pulled the drawer all the way out and were greeted with the unlucky mouse surrounded by dried blood from its demise of who knows how many days before. I tried to put this grisly image out of mind as I kept turning the pages of my book. I was trying to read long enough so I could fall asleep and forget about the smell and what might be causing it. As I was starting to drift off, Anne helpfully mentioned that her brother once had a snake die in the walls of his house, later discovered by the wafting of an unpleasant smell. Toss that image into the hopper of my imagination and I was off and running.

In the insult to injury category, as I lay there with my tumbling thoughts, I heard the scrabbling noise from whatever creature lives in the ceiling of our bedroom. I have theorized that it is a squirrel, although it could easily be a mouse. Either of those is preferable to it being a possum, which most surely it isn’t (it couldn’t be, right?). Months go by where we don’t hear it and then suddenly it comes back to life. Maybe it has gone on a brief vacation somewhere. Somewhere nice and warm like Florida or the Bahamas, where it can get some sunshine. Then it comes back to Vermont and finds its way into our house, scurrying around on just the other side of the sheetrock from where we are sleeping. Sometimes it sounds like chewing and I picture it gnawing through the ceiling, getting closer and closer to dropping through onto our bed, at which point we would jump out and commence the panicked screaming and thrashing.

With impeccable timing “the critter”, as we have named it, chose the night I was already struggling with horrible thoughts to make its reappearance. I knew that tomorrow we would be facing whatever the cupboard held in store and by “we” I meant “me”. I pictured myself standing on the chair that was needed to reach everything on the two shelves. As I pulled out one particularly critical box, whatever was back there, nested in the dark, would leap forward and in my fear I would stumble back off the chair, crashing towards the kitchen floor and most likely hitting my head on something hard on the way down. This could actually be the end of me. Just like that.

The next horrifying option is finding a rat-sized hole in the back of the cupboard that leads down to a giant warren of rats hiding out in our basement. Maybe you remember the movie from the ‘70s called “Willard”. It was about a troubled young man who befriends rats by the thousands who are trained to do his bidding. There is a scene in the movie where the rats are streaming out of their holes and look like a river of rushing water. This scene plays through my mind like I just watched it yesterday.

Maybe it’s a family of mice who somehow ended up in one of the cereal boxes. I will pick up the box and find it to be just a little heavier than it should be. One sniff tells me that this is the source of the problem. I tentatively undo the top, shaking the contents out into a container and the family of mice pours out. If any of them are alive, I will run screaming from the room and find someone else (someone braver) to come deal with this particular horror. At least in that scenario, I get in touch with the cereal company to start discussing the lawsuit I plan to file if they don’t make things right with a tidy sum of money to make me and my very legitimate complaint go away.

Last, but not least, my mind goes to the xenomorph from the first Alien movie. Spoiler alert. You’ll have to skip the rest of this paragraph if you haven’t seen this classic movie and still plan to. Don’t tell me you don’t know what a xenomorph is! In this classic 1990s space thriller, the hapless astronauts are exploring a distant planet. A hibernating creature leaps at the helmet of one of the explorers. After getting him back on board, all seems fine. That is, until the gestating creature is done using him as a host and decides to burst out of his chest in what has to be one of cinema's most dramatic, horrifying and shocking scenes. So, yeah, that could happen when I’m going through the cupboard as well. Is it any wonder I didn’t get much sleep that night?

The next morning comes way too soon. I take a deep breath and try to mentally prepare for whatever awaits me in the pantry. I pull out boxes of cereal, tentatively feeling their weight. Extra boxes of crackers and a few bottles of wine and vinegar all gather on the kitchen table. So far, so good. Nothing has leaped out yet. I start on the top shelf. Cans of tomato sauce and coconut milk stack up on the counter. Why do we have all of these empty yogurt containers? I check several of the yogurt containers filled with lentils, rice, and other dry items and they are all OK. The smell is getting stronger. I start to open the containers of dried beans. I pry back one lid and the sharp smell of decay literally leaps into my face and I reactively close the container. A brief vision of the xenomorph flits through my mind. I go outside with the offending beans and dump them on our mulch pile. The rotten clump of beans plops unceremoniously onto the other refuse, rolling down the slope to rest against the fence. I half expect the clotted mass of beans to start moving towards me, maybe even to take up residence in my body until they reach their full maturity en route to taking over our house. Like I said, a good imagination is a blessing and a curse.

Thanksgiving 2023

 There is always a little bit of pressure when it comes to Thanksgiving and cooking. The holiday really revolves around the iconic meal so, of course, people want to get that just right. This year, we traveled to Chevy Chase, Maryland, just outside of DC, to be with all three of my wife's brothers and their families. The final tally for Thanksgiving dinner was 18 of us (not including the 3 dogs). With my background as a chef (that is another story), I usually volunteer to do some of the sides and to help pull the whole thing together. I thought this year had an interesting twist, and that is the subject of this story.

 

 

Spatchcock versus….

“OK, who’s ready to spatchcock a turkey?” I didn’t actually say it that way, but I may as well have judging by the funny looks I received when I proposed this cooking method for the Thanksgiving turkey this year.  My relatives were probably wondering if I had lost my mind. Suddenly I'm in one of those movie scenes; a hum of conversation, glasses clinking, maybe some music playing in the background, and then suddenly you can hear a pin drop. The person speaking is in a spotlight and theirs is the only voice that can be heard. I was the one in the spotlight, in case that wasn’t obvious.  I faced the wall of blank stares, some mouths slightly agape.

I just read an article about spatchcocking and a quick search on YouTube yielded a short video demonstration. It purports to solve the age-old conundrum of cooking a whole turkey well enough without drying out the always desirable white meat. 

I’ve tried other things in the past. For a couple of years, I went with the ever-popluar brining of the turkey. Gallons of water are added to a container big enough to hold the bowling ball size bird. Select herbs, citrus and salt are added in inexact amounts. The bird is submerged overnight. The day of roasting comes and you plunge your hands into the icy water to extract the bird. It’s a messy process and, in my opinion, clearly not worth the effort. You still have the same problem of just right dark meat (reaching the recommended 165 degrees) and dried out white meat. Plus, you have all that brine to get rid of and a huge, unwieldy container to wash out.

Next attempt at turkey perfection was using roasting bags. These are amazing products of modern chemistry and manufacturing that look like regular clear plastic bags, but amazingly, don’t melt in the heat of the oven. They seal in all the moisture coming off the turkey, while still allowing it to come to a nice golden brown color. The bottom of the pan ends up with several cups of flavorful stock made from the roasting bird and the cut up carrots, celery and onion on which it was placed. This has been our go to method for several years.  The white meat is still a bit dry, however, so when I heard about the “perfect way to roast a turkey”, I was intrigued.

Spatchcock is such an odd term for what I did to that poor bird, although it was way past feeling a thing. A quick internet search indicates that is of Irish origin and has been around since the 18th century. It is a contraction of “dispatch the cock” and describes the method of flattening out a chicken, turkey or other fowl to cook it more quickly and evenly. After my announcement and some resigned silence, I explained what I would attempt. I was greeted with more skeptical silence and then the gathered family members left it in my hands. No pressure. Just 18 people who traveled from all over the country to be together for this meal. I didn’t want to think about what failure would look like. At least we had the side dishes if it ended as a complete disaster. We did have two turkeys, so that offered some reassurance. My brother-in-law Bill said that he would cook the smaller bird on the grill. We knew this could be done because last year, when Thanksgiving was held in Massachusetts, that was the chosen cooking method. The competition was on.  It was the great 2023 Battle of The Birds. Spatchcock versus Grill. Bill and Jon face off in an epic epicurean battle. Spatulas and meat thermometers are wielded like swords and shields. 

Luckily, everyone decided to go out for a walk while I prepared my bird. Spatchcocking isn’t for the faint of heart or for those with weak arms. Thank goodness I’d been keeping up on my gym routine, pumping up my biceps and shoulders. I didn’t realize I was training for culinary warfare. Ideally, I would have used kitchen shears, but lacking those, I went for the 8 inch chef’s knife. I flipped the bird over to access the backbone, which needed to be removed. The first few inches are easy enough, but then I’m into some bone and gristle that really tax my strength. I peel off my outer layer and use my sleeve to wipe the sweat from my face. Finally, I made it through the bone. The video made it look a lot easier. I turn the bird over for the final step, leaning over it with both hands, like I’m giving it chest compressions to revive it from a heart attack. I hear a satisfying and simultaneously nauseating crunch as the breast bone breaks and the bird flattens out. I check the video and feel like I’ve pretty much achieved what I was supposed to. I ready the bird on the pan and slide it into the oven, cleaning up the crime scene in the kitchen before everyone gets back from their walk. 

 As the afternoon wears on, the crowd mills around anxiously, not really caring who the victor is as long as there's food on the table at the end. Bill has a brief moment of panic when the grill isn’t reaching the target temperature. Speculation about uncooked meat slightly dampens spirits but then I open the oven and people catch sight of the golden brown skin of the splayed-out bird on the center rack. The odor of cooking turkey adds to the array of side dishes in progress and salivary glands go into overdrive. Cooking onions and the steam from two pots of boiling potatoes is edging the crowd towards a literal feeding frenzy. 

Trays of appetizers disappear almost as soon as they are set on the table. Mixed drinks are handed out in an attempt to calm the throng. Dull the senses a bit and avoid an unpleasant stampede. A fire is started outside and games are provided as further distractions to keep people from looking at the clock or crowding around the two turkey venues. The drone of overlapping voices in the kitchen reaches an excited crescendo. The timer for the spatchcock bird goes off and the crowd surges as the pan is pulled out of the oven and set down on the table. “Oohh, that looks really good,” says Anita. “Is it done?” asks someone else. I feel people pressing in as I pull the thermometer out of the drawer. A dog yelps as someone carelessly steps on a paw trying to see the result. Did it work? Was it cooked to perfection? The meat thermometer is inserted and recordings are taken. A hush falls over the room as the red dial slowly but steadily ticks its way upward - 130, 140, 150. 160. The room has changed to pin drop silence as the needle reaches the vaunted 165 and then a little beyond. Another part of the bird is tested successfully. The tension in the room rises, but it seems that the turkey is done. I breathe a sigh of relief and hope that nobody noticed the moment of panic on my face. Butter drops into a pan to mix with flour and is whisked into the base of what will be the gravy. The grilled bird has made an exciting comeback. The crowd is fickle. Going with whatever bird will be ready first. Team Spatchcock seems to have an advantage but Team Grill corrected their earlier mistake and are feeling confident. There's some question about whether spatchcock is actually done despite the thermometer readings. The noise is ratcheting back up. There's a brief tussle among the crowd. Voices are raised but then the dispute is settled amidst laughter. The side dishes are ready. The gravy steams satisfactorily. The tables are set, arranged cleverly in an attempt to avoid conflict among the participants. Bottles of wine are opened with the new electronic gizmo that promises no stuck or broken corks. The wine flows and toasts are made. People line up in the kitchen to load up their plates. The noise drops as plates are filled and the verdict is reached. Everyone is a winner. Maybe we'll try deep frying next year.