WELCOME, STEW SEASON!

SNL might tell you, "It's sweatah weathah," and it is, so that's true. It's also Stew Season. Basically, it's cooking season up here in New England.

Not that we don't cook other times of the year. because we certainly do. We barbecue, steam, air fry, make pizza (basically add tomato and mozzarella to anything and everything), eat burnt hot dogs off equally burnt sticks, chew on hamburgers that give hockey pucks a run for their money, and we do so all summer long.

Once we whip out that car auto-starter and the seat warmers, though, all bets are off. It's time to bring out the big guns: crock pots and bakeware.

I'll be honest. It has been a while since I cooked anything stupendous. Sure, I'm still eating corn on the cob and an occasional meatloaf, courtesy of my own kitchen, but now that the temperature is inching toward that first frost, comfort foods are necessary.

I go to the store with the intention of getting a few things that I need. I have half a box of lasagna noodles, so maybe I'll make some meatballs to go with that. I accidentally bypass the hamburger, though, and end up in the chicken section. There are some packages of boneless chicken breasts that look darn good, and they're on sale. Into my cart they go. Backtracking to the beef, I first must pass the pork. Oh, how the ribs are calling me. Alas, I'm trying to buy ground beef, so I urge myself to keep moving. 

On the way to that section of the meat case, I see cubed beef chuck. Yes, that's a great idea. It's going to be chilly. I should make some beef stew. I find a small package that is, surprisingly, also on sale. I make a mental note to hit the produce as I push the cart over to my original destination, the ground beef. I find the amount I need, on sale, throw that in with the other stuff, and head over to buy vegetables for the stew.

As I pass by the pork section again, country style ribs whisper, "Won't we taste good on a cold evening?" The correct answer is, "Yes, yes, you would, but you're not on --" Dagnabbit! These are on sale, too! I find a package of five good-sized spareribs, and, just like that, BOOM, I'm buying ribs, too.

I complete my shopping trip, the one where I came in for a couple of random items and some ground beef once upon a mini-list ago, in the produce aisle. I select carrots, string beans, mushrooms, onions, potatoes, and various other delicious fruits and veggies. I think I'm home-free until I pass by the fresh corn on the cob. I pick out two great ears (I'm pretty good at this as I have been a corn hound since before I could walk).

The next thing I know, my freezer has several meals stashed -- lasagna and meatballs, stew (I fished out both bay leaves on the first swipe), chicken and corn dinner -- and five individually wrapped spareribs. It's as if I blinked my eyes and the autumn cooking genies took over my home. I won't lie: I'm totally psyched.

Nothing left to do now except put on my sweater, crank the heat a little bit, and enjoy. Welcome, Stew Season. Long may you reign!

RACECAR FEVER

My neighbor has a race car. I know this because he rents several garage bays in front of my apartment building, and I have full access view of the work area. It's fascinating, kind of like watching a one-man pit crew. Sometimes the car is on a lift, sometimes it's in one bay, and sometimes it's in another random bay.

Sometimes, though, that car needs to be transported to races, and this is where I salivate. The sound of that car is mesmerizing. Sure, I often hear the engine going through its motions as the mechanic checks it and recalibrates it and runs it through its paces inside the bays. But nothing, not one damn thing, beats the sound of that car trying to contain itself as it moves into the trailer for transport.

It's the end of the race season up here, maybe another three weeks or so, because it's New England, and our weather is about as predictable as an unmedicated mental patient. This means I only have limited opportunities to hear the car before it's packed away for the winter. I sit on my porch, pretending I'm not watching and listening. I pull the curtains aside, pretending I'm not watching and listening.

Recently, I realized exactly what I must look like: The neighborhood creeper.

So, I finally introduce myself to the car owner/mechanic. We haven't chatted much, perhaps a total of forty-five seconds in our three very brief conversations. I apologize for being that person who probably looks like a busy-body. He apologized for the car making noise when he runs it. 

Making noise?

At that point, my eyes bug out of my head. I blurt out, "That's the highlight of my day!"

It's to the point where I try not to be a nuisance. If he's working on the car and outside of the garages when I am leaving or returning, I will wave maybe fifty percent of the time. I mean, I'm a car Fan Girl but there must be a fine line I don't want to cross. He probably thinks I'm the crazy old lady who lives in a box. 

I'm just a neighbor with a true appreciation for the beauty of a car, and, if I'm being totally honest, a bit of jealousy that he gets to drive it for fun and money. Lucky bastard!

ALOE FOR THAT BURN

I have a gazillion aloe plants on my windowsill at school. Okay, maybe not that many, but at least a dozen.

Last year a trio of students gave our entire grade-level team aloe plants. One each. In containers. Strict instructions: "Let your plant dry out completely then water generously. Watering should occur once every two weeks."

Perfect! The only plants I have been able to keep alive are pothos. They'll grow if you just look at them. "Forgetting" to water a plant except every two weeks? Now, here's a plant that can live (and I do mean "stay alive") with me!

Not only does it stay alive, it reproduces. And reproduces a lot. Apparently, aloe is the rabbit version of the plant world. 

I spend an afternoon repotting the babies of all of my plants (pothos and aloe) so that I can take them to school with me. I have to use hole-less containers because heaven forbid any water gets on the windowsills at school! I'd never hear the end of that taxpayer fiasco.

It takes several shopping bags to gently transport my newly replanted babies to work. So much trauma over the course of twenty-four hours between new bowl digs and then new sunny digs. My classroom faces the sun pretty much all day. It rises to my left and sets to my right, so my three giant windows at school are terrific for plants (and, to be realistic but morbid, perfect for random target practice from the woods).

Eventually, when I'm certain that the plants have survived my non-green thumb, I might give them away to others. But, for now, they are enjoying the excess carbon dioxide in the room dominated by tweens and young teenagers who simply cannot, will not, and should not keep their mouths shut. If we suddenly have a mass outbreak of cuts, sores, or skinned knees, I have enough fresh aloe available to soothe whatever ails all of them.

In the meantime, I am decorating the rest of the windowsill with little random items: A Bob Ross figurine that talks, a solar-powered Queen Elizabeth and one of her corgis, inspirational signs that say things like "I don't like morning people. Or mornings. Or people." I've moved my desk across the room so that I am sitting directly in front of the window and my plants, which makes me somewhat happy all day long. Maybe I'll add battery-powered fairy lights, too. 

A couple of years ago, someone complained about my inspirational posters. Yes, the ones anyone can buy at a card store or a teacher supply store. My empowering, positive messages actually offended someone, so I ripped them all off the walls, taking fresh paint with me because I was so perturbed. I am taking this new phase of my teaching encampment as a hopeful sign. Plants today? Maybe, just maybe, I'll wish someone a nice day. Maybe.

I don't want to push my luck. But, if I do, I'll add some aloe to the burn. That, in and of itself, is progress.

DUSTING OFF THE FLEECE

Here in New England we are in False Fall. This is when the trees start to turn (in no particular order), and cool mornings give way to boiling hot afternoons. It's what SNL famously referred to as "Sweatah Weathuh." 

It's officially fall! But, unofficially, it's not.

We are still due for one more wave of summer heat. At least, we could be. It was mere decades ago that it snowed during the first full week of October. We've had Halloweens needing snowsuits and others begging for t-shirts and shorts.

Fall isn't really here until the first frost. 

What is here, though, is fleece. That's right, I said it. It's fleece weather. Fleece is what happens when a sweatshirt and sweater have a love-child. However, just because the fleece has been broken out, that doesn't ensure that summer is truly over. Like the Ninja Turtles, this is the time of year of Fleece-On-Fleece-off-Fleece on . . .

Anticipating true fall (in a few weeks), I scour website sales and find a pullover fleece that I really like for a ridiculous sale. No worries. My size is relatively standard, so I shouldn't have a problem choosing the last color available. Right? Wrong! There are about fifteen different colors in my exact size, all for unthinkably low prices. How can I just pick one?

I don't. I pick ten.

I won't lie. I'm really glad I ordered these things. They're pull-over style fleece tops, and they have pockets. Pockets! Can I even believe the luck? 

Why am I admitting this to everyone? So that you can blame me. Yup. You can all blame me and my stupid fleece purchases when summer just hangs on and hangs on, refusing to let fall happen. We will go right from roasting on the beach to roasting chestnuts over an open fire because there is no way Mother Nature will let me enjoy my fleece tops until she makes me throw on a down and nylon vest and snow gloves for effect. 

This upcoming week looks rather fleecy - cool mornings and warmish afternoons - but give it a week. I predict another round of summer will arrive just when I'm dreaming of the pink heather fleece to wear while I warm up my car and scrape the icy rime from the windshield. Either that, or it will snow several inches and I'll be eating this column.

Happy False Fall, everyone! 

 

HOT TUB MAN - PROVING THAT WE HAVEN'T LOST OUR TOUCH COMPLETELY

My friend and I are walking around Marina Bay in Quincy. There is a labyrinth made up of boat docks, and the further the wharf moves along, the more expensive and exclusive and enormous the life-sized toys. Toward the right are nice boats; toward the left are yachts that money-dreams are made of.

The two of us enjoy the beautiful summer day, leaning on the railing that gazes over the harbor with Boston in the backdrop. Behind us, people populate the outdoor dining littered all over Marina Bay. In front of us, several super-sized private boats are docked, one of which is so huge that it cannot even park inside the marina. 

Oh, how the other half lives!

This is when we notice Hot Tub Man.

On one of the larger yachts, a hot tub divides the deck of the bow. In the hot tub is a man about our age, topless, wearing sunglasses, and tanning his upper half while tossing around his unnatural, tangerine-colored hair. My friend is convinced that he is checking us out. I think she's hallucinating. 

Until --

Mr. Hot Tub Man glances over his shoulder at us, then slides himself around the water until he is face-on toward us. Of course, I giggle because this is so high school behavior, and we are all so very much past high school. Yet, we continue to semi-watch him from the corner of our sight line.

Suddenly, Hot Tub Man pops up, showing us his tighty navies. He is wearing either a square-crotched bathing suit or the man is in his damn boxer briefs. How do we know? He turns over and starts doing modified push-ups and planks on the tub's edge, still in the water, showing us his barely-spandex-clad butt cheeks. 

God bless the man, he's trying. He really is. He's got game, we'll give him that much. But, for the love of the art of flirting, you don't need to show us your aged backside if you want our attention. 

Just wave. Raise a glass to toast two beautiful ladies who may or may not be watching you.

When he finally climbs out of the water, Hot Tub Man goes for the beach towel, sucking his gut in as he waddles over to where the terrycloth is folded on a ledge. You all know the gut-suck I'm talking about. We all do it at our age. It's the "Oh, shit, my stomach doesn't belong down at my thighs" breathing intake and breath hold. Don't lie. Anyone over the age of forty has practiced it. By fifty, we've mastered it. By sixty? Well, we try, goddamnit, we try.

I'll be honest: I'm a window shopper. I have zero desire to try nor to buy whatever it is that Hot Tub Man is peddling. Once we realize that he is drying off and possibly changing, we come to the conclusion that, ahoy, matey, he's going to request permission to come ashore. This fact immediately alters our lunch plans. 

Sit outside on the wharf where he can find us? No way! 

Quickly, we hustle slightly inland, away from Marina Bay's immediate waterfront shops, and settle into our good old favorite, The Chantey. We do sit outside, but we are between two buildings and in the shade. If Hot Tub Man intends to find us, he's going to have to work for it. 

Besides, if he does find us, I'm putting the mudslides bill in his back pocket . . . provided he has finally put on his pants.

SCHOOL - IT'S "GO" TIME

School is in session! 

I'm going to have a positive attitude! I'm going to rock it so hard this year! I already have my rosters printed out, my seating charts done, and my first few days of handouts all copied and hole-punched. 

I'm ready!

Or, so I believe.

The rosters change at the last moment. This means that the seating charts change. We cannot access the part of the website that we need for our team meeting. The three professional development sessions are less than professional. The copy machine is being temperamental, and someone walks away and leaves it jammed. We're short-staffed. The tech department failed to properly open the date to begin start-of-year assessments. Five minutes before the students walk down the hall for Day One, I experience a sudden and somewhat debilitating ocular migraine.

In other words, it's business as usual here in the middle school. Bring it. Let the games begin!

MY EPIC ROAD TRIP: BAD DECISIONS MAKE GOOD STORIES, CHAPTER 6 - THE FINAL FRONTIER

{Remember two things about my epic Vermont-New York road trip: My car has 93,000 miles on it, and disaster is about to strike.}

With about sixty miles left to my destination in the North Country of New York, my car decides to crap out in Westport. The tachometer starts going a little funky, and all of a sudden every single emergency light comes on.

Yes, my car has 93,000 miles on it, but it has recently been serviced, and it's a make and model that can easily support 200,000 miles. Of course it would choose now to be a jerk -- right now -- when I have zero GPS, zero cell service, and it's 8,000 degrees with 97% humidity outside. Despite being a notorious speed trap, there is nary an officer of the law in sight.

I. Am. Doomed.

As I drift over to the side of the road, panic sets in. Sure, I have AAA-plus. I can get towed to my brother's house. The problem is that I still have zero cell service and zero wireless capabilities. I'm not calling anybody for help. I push the button on the dashboard, assuming that I am shutting off the car. Nope. Apparently, the car shut itself off, so pressing the ignition restarts the car. The dashboard looks deceptively fine now. 

What doesn't look fine is my heart rate. Finally, I take a few deep breaths and pull back into the road. I drive along, not pushing the speed too far. As I'm driving if locals are up my arse to pass me, I pull over, wave them along, and get back on my route. At this point, I could get on a northbound highway, but I'd rather have the car die on a backroad than die in the passing lane of route 87. 

I drive for about ten miles and come to a side street where the oldest schoolhouse in Essex County, New York, is still standing. I decide to have lunch at the schoolhouse and give the car a good rest. If it doesn't start, there are a couple of farms I can walk to because, hey, I still don't have cell connectivity. Off on the side of a car-less street, a schoolhouse with a flag stands right on the road, along with a sign inviting people to sit and enjoy the views from sunrise to sunset. I grab my sandwich, a water, and a snack, then get myself comfy on one of the benches.

The first thing I notice as I relax in the midst of absolute solitude is that my phone starts pinging. Hey! I'm back in the land of the electronic living, at least, for now. The next thing I notice is the view - I am facing the mountains, and the sun is shining full and hot, creating areas of light and shadow across the mountainous skyline. The last thing I notice is that I am sitting about twenty feet away from a vineyard full of row after row of grape vines. (Oh, for a glass of wine right about now!)

By the time I'm ready to hit the road again, the car starts and seems to be running okay, although I can't tell if it sounds different or if I'm hallucinating from the panic and the high temperatures causing heatstroke. I decide to avoid the highway and continue on the backroads thirty-plus miles until I reach another land form much like the one where I started. 

I stop at Ausable Chasm, a gorge in the Adirondacks. Quechee Gorge (where this entire misadventure started), runs through Mesozoic-era Vermont metamorphic bedrock for over a mile, is 165 feet deep, and has formed over 13,000 years. Ausable Chasm runs through 500 million year-old Potsdam sandstone for about two miles, is 150 feet deep, and has formed over 10,000 years. I've walked the trails before and rafted back to the main lodge, but today it's crowded and oh-so-undeniably hot, and the water level is a bit low. I snap a few photos and video, then backtrack to my favorite farmstand store in nearby Peru, NY (today's destination).

It seems appropriate that my trip from gorge to gorge, chasm to chasm, bridge to bridge, has included unbelievable highs, terrifying lows, twists, turns, cool refreshing spots, sweaty uncomfortable moments, some frustrations, some surprises, and countless visions of amazement. 

The Syracuse - Albany - Amsterdam - Plattsburgh (New York Triangle) trip is another story but separate from my solo travels and not at all horrifying, and it would earn a separate novella (which I probably won't be writing anytime soon) since it involves much more interesting co-conspirators and no wrong-way idiocy (my sister-in-law has a remarkable sense of direction that I lack). 

It's safe to admit, however, that I avoid any further stops on the way home, despite several hoped-for adventures. After my major hiccup in Westport, NY, when my car lost all power and every light flashed on, I make the executive decision to follow twisted Monopoly advice: Go home. Go directly home. Do not pass Go; Do not collect $200. I get in my car, devise the safest route home, and put pedal to metal, not even stopping to eat nor to pee. Four-plus hours of cross-fingered driving and six days after this misadventure began, I am home safe, sound, and running straight to the facilities.