The virtues of going local gone awry

the good life

Groom has a sweet gig and lives a good life. This is because he works hard and he really cares about things, but he doesn't care so much that he becomes strident or shrieky.

It's annoying, frankly. I end up getting irritated with him for seemingly innocuous things mostly because, he's such a nice and thoughtful person, that when he shows any signs of selfishness or carelessness, I become...well...strident and shrieky.

I live with the knowledge that I am 100% the bad guy, the crazy one, the mean one, the snobby one, the lazy one, the goofy one, in this relationship, because I get to enjoy the perks of being married to someone who goes sailing for a week in Tortola, who goes boating for a week in the Cape, who decides to rebuild an existing kitchen with an obnoxiously huge deck and screened-in porch. It's a hardship, but I bear it well, I think. (Oh, and obviously I live with the knowledge that I'm the worse of the two in this couple because he's my favorite person ever. I suppose I should include that in the list of all the material benefits of this marriage.)

right now

This week, Groom is fishing Boston Harbor with a client. I am staying in the penthouse of Boston Yacht Haven on Commercial Wharf. It's ridiculous.

I swear I bring this up because it has to do with this blog. That, and I am totally bragging right now. I'll repeat. I am typing this as I sit on one of three balconies (two of which overlook the harbor while the third is all cityscape) in the penthouse of a waterside boutique hotel in downtown Boston.

But, this self-flagellating Irish Catholic from Peabody was consoled by the fact that it seemed to be a locally owned and operated establishment.

Until a little over a year ago, I was a writer for a trade magazine in the marina industry. I wrote two features and a couple small pieces for the magazine every issue--or at least I tried to do that. A couple years ago, I wrote an article covering a conference at which the keynote speaker, the CEO of Island Global Yachting (IGY), a large multi-marina corporation that acquires and/or operates luxury-yacht marinas around the world, predicted the end of so-called mom-and-pop shops. I was surprised by this assertion and couldn't help flirting with getting too biased. Here, I'll just quote the article. (I'll put a dollar in the douche tin for quoting myself in my own blog, too.)

“Intellectual capital is the majority value,” he said. Intellectual capital, stated simply, is a combination of gained knowledge, capital, and applied experience. In his opinion, this leads to organic growth and customer loyalty....Most importantly, in Farkas’ opinion, is the need to create a familiar experience among various locations. “Continuity in experience sells,” he said. “People go to locations where they are familiar with the facility.”

He cited Four Seasons in Costa Rica as the primary reason for people spending more time in that country—based on the familiarity of the experience. “You must compete on quality, service, price.” In his keynote, Farkas claimed this is achievable through an enhanced network, branding, and relationships with vendors and customers.

While Farkas predicted to nobody’s surprise more foreclosures in 2010–11, he also noted that “fun is good business. When times are tough, people spend more time recreating.” 

This is hardly news to many who have been in the marina industry, but it’s hardly the “end of mom and pop marinas,” as Farkas also asserted in his talk. Such “mom and pop” marinas as Brewer Yacht Yards have successfully created multi-site marinas with reciprocal services between marinas and yards, and such larger marina chains as Flagship, Vinings, and Westrec (to name a few) have successfully worked from the same business model.

The idea that corporations offer better service than small mom-and-pop establishments gets my ire up. I prefer the local grocery store to the larger chain. I try to use our local hardware store instead of Home Depot or Lowe's. I'm a Main Street shopper. (I should admit, though, I still won't use the local pharmacy while St. Groom uses that local pharmacy almost exclusively. Again, he will always be the better person.)

As I walked into the marina office at this little boutique hotel, I was promptly greeted and treated well. I felt like a valued guest. No matter where I walk on this property, someone in a Boston Yacht Haven shirt says hello or asks if they can get anything, asks if everything is okay. The fellas working the docks made sure to say hello as I walked by yesterday evening.

It was super friendly, but almost too friendly for me. I like competent service, but not overly effusive behavior. I prefer a surly but competent barista. I want a slightly dismissive but competent bartender. I like a distracted but competent bookseller. I want people to treat me like I'm there and need help, but not like I'm the Queen of freaking England. I want someone who knows how to do his/her job and focuses on doing that job well with the occasional smile but tons of information.

At one point, I was trying to get a parking pass--which I've come to understand is impossible--and a woman in the marina office was trying to help me out. I mentioned I had a car but my husband did not. I explained that he had a boat in one of the slips and we were staying in the hotel. The woman in the marina office said distractedly, "Does he have the...little boat?"

I smiled, not insulted but not feeling unnecessarily revered. Ah. There it was! That tang of humanity, that slightly contemptuous competence I crave, the honesty of someone who wasn't hired from a resume and sent off to a corporate retreat in the woods to learn the virtues of good customer service. Yay. No more Disney Land. I was talking to a human. A real person in a real, local, and admittedly very swanky marina. This is why I choose local and this feels like a local place, I thought to myself smugly. No big branding logos everywhere. No signs with "Boston Yacht Haven, a Large Corporation Property." This is why I avoid Starbucks and Wal-Mart and Applebee's and the now defunct Borders Books.

While bebopping around and looking for more people to make me feel like a person and not like another way for an employee to get a gold star on their record based on some theory some motivational speaker touted at some conference, I overheard some talk about how Boston Yacht Haven would be replacing its existing docks with concrete docks so, out of curiosity, I Googled the marina to see who would be performing the work. (Old habits do die hard.)

Within 30 seconds, I discovered I am staying at an IGY-operated facility. This is "Boston Yacht Haven, an IGY Property." IGY. The very same company I got so hot about just two years ago.

I walked down the block, ordered a triple-shot venti latte at Starbucks where the employees who served me the button-processed espresso said my name with a smile no fewer than three times, and sipped corporate coffee with a side of crow.

P.S. We saw this guy from Maine out our window last night. Maine breeds some interesting folks.

new body

I don't always like to work out--in fact many days I hate it--but boy do I love the feeling I have after I work out. I breathe better, stand taller, and feel stronger, even if I've worked my legs hard enough for them to shake.

Heh. That never happens. I don't work my body that hard. But, my body is changing and I like that.

As a reward, I made a run into Banana Republic--or Forever 41, as some people like to call it--the other day because they were having a sale and I wanted to see what new clothes might look like on this new body. It's decidedly not local but it definitely isn't Abercrombie & Fitch, those assholes. (Does anyone remember Commander Salamander? I used to get BR and CS confused all the time. I'm curious to know what they would look like now. I just tried to look up Commander Salamander and came across this blog. The mission statement at the top is fantastic.)

I tried on everything. Shirts, skirts, sweaters, pants--I definitely jumped the gun. I'm still firmly entrenched in a Jackson fit, which is designed for the curvy girl. (I don't mind that little marketing lie. I'll take "curvy," but I was hoping for "curvy with a waist.") Jackson fit clothes are much harder to find at the outlet store, so no trousers for me. Instead, a kicky little linen skirt, a long sweater, and a new belt. Long sweaters aren't really the best idea when your butt creates a perfect shelf for light fabric, but I don't care. I'm not looking back there.

Have I worked out a lot in the past couple of days? Not really.

Have I been eating well? Mostly.

But, I bring up this quick trip to Banana Republic for a reason beyond my disappointment that losing almost 10 pounds didn't really change my body as much as I feel like it has. The parking lot was mostly empty and I was a little distracted because I was trying to decide whether I should get back out of the car to run over to Nine West--when I take a hit to the physical ego, like not finding any curvy girl pants, I tend to make myself feel better with a new pair of shoes.

What? Yes. I'm shallow.

I decided I didn't want to spend the money and since the parking lot was empty, rather than backing out of my space, I opted for the pull through. I released the clutch and hit the gas with authority, cluelessly confident as I pulled forward and CRUNCH. Completely disoriented, I tried to carry on. Nope. I put the car in reverse, but that resulted in spinning wheels and burnt rubber.

Hunh.

I had driven my car onto a median curb. And, not just on it, but ON it. That car was there for the duration.

Long story short, AAA showed up and hauled me off the curb. (Do we tip AAA nowadays? The guy stood there for a really long time, just sort of...looking at me. The last time that happened, I had gotten a flat tire at 6:30am on Route 26. The guy who stopped eventually asked me out for coffee or "whatever." But, the guy who asked me out for coffee was from Rumford and it was the middle of the winter. And, I was wearing a skirt. That I had hiked up. To get someone to stop and help me. So maybe I was asking for it.)

No damage to car. No damage to me, unless you count my ego, which got uplifted when I thought maybe the AAA guy was going to hit on me. Maybe that's a new service they provide.

"Listen, son. If you come upon a slightly overweight woman in her 40s outside of an outlet store and she doesn't have a bag full of new clothes, make sure you make her feel sexy and pretty. We're AAA. Let her know we've got her covered."

I don't know.

Another reason I bring this up. I saw an old friend yesterday--we had attended a wake for a high-school classmate and caught up over lunch. We went all Mad Men on that lunch too. I'll be honest, there was very little eating. She did ask me whether I've lost weight, and she told me I reminded her of the stoic, proper, and beautiful Claire Underwood. I remembered once again why I adore this friend so much.

Of course, in response to this compliment, I had to tell her that when I drove my car onto the median, I had immediately thought of her and a dinner we had in Cambridge many years ago. There were a bunch of us there and we had been waiting in the bar for a table. On empty stomachs, we had two, maybe even three drinks. I remember it was raining outside and this friend had her umbrella. She was also wearing an elegant, fashionable raincoat and I was wearing foulies. It was about this time I realized, after college, all my friends had switched from shapeless slickers to cute trench coats with belts. I'm pretty sure I was also wearing jeans, wet from the knees down, while she was wearing a skirt or dress with weather-appropriate boots. Even though she's six feet tall, she doesn't shy away from heels. I love that about her.

She was in the bathroom when we got called to the table and we were seated by the time she emerged. We all saw her notice us, pick up her belongings, and start to march over to the table. And, we watched as she marched with absolute confidence into the glass wall separating the bar from the restaurant. She had full-body contact with that umbrella in front of her like a majorette holding out her mace.

I know she was embarrassed, but it remains one of my fondest memories.

She calls me classy. I call her a klutz. I think I know why we fell out of touch for so many years.

I'll keep forging ahead, working out and eating right. I keep reminding myself, a new shape was never my intention. I keep reminding myself, a strong body is better than a skinny one. I keep reminding myself, what the hell, I'm middle-aged and this is just how my body wants to be.

Today, that last one is the only one I truly believe.

Lifesaver

That's her holding the Elvis album

I popped into Facebook this morning and noticed it's Mother's Day. I wrote about Father's Day last year. I tend to write these posts after working out, mostly because my energy is up and mostly because the entire function of this blog is to write about gaining strength and eating locally. The side effect of this schedule, however, is that during the 20, 30, 40 minutes alone in my head while building endorphins, I tend to start thinking in blog posts and my thoughts meander along. Today was only 20 minutes because I'm weirdly tuckered out. Even Friday Night Lights couldn't keep me cranking away on the elliptical.

As I've mentioned in the past, I don't celebrate Hallmark holidays. I know that makes me sound like the biggest dink, like proclaiming I don't believe in god because that's what you do when you're a pseudo anti-establishment intellectual pretentious panty-waisted liberal who hates the troops and sings kumbaya. I eat meat and we have guns in the house, so shut up. Whatever. I don't believe in Hallmark holidays. I don't really celebrate Christmas either--and it isn't because I don't believe in a Christian holiday. It's because I don't want one day to represent everything I feel about someone.

I think about my mother every day. I used to resent friends who didn't appreciate their mothers and I would even go so far as to say, "Well, at least your mother is alive." Ah, who am I kidding? I still say that shit. I tend to joke about being raised feral. My mom was diagnosed with MS when I was three or so. She was sick for most of my formidable years, but I remember some of her. Some is sweet, much of it is guilt-inducing and painful.

For sweet, I remember she walked around the block with me when I was maybe in the first grade. It's hazy, like a sitcom flashback. She had a cane--or at least in this version she had a cane--and we were working our way around the corner of Columbus Rd. and Lowell St. in our suburban neighborhood north of Boston. (Aside: My pornstar name is Mindy Columbus. I can't even get a sexy pornstar name.)

Is it wrong that I just referenced porn while talking about my deceased mother on Mother's Day? But it felt so right.

That's what she said.

Oh my god. Someone stop me. ANYWAY, I had a roll of Lifesavers in my pocket and, if I remember correctly, my mom was using this walk around the block to have a quiet moment with me to explain that she was gravely ill. She had been ill for half my life at that point. She had a cane. I wasn't blind. I remember wondering why she was explaining something so obvious to me.

As we rounded the corner, Monica Linton, the bully up the street, saw me holding my Lifesavers and asked me for one. I handed one over.

Another aside. I know I was bullied because I was a damaged girl. I was. I'm not saying that for sympathy or whatever. I was a sad, conflicted, anxious, and deeply troubled little girl. I spent a lot of my time in my room listening to records and staring at myself in the mirror because I was convinced I was on the wrong side. I was the reflection and I wanted to be the real girl.

And we're back. My mom didn't say anything to Monica, but instead carried on with our conversation. Things like, how we'd have to eventually move into a one-floor house because she wouldn't be able to walk. And, how she was going to be disoriented and might not remember me. Some of the things she mentioned that day didn't happen. Most of them did.

Adrian Linton, Monica's older and less bullying but more manipulative sister, walked up. "I heard you had Lifesavers."

I handed one over.

This continued for our entire walk. By the time we got home--it was a long walk along a short sidewalk--my Lifesavers were gone. My mother walked into the kitchen, opened a cabinet, and handed me what looked like a small booklet. When I opened it up, I saw that it was a fake book filled with Lifesaver rolls. I don't know what she was saving them for--a Christmas gift, an Easter basket, a birthday? But, she gave me that treasure trove of Lifesavers, patted me on the head, and walked into our sunroom to rest.

So, Happy Mother's Day. Be nice to bullies?

Waking my Metabolism

There was a guy at the gym today in a dress shirt, khakis, and boat shoes. Another guy was wearing a giant gray sweatshirt with a towel wrapped around his neck like he was Rocky Balboa, or more accurately Mickey Goldmill. Another guy, super thin, was doing lunges around the equipment. And, another guy sat on an exercise bike reaching for the sky the entire time he pedaled. It was fabulous. I felt like I was working out with Elaine Benes' dad.

I noted with curiosity and a hint of dismay that each one of them used the rowing machine. I've always like the rowing machine, but much like an old leather medicine ball, I think it's probably dated--Kevin Spacey uses one on House of Cards and I'm starting to think they use it as a symbol of his age.

I was at the gym for about 90 minutes so I had a chance to watch these men cycle through their routines. I started to feel competitive, like "oh, that guy's been on the treadmill the entire time I've been on the stationary bike. I need to up my game."

And by "upping my game," I meant "beat the 80-year-old."

Sigh. My metabolism is asleep. I've known this for a long time. And, I'm having a devil of a time waking it up. I've been using my metabolism (not the eggamuffins and mac-and-cheese and bottles of bourbon and BBQ potato chips and cheeseburgers and french fries) as my excuse for gaining so much weight. I'm in my 40s; what do you expect? Right?

It was as though I had already called on Metabolism at the funeral parlor, hugged his wife, lamented the passing of something so youthful (but let's face it, he had a good run), met everyone in the church basement for some coffee, deli meats, and finger sandwiches (tuna, chicken, or ham), and laughed at some of Metabolism's greater moments: Remember when he would let me eat an entire pizza? Remember that time I devoured a cheesesteak with a coffee milkshake right before bed and I didn't gain an ounce? Remember how I used to hike for a little while and my muscles stayed toned for months? Good times. Good times.

Watching these duffers today, I knew they would never be Jack Palance, but they were trying. And, I imagined the ghost of my poor weary Metabolism watching the old guys and resenting the hell out of me for giving up on him.

I'd be lying if I said I don't love feeling strength in my legs. But, I tend to focus on my ailments (I suspect you've figured that out already). I twisted my ankle really badly. I pulled my IT band. I dislocated my shoulder.

I don't know when that started. I learned to play the flute with a torn tendon in my thumb. It never occurred to me to complain or even take Tylenol. I just did it. These days, I can't muster up the energy to get on the elliptical in the next room because my knees feel "a little funny." Granted, I need to pay attention to what my body is telling me--walking things off is what got me into some of these predicaments in the first place--but paying attention to the pain rather than the gain is also what got me into those size 14 trousers. And, the more I sit on my butt, the more pain I'm going to be in. My frame, albeit of Irish peasant stock, can't carry this weight around anymore.

So, while I watched those guys shuffle through the gym, I made a resolution (another damn resolution, think I'll actually stick to this one?): I'm not going to focus on the pain.

When Groom and I were dating, we were a terrible couple. (Bear with me, this goes somewhere.) We were both so hellbent on proving our independence from one another, we rarely saw each other. For years, we would see each other on an average of about once or maybe twice a month. I hated it.

I would spend so much of my time thinking about all the bad things we had done to each other and said to each other over the years. All the broken promises and changed plans. It just ate at me, and I was unable to be sweet with him; I was too caught up in the bad times.

One day--and I swear it was like that...just...[snap] one day--I decided I would focus on the good parts of our relationship. When we had an argument, I wouldn't immediately assume we were breaking up. When he was running late, I wouldn't immediately assume he was blowing me off. When he forgot our plans and did something else, I wouldn't immediately brand him as selfish.

The most amazing thing happened. I stopped worrying. Sure, we get into arguments now and then (you did sign off on those kitchen windows, Groom), but instead I focus on the flowers he slipped into my office or the fact that he changed my flat tire without my asking him or that he allows me to sit at my computer for hours on end writing nonsense and watching Office reruns.

We'll see whether this works for exercise. Metabolism, wake up. I love my strong legs. Now, pick up that medicine ball and keep moving, Jack.

I can work Ryan Gosling into any conversation

hello, old friend

I have nothing extraordinary to report. I spent yesterday working and writing and being generally kind of maudlin and then spent about an hour and a half mowing the lawn, which turns out to be good exercise, as I've noted many, many times in the past. An added benefit to springtime mowing is it includes an annual game of lawn pick-up sticks. My hammies are killing me.

I love saying that.

I can report I'm starting to get one of those indents in my butt, the kind you get from exercise. It's an indent into the fat, but it's an indent nonetheless. I mean, I'll never have Ryan Gosling's ass...or body.... No matter how you interpret that sentence and whether it is within context or not, I'm saddened to realize that statement is 100% accurate.

I have to admit I feel a little absurd keeping this blog. I get more page views than I had anticipated, but the whole thing smacks of smugness, and a little ham. But, in case you're wondering, we cooked up the chicken and mushrooms that we purchased at the farmers market on Saturday. I tried to remove the skin from the chicken before brining it in sugar and salt, but I got so unbelievably skeeved out, Groom had to come in from working on his boat to do it for me.

And then he had to make me a martini. Does anyone else think touching a chicken is a lot like touching a dead person? Removing the skin is just eery.

Sidenote: my sister can debone a chicken in, like, minutes. I tried to find a picture of it, but couldn't pull one up. Instead, I offer you these pictures of my other sister and my older brother showing off their stupid human tricks this past summer. She can flip her tongue horizontally and he can hang five spoons from his face as well as pull his skin a clear three inches from his own face. That picture is too disturbing to post. I bring some excellent DNA to the table, don't I? (They are going to kill me.)

Back to the chicken. Braised; no skin; smothered in lemon rind, rosemary, and olive oil; and grilled with some lemon wedges while basting with a tiny bit of butter, dijon mustard, and lemon. The result? Heavenly. It tasted like grilled chicken with skin on it. Crazy good, not dry, super flavorful. Thank you, Cook's Illustrated. I attributed it to the recipe. Groom made sure to mention the chicken from Maine-ly Poultry in Warren was fresh and delicious. He's a better person than I am, level-headed and much more aware of others. It's so hard to be married to a saint.

We--and by "we," I of course mean "Groom"--also cooked up the mushrooms we got from Oyster Creek Mushroom Company with just a little butter and olive oil.

Overall, very rich and buttery-tasting, but actually a healthy meal. Until I totally dove into those fatty thighs--insert dirty joke here--and ate every last bit of chicken.

Today, I'm helping myself to some tuna with mustard and sesame dressing, but the thing I want to mention is the pickles. I found these Wickles at Brackett's, the IGA in Bath, and they are ridiculously good with tuna. My god, the picture looks disgusting, doesn't it?

Once I digest this pile of tuna, I plan to go to the Y. Odds are really good that I will instead mow the lawn and take a turn on the elliptical because, deep down, I am a hermit. A hermit who doesn't steal, but a hermit nonetheless.

Anyone else obsessed with the Maine Hermit? I would love to meet him. Does he understand Internet? Cell phones? The Kardashians? We have our own Rip Van Winkle. Did he come out of his tent and immediately proclaim his hatred of the Soviets or East Berlin or the Eastern Bloc? Does he still rally against Apartheid?

Is he sad Michael Jackson died?

(Too soon?)

Redefining what's tragic

This past winter, I was describing to a work friend a Louis CK bit about life and health in our 40s. In short, I said to her, I realized it would not be tragic if I died at this age. It's not like someone would read my obituary and think, "Oh, so young!" Childless and 44, I might elicit a "What a shame" or "Yeah, well. She lived a good life."

My friend was horrified. She and I are the same age and she spent the next six months exclaiming loudly that I would not think it would be tragic if she died. And, I had to admit publicly even though it was wildly out of context that, yes. That was true.

I bring this up because a woman I went to high school with died this morning [Edit: She was taken off life support this morning]. I wasn't friends with her in school and I'm not friends with her now. I don't expect any sympathy and I do not want anyone to say "Sorry for your loss." I abhor borrowed grief--the grief belongs with her husband, her family, her close friends, and her mother who, from what I understand, is now burying her third child.

I had recently reconnected with this woman through Facebook and we chatted via comment fields, mostly about her dogs--she loved dachshunds--but that was about it. We definitely weren't close. I am not a good person and I was not a good person in high school. I barely remember her from high school; I barely remember anyone from high school. And, I'm not very good at getting close with people. In fact, I'm mostly reluctant about it. I'm even uncomfortable typing her name here, because that makes it all so personal. But, it's Jenn. Her name is Jenn.

I've had many friends and acquaintances pass away over the years. But, I do find myself grieving Jenn's death in a peculiar way. She suffered excruciating back pain that seems to have led to a bad seizure from which she did not awaken. Her husband and family had to make a very difficult life-support decision this morning. It was all very sudden and very severe.

Jenn arranged our 25th high school reunion this past fall and I watched her on Facebook as she displayed her fondness for animals, her warmth for people, and her love for her gardens. She loved to sit on her deck and take pictures of her yard. She was, in her public FB life, a kind and affectionate woman. Although she was clearly in pain, her last post on FB was about firefighters saving animals. Prior to that, she was reminding people to visit Boyltson Street post-marathon bomb to support local business. And, now, that's it. Her page has turned into a memorial filled with prayers and well wishes, as do all FB pages belonging to the recently deceased.

I thought about Jenn as I ate my lunch today on the deck while looking at the yard. I plan to do some yard work and I plan to snuggle my dog. A lot. In this way, I can honor a lovely woman, grieve for her family, and acknowledge that, yes, death at 44 is actually very tragic.

Hershey Kisses and the City of Ships

I have an Achilles Heel. Well, two actually. Hershey Kisses and Hahn's End cheese.

If I were to get stranded on a deserted island, the three items of food I would want most are Standard Baking baguette, arugula, and Hahn's End cheese or maybe Appleton Creamery goat cheese in olive oil--that stuff is amazing.

I might have to amend that list while I try to stick to this diet. The cheese? I expected to crave that. But Hershey Kisses? I spent a couple of hours raking leaves with Groom yesterday and then hopped on the elliptical for about 20 minutes. That's enough to work off, like, one hunk of cheese or maybe one kiss. The chocolate kind, not the bow-chicka kind.

And mushrooms!!

Groom and I went to the Bath Farmers Market yesterday and I immediately tried to avoid the cheese purveyors. But, my god. Hahn's End City of Ships is unbelievable. It's what you want all sharp cheese to taste like. So, Groom bought a wedge to bring with him to a party he went to last night and I bought a hwee wedge for myself. I then watched Groom purchase a container of Appleton Creamery goat cheese in olive oil, but I abstained. I feel like I should be sainted for that act of abstinence.

What else yummy? I picked up some chicken from...I can't remember the name of the farm. Maybe from Maine-ly Poultry in Warren. And, we tried to get some salad greens from Squire Tarbox because I like those guys. I don't know. They just seem so nice. If they have arugula with holes in the leaves, I'll still buy it from them. They just seem like nice folks. But, my lazy fatass got to the market late today and I missed out on the Squire Tarbox greens. We bought them from Goranson Farm instead. We had already purchased some scallions and potatoes from them because Ima gonna grill me up a nice chicken dinnah today with some mushrooms from Oyster Creek Mushroom Company. (I'm sorry. I don't know where that voice came from.)

I like to support Goranson because, this winter, the Bethel Chamber screened Goranson Farm: An Uncertain Harvest, which I did not go see but have heard great things about.

I just reread that. I am a jackass.

Epilogue: In case you're curious, the person I want to be stranded with on a deserted island, if I have to choose, is Groom. Isn't that the most annoying answer ever?

lunch yesterday: broccoli, boiled egg, white bean salad,
and a bit of leftover sirloin from Wednesday night

Reminds me of the time I was hanging out with some friends and we were talking about those lists--the list of five people you're allowed to sleep with if you ever meet them (James Hetfield, Jason Varitek, Ryan Gosling, Jason Bateman, and Junichiro Koizumi); the person you would want to be stranded on a deserted island with (mentioned above); the three types of food you would bring with you (mentioned above); the three books you would bring with you (The Scarlet Letter, Old New York, God of Small Things); and finally "If you were stranded on a deserted island and you could have a picture of any part of the body of the opposite sex--or, if you prefer, same sex--what body part would you want?" (Wrists, for me. The back of a man's wrist kills me.)

(I'll admit, in light of what I've just written, that linked video is a little disturbing.)

Back to the picture. My friend Hugh sat quietly for a moment, reflecting on the question, before saying, "I would want a 5x7 index card with a short paragraph outlining the qualities of a strong, interesting, and powerful woman."

We all stared at him. Stunned and...well...slightly annoyed. Really?

"If I can't have that," he said. "I'll take boobs."

He also has "Jane, the woman who works on the third floor" on his List of Five, so.....