GO-KART-MANIA

Today is  go-kart day.  I am going to attempt to race around a track and not kill myself or anyone in my immediate vicinity.

Bear in mind as I start this tale that I have only gone go-karting once or twice in my life, and certainly not in forty years or so.  The last time I drove a go-kart, helmets were not required and probably hadn't even been invented yet.  The fact that I must wear a helmet is already freaking me out because it restricts my vision.

It's not the only thing causing me agida, though.

Considering that I am a total lead-foot driver on regular streets, I am quite certain that I will not be peddling-to-the-metal at this event.  First of all, I cannot adjust the seat, and secondly, I don't know the track, which is twisty and turny and topsy and turvy and goes over and under and all around the mulberry bush.

I do not hold out much hope for this to go well.  I am semi-correct.

I get passed a few times, which is fine.  I try super hard to go into the reverse curves, but, let's be honest, the steering on these things often requires Herculean strength.  My turns are either too wide or too close to the walls.  After they instruct us NOT to step on the gas and the brake at the same time, I abandon this advice because using both pedals at the same time for turns actually works, and also because the tires chirp, and that's kind of cool.

Coming up and around a corner, my friend is at a standstill.  I can see her, but drivers coming up around me cannot.  I reduce my speed and actually stop to protect both her and the employee who is now walking into the track to help her.  This is when my other pal drives up behind me, doesn't have time to swing around as he is madly racing someone in another kart, and he smashes into me.

It's all okay; my gal pal has been spared and the employee is not road kill.

I get smashed into a few more times, some my fault and some the fault of others.  This is when I realize that the full helmets are NOT for safety; they're to cover my mouth so other people in the place cannot hear me swearing my head off.  I throw enough f-bombs to wipe out Bulgaria.  Despite my potty mouth, I am having a great time.  As a matter of fact, I am laughing so hard that it's hard to keep driving in the lines.

When it's all said and done, I don't run off the track, and don't smash into anyone, I don't need to go to the ER, and both of my friends escape unscathed from the experience.  The best thing, though, is that as soon as I am on my way home in my own car and at my own comfort level, I put the pedal to the metal, and I race home at an average speed of 80 (often more, rarely less) on the highway.  (And, no, it's not the speed limit; the speed limit is 65 mph.)

I may not be the most adept go-karter you'll ever meet, but I'm a relatively solid street racer.  Even better, I don't have to wear a helmet on the ride home and my sight lines, including having adjustable seats and a rear view mirror, make me much better on the true reverse curves than I am in the synthetic ones.

DAMN YOU, ALLERGY SEASON

Amazing.  Truly amazing.

All it takes is a calendar change; not a weather change, not a temperature change, not even a change in any of the vegetation.  As soon as the calendar says "Spring," I start sneezing.  Oh, I try kidding myself.  I tell myself that I must be finally catching a cold, perhaps even that nasty sinus-flu that has been ripping through the entire community.

Nope.  Not the dreaded cold nor flu.

How can I tell?  Cold-related sneezes use sneak-attack techniques: I can feel them coming on, sneaking up with full force before they happen.  Sometimes I even get the sniffles first.  On the contrary, allergy-related sneezes come out of nowhere.  By the time I realize I might sneeze, I am halfway through a bout of five, six, seven sneezes, some of which I cannot even catch a breath between, and I hyperventilate and spew snot all at the same time.

I don't get it, though. There's still snow on the ground.  It's still cold enough to defrost my car's windshield in the morning.  There isn't a bud in a tree nor a crocus popping out of the ground.  For crying out loud, I still have ice skates, snowshoes, and a snow shovel in my car.  It cannot possibly be spring enough yet to send my allergies into overdrive.

Yet, amazingly enough, here it is; here they both are, spring and allergy season.  The ground may not be ready, the temperature may not be ready, and I may not be ready, but the calendar rules us all.  Will it snow again before true New England spring has sprung?  Probably, maybe even three or four more times.

Doesn't matter.

My nose thinks it's spring because the calendar thinks it's spring.  The spore-pollen invasion has begun!  I may not be able to see it, smell it, or feel it, but, by god, my nostrils will not be denied.  Bring it on, Spring!  I'm already suffering; you might as well just finish me off with your warmth and beauty.

Damn you.

LEMON BUTTCHEEKS

I meet a friend for dinner.

This in and of itself is not unusual, except that this particular friend and I are usually up to some kind of shenanigans, so simply having a meal out together is rather sedate.  We've both had very long days, so by the time we sit down, we are both tired and a little slap-happy.

We get the usual giggles out -- somehow we always seem to do two things: Laugh and bitch.  Now, before you go judging us, please bear in mind that our get-togethers are like free therapy sessions.  We support each other's latest ridiculous (or insurmountable) tragedies, then we laugh until we're crying.  The only cost involved is a meal.  Most of you crazy-ass people pay professionals for the kind of mental relief we share with each other for the cost of lemon water.

Which brings me to today's blog: Lemon Water.

One would think that ordering a glass of water with lemon would be a no-brainer.  Somehow, though, our waitress believes this means "Bring us two tall glasses of plain water that you poured directly from the Ipswich River."  No lemon.  This already alerts us that our waitress is, in fact, NOT a rocket scientist ... or maybe she is because super-smart people are often dumb as shit when it comes to something as simple as "Put a fucking lemon slice in the damn glass of water."

We play dumb, too.

When the waitress comes to take our food order, we both exclaim, "You know what might be great with this plain old tasteless water?  Oh. My. God.  Lemon!  Can you even imagine?  Hey, is it possible to get some lemon slices that we ourselves can actually put into this clear old water here?  Wow!  Lemon!  Yes, that's a brilliant idea.  Might we please have some lemon slices?"

You know, like we're Einstein and Edison.

To this the waitress smiles and her eyes widen.  "That's a really good idea!"  Like no one in her world has ever asked for ice water with lemon before.  No.  One.  Ever.

Once we get the lemon slices, we add them to whatever has now arrived at our table: lemonade, Arnold Palmer, really horrible smoky cauliflower, and a couple of lackluster entrees.  Oh, and, of course, the water glasses.

It's a frigging lemon fiesta at our table.

Near the end of the evening when we are waiting, waiting, waiting, waiting, waiting for the waitress to reappear so we can ask for the bill, I look into my water glass and start giggling.  This isn't all that unusual for us because just about anything can make us laugh when we're together.  However, it is at this moment that I realize my ice water has buttocks floating in it.

Yup.

The two lemon slices I added to my water have clumped together, gone belly-down, and are now forming what looks like two butt cheeks with an ass crack.  I tip the glass slightly so my friend can have the same full-on view as do I, but I must maneuver the plastic straw so that it neither separates the lemon cheeks nor performs and accidental lemon proctol exam.

It's the perfect way to end the evening.  After working our asses off all day and laughing our asses off all evening, it's only fitting that there be an ass laughing right back at us from the water glass.  After all, if the damn waitress had just put a damn slice of damn lemon in my damn glass in the first place, this whole cheeky adventure could've been avoided.  But then I wouldn't have a blog nor a photo to share with you, and that right there, folks, is worth the price of a plateful of lemon slices.

TRIPPING A LITTLE WITHOUT MUCH DAMAGE

Any time a winter trip is planned here in the Northeast we have two huge factors conspiring to ruin us: Snow and the flu.  These two spoilers can affect both local travel and travel to other climes.  While attempting to execute a trip to see family in North Carolina, I encounter both of this bastards.

First of all, the flu is rampant at work.  I won't let anyone come near me, and I disinfect anything and anyone who comes within yards of me for an entire two weeks before my planned departure.  Then, my daughter, who is a nurse, tells me she has tested positive for the flu (the coughing one, not the puking one).  In my motherly compassion, I don't even ask her how she feels when she calls with the news.  Instead, I yell into the phone, "STAY AWAY FROM ME!" and hang up.

I park my car at a Logan Express site, wait a whopping fifteen minutes, then board the bus for the airport.  I settle in to my own row, safe and confident that no one will be joining me, spreading their germs.  All is going well until a woman across the aisle and one row up starts sneezing.  Cut that shit out right now, lady.  A few minutes later, three rows up is a cougher.  This is followed by a sneezer (perhaps also the cougher -- I can't be certain).  I hold my breath like I am passing a Long Island cemetery, desperately hoping the germs do not remain airborne for longer than I can contain my lung function.

I arrive at the airport, stop number two (thankfully), and leave the germ-infested bus and passengers far behind me.  I am early, as usual, make my way through the security line, and make my way to the gate, which is in the East Bumfuck area of Logan Airport.  This is when text #1 comes through: My plane is delayed.  As far as I know, there isn't much happening in the way of weather here on the East Coast, but the text doesn't elaborate.  

A little while later there is a second text with a second delay and a gate change.  I have to hoof it all the way back past the security checkpoint through which I came and go to the entire other end of this leg of the terminal.  This is good news because there are more places to get snacks.  I immediately buy a water and some M&M's because ... well ... because why not.  Once I settle in to the new gate area, I get a third text about a delay.  

My plane is now three hours behind.  This is good news and bad news.  The good news is that about thirty percent of the passengers on our plane make other plans at the airport, so I have two empty seats next to me.  The bad news is that I officially could drive to North Carolina in the time I have taken since leaving my house this morning to the time I am predicted to actually land there.

After everyone has boarded the plane (very quickly and efficiently, I might add), we have a fast, uneventful flight to Charlotte, where I arrive exactly when I hoped and planned not to: Rush Hour.  Not only is it Friday rush hour, but it is monsoon season.  I haven't seen this much rain in years.  My little rental car and I are both operating on high alert as we make our way into traffic and ... sit.

Considering that this is NASCAR country, I am amazed at how few people here can actually drive.  In the twenty or so miles I travel, I see four accidents, and not bumper car stuff; major spin-outs into the median strip.  People!  It's raining!  What. The. Heck.  I finally am able to get off an exit close to the hotel, avoiding accident number five.  Honestly, though, it is raining so hard that it is difficult to see.  I misjudge a lane and end up having to turn left when I want to go straight.  Not a big deal, but the regular roads in Charlotte are wider and more dangerous than the highways are, so this could be a lesson in terror and idiocy on my part.  It's all okay, though; I can enter the plaza and hotel area from the side street.

I arrive so late that I miss dinner with extended family, but my hotel is smack dab in the middle of a multitude of restaurants and shops.  I opt for something easy and a bit of a taste of home.  I head over to Whole Foods, and I buy a huge slice of freshly-made pizza, some blackberries, organic pretzels, dark chocolate peanut butter cups, and a big-ass bottle of white wine (sauvignon blanc).  

This may not sound like a success story, but it truly is.  The plane was delayed coming to Boston because it broke down.  Busted.  Dead.  They had to supply us with a new plane, and then that plane had to fly from its destination to pick us up at Logan.  Better to break down before it arrives in Boston than while we are all flying on it.  Also, I make it to Charlotte in decent time, don't get lost despite my GPS refusing to speak to me, and I have a fabulous hotel room with food to eat and wine to drink.  I'm not one of the knuckleheads spinning into the median strip and making everyone sit on the highway like we're in line for Black Friday sales, which is a bonus.

Of course, the return trip is an exercise in nerves.  There is a major snowstorm moving in to Boston.  If my plane is delayed even thirty minutes, there is a decent possibility that we will not be landing, therefore probably never leaving Charlotte (not really a bad thing).  I constantly check the weather map and the flight times.  The gate change is the first indication that luck may not be on my side, but, as I arrive at the new location, I see that the plane is already there, waiting patiently for our boarding call at 6:00 PM.

Once on board (on time), the captain assures us that Boston's weather is overcast and cloudy.  In an attempt to beat the storm, we haul ass despite some relatively rocky turbulence (kiddie roller coaster, not Superman roller coaster).  When we land, the captain announces that the weather is still overcast and cloudy.  I race to the Logan Express stop, standing outside for twenty minutes, watching the sky.  It isn't until ten minutes after boarding the bus, as we cross the Zakim Bridge exiting Boston, that the snow starts.  I make it home just as the roads are starting to get slippery.  (By the way, it snows over a foot by morning.)

I have a great weekend in Charlotte, avoid the flu, almost completely avoid the snow, and manage to mostly avoid monsoon-affected drivers along the way.  Life is good, North Carolina is fabulous, and yes, I drank all of that wine in twenty-four hours.  Success!

NOBODY "NEEDS" FUDGE

My sister and I decide to take a walk down memory lane by making fudge on a snowy day.  When we were kids, my dad made what we considered the World's Greatest Fudge, and, to be honest, I have spent a large percentage of my adult life striving (unsuccessfully) to find fudge that rivals the homemade concoction.

So, on this snowy winter day, my sister and I are on a quest to recreate the Holy Grail of Fudge.

The first thing we do is dig up the semi-secret family recipe.  For many years, I believed that the Dad-tested recipe belonged to Fannie Farmer, a well-worn, golden-colored, hardcover recipe book that was a staple in our house.  However, in my teenage years, my father shocked both me and himself when the two of us realized that I was actually mistaken, that Fannie Farmer never had, nor would she ever have, anything to do with the famous family fudge.  (I refuse to reveal the actual source of the recipe because it is, after all, a family secret.)

The second thing my sister and I do, once we are ready to start creating, is cut the fudge recipe in half.  Neither one of us actually needs fudge, as if anyone truly does, but we want fudge, so we agree to make the smallest batch we can mathematically and chemically produce with any sense of ingredient integrity.  We measure, cook, check with two candy thermometers, then set the fudge to cool.

While our version of Dad's fudge is cooling, we go on an adventure and find ourselves at Len Libby Candy Store in Maine.  Here resides a life-sized moose carved out of 1,700 pounds of chocolate.  There is also a milk chocolate bear and a large white-dyed-blue chocolate pond.  One of the candy stations is giving samples of fudge, so we snag two small pieces and taste it: like all of the generic fudge before it, it tastes good ... but not great.  It is certainly fudge on a celestial, holy scale, but it is not the Holy Grail of chocolate fudge.

When we arrive back at my sister's house, we still have the residual taste of store-generated fudge on our tongues, so we cut into our homemade fudge to compare.  The consistency is the same as the store-brought fudge, but the taste ... superior; an extra-sweet, tongue-tickling fudge experience.

It's not just our childhood memory playing tricks on us: our fudge honestly is superior to all others.

Over two days we do some damage to the tiny batch of fudge, but there is still some left when I leave to come home.  Clearly, the true winners are my sister and I.  We have watched our waistlines, exercised cautious snacking, and, most important above all else, we have achieved Fudge Nirvana.