Knit Night: Take One

One of Isaac's classmate's mommy is a knitter. As if that wasn't enough to make me like her, I found out her name is Ariel and she pronounces it exactly like Sebastian the crab pronounces it in the Little Mermaid-- just like the letters R-E-L .... so it sound so sweet, and airy. Completely appropriate since she is also a flutist. Aaron still says "flautist", but that is just wrong. What's even better than all that is that she started a knitting group that meets at some one's house every 2 weeks. I can't wait until it is at her house since her husband is a wine distributor. Knitting and wine ... together? Can you sing, "These are a few of my favorite things...." a la Julie Andrews?

So, I went. It was the night after my botched root canal and the bruise was just forming on my face, so that should tell you how desperate I am to find friends and knit. It was at the most adorable little cottage style house way out in the boonies. It was pitch dark, and after 2 miles the road turned to dirt and continued deeper into the woods. I thought, "Have I just been lured into the woods by some Koresh-like cult posing as a knitting circle?" I expected to get out of my car and find a moose attached to the bumper. The house was brown wood, almost like a cabin in Germany's black forest, complete with a cobblestone walkway, pointy roof and window boxes full of flowers. Sarah, the host let me in. She was playing celtic tunes in the background, had scented candles lit and was drinking a local beer. Soon after about 5 others arrived, and I soon realized I was the oldest one by about 10 years. When the heck did that happen to me?

While I didn't get much knitting done, I had an amazing time. It was literally like being in a different world and underscored how much I love this place. What a change from California.

First, I was the only one with make-up ... so with just blush, some lip gloss and mascara, I felt like a Drag Queen. How refreshing to see such young women so unadorned. No acrylic nails or plastic surgery ... no talk of diets or celebrities. No major gossip well, except for calling the owner of the knit shop "Bun Laden" which absolutely cracked me up since I wrote about her in a previous blog. I laughed so hard I snorted. And when the food was served, there was no one said, "Oh, I shouldn't. Just a little salad. Just some water, please." Everyone jumped up and planted a healthy portion of lasagna on their plates and ate every last bite.

I also marveled at the level of education in the room. Almost all had a Master's, and there were 2 IV league schools represented. They used words like "diaspora" and talked about the plays they had seen. Not pretentious, just as a matter of fact. One girl particularly bright and nerdy got to talking to me because her father works for IBM as well. Turns out she speaks Italian, French, Spanish and German. She asked if we could practice German together.

I was so impressed and inspired that I will surely offer to host a knit night soon. In fact, I can hardly wait for the next one. I don't mind being the old, made up lady in the room as long as there are nice people, good food and knitting involved.

Missing: Reward Offered

At approximately 2:07 this afternoon, in the general vicinity of the master bedroom on Hemlock Road in Norwich, a size 7 bamboo knitting needle went missing. The needle, one of set currently in use to make a pewter gray almost 100% cashmere ladder stitch scarf was last seen amidst a tangle of yarn and a taptop cord, pages from a Harvard Business Review case study, some pillows, a pen, a yellow wallet and a pink fleece robe. "I don't know what happened," says, Dorit, its owner. "One minute I was clearing items off my bed so my son could take a nap and the next thing you know, it's gone." Without its safe return, Dorit is afraid her husband's neck will freeze on his upcoming business trip, or he simply won't look as dashing as expected since the scarf was specifically designed to go with his overcoat. "I've asked my husband, my son, even my dog to help me look, but they just don't see the urgency in this!"

If you have any information as to the whereabouts of the missing needle, please contact Dorit ASAP. She is currently addicted, has no other materials to start a substitute project, and without this needle will have a complete psychotic break.

A little excitement on Hemlock Road....

It was approximately 10:00 PM. It's 28 degrees outside, but with new flannel sheets and the best mattress pad money can buy, I was snug as a bug in a rug ... not to mention the new Hungarian Goose down comforter I bought today ... I felt like a real Vermonter ... layered up and ready for the cold. But something awoke me ... a light ... I thought maybe Aaron had left the porch light on because surely anything that wakes me up at night is his fault--no questions asked. But we soon realized that it was brighter than our porch light and no way it could have been simply caused by the garage light. Something was amiss ... and alit and we decided to investigate. Donning my baby pink fleece robe with dark pink polka dots, I make my way to the garage because it has windows. And sure enough, I saw what looked like a small SUV ... station wagon perhaps ... parked very much in our driveway with its lights on. Not right up to the door, mind you, but definitely close enough to question its intentions. Once I hit the garage lights, it went into reverse and made its way up our dirt road.

Here's the deal. It is either one of the neighbor's cars or it is in for a rude awakening, because Ms. Mud Boots, who watches every car that makes its way up the private drive is sure to meet this one with a shotgun in hand. She makes no bones about the fact that she doesn't like people making U Turns on her "private" drive. I, on the other hand, think she should be thankful for any attention she gets.

However, after a few moments ... the car comes back down our road and parks at the end of it, at a stop sign facing Route 5 and the CT river. I want to call the Norwich Police, but Aaron thinks it is premature. But after several minutes, he gives me the go ahead.

I try 411. Guess what. They have no listing in Norwich, VT for police. I refrain from releasing the sarcasm that is rolling around in my head ... after all ... we have already been pulled over by them for speeding and we pass the police station at least once a week going to the dump. So, I open Google while Aaron checks a list of numbers our landlord gave us. In the meantime, suspicisous care is still there and I am on the phone with dispatch.

If this had been CA ... and I know because I have called the police in CA ... they would have said that the police were busy on a real emergency and would be there when they can. If this were North Carolina, they would have simply taken their own sweet time showing up... as in never. But within 10 minutes a patrol car was driving up our road. Only, they just missed the suspicious vehicle because it turned north on Route 5. So, I felt obligated to call the nice dispatcher back and alert her to the change in situation ... then within seconds, I saw the patrol make its way north on Route 5.

I have to say ... there is something comforting in the fact that the crime rate is so low here that the police show up lickety split. On the other hand, what the heck were those people doing in our driveway ....

On a positive note: I have eagle vision and my night vision puts cats to shame. I took down the license plate and found out that you can do a criminal records search on any Vermont licence plate for a mere $29.95. I asked Aaron if it was worth it. Negative .... but the suspense is killing me ... and my wallet is within 15 inches on my computer.

Problem is, it is probably some tourist, or teenager ... something completely benign and I would have wasted $30 finding out that life around here really is less exciting--from a crime point of view. I mean, after all, what do I want ... to find out that someone is stalking us? We don't cheat on our taxes .... and as far as I know everything we buy is made in Vermont .... I suppose I will never know.

The highway less traveled ...

A little creative non-fiction that I am finally ready to share ... amazing how much has happened in the span of four months! Life is full of surprises ....

I admit that it’s beautiful, but he wants me to say more. He is glancing at me expectantly from the corner of his eye. “Can you believe it? No one billboard! Have you seen one stinkin’ billboard?”
“Not a one,” I reply shaking my head slowly as I unwrap one of the Brisket sandwiches his mother sent along with us on our pit stop to Boston. I place it on the center console before unwrapping my own. I open the bag of chips and offer him a napkin. “Here. Take this." I say, shaking it in his face. I look back at Isaac, but he is still asleep in his car seat. I put his peanut butter and jelly back into the bag for now.
“Now, that is blue, huh?” He is pointing through the windshield at the sky. “No smog. Just clear blue sky.” And then he whistles the way men in old movies do when a pretty woman walks by them. Only when he does it, it sounds more like the sound a firecracker makes right before it explodes.
I drop my hands in my lap nearly knocking my sandwich to the floorboard. “Aaron, I have seen blue skies before. Can we just eat?”
I feel him looking at me. I point to the road on which I want him to keep his eyes, and only when I see his head turned back to the North, do I begin eating my lunch.
My mother calls it love. The way his enjoyment of life is heightened by mine. “It’s sweeeet,” she says. On the flipside, as in all marriages in which both member of the union care what the other thinks and feels, our happiness can be hampered by the other’s distaste for something we love. I am still bothered by the fact that I cannot cook with mushrooms unless I am the only one eating. Plus, the stakes are a bit higher for Aaron this time and he really wants us to be happy because we are all here because of him—uprooted. His two-year old son who loves the beach, his nanny, and picking fresh oranges off the tree everyday with daddy when he has returned from work. His wife carrying a high-risk pregnancy around like a goldfish in a bowl that threatens to spill its contents and lose the fish with any false move. An aging and overweight Labrador retriever whose flight cost more than all of ours put together. But he is happily embarking on a new career path that promises to be filled with shiny new faces to greet, interesting things to learn, and exactly one-third the salary to which we have grown accustomed. “But you will see. The cost of living is much less in New Hampshire. We aren’t going to be taxed to death like in California.”
Isaac is stirring in the back. I quickly snatch up the remnants of our meal and stuff them away into bag. I jab a juice box with a straw and turn to tend to my son, whose eyes are wide open and fixed on the view from his window along the highway. His mouth is forming a slow smile. “Look, Mama. A forest.”
“That’s right,” I say. “It is a forest.” To prepare him for the move, I cut pictures of trees out of magazines and pasted them on poster board. “This is where you are going to live soon,” I said enthusiastically. My friends who had taken sabbaticals with small children assured me that if I was optimistic, he would be optimistic too.
He shakes his head at my offer of food and drink. He yawns, stretches, then looks back out through the window. “A forest,” he whispers.
Aaron’s voice cuts in as he turns toward Isaac, shouting over the engine and windshield wiper and right in my ear, “Where is the graffiti? Where are all the people? Where are all the Jack-in-the-boxes and Taco Bells?” I roll my eyes, thinking as if Isaac can understand these questions that are only designed to remind me, yet again, how much nicer it is supposed to be here.
“It’s all gone!” Isaac shouts. Aaron and I look at each other, and despite my efforts to stop at a simple smile, we both release a thunderclap of laughter. Isaac, pleased with himself, laughs too, then repeats himself with even more emphasis, “It’s ALL gone!” Several minutes pass before our combined laughter settles and fades into sporadic snorts and chuckles.
They say that kids will keep you honest, and it’s true. Even I have to admit that it is beautiful here. “That’s right,” I say. “It is all gone. It is all trees now.” I enjoy the lightness of mood that has taken over the small space of our car. Aaron reaches across to pat my belly.
“How you doin’ in there little one?” he asks.
I see a sign for our exit up ahead and warn Aaron. He sits upright, readjusts the seat belt over his shoulder and places both hands back on the wheel. Within a few moments, we are off the highway and making our way to the hotel, which will be our temporary home until we find a place to settle in for the year.

Bring on the flannel ...

My best friend, who lives in a city also known for its bitter cold weather, was convinced I would find myself in plaid flannel and a pair of mud boots before the year was up. I am all for staying warm, but I have a firm belief that no matter how cold it gets, one musn't sacrifice all their values. And, I make no apology that dressing somewhat fasionably is one of mine. Emphasis on the "somewhat" these days. Now, I am not saying that plaid and / or flannel can't be stylish. (OK, well, plaid I am not sure about ... wink, wink ... nudge, nudge ... you know who you are and I am only teasing you.) I am simply saying that surely someone makes snow boots and fleece shirts with modern detailing and lines. I have seen some downright stunning down jackets in Europe and New York, so I know they exist. And a note on mud boots--with the right jeans and a white top, they can be ... dare I say ... sexy ... on a woman--in that "tanned, nature-girl, blueberry-picking, dirt-under-the-nails farm-stand-worker"sort of way. If I ever go wild mushroom hunting, I am getting me a pair.

But plaid flannel, especially red plaid flannel, is where I draw the line. I am not a lumberjack. I promptly told my friend while I was still in California something along the lines of "not just no, but hell no."

And I have held out quite well. Even when Aaron sneaked off and bought me a pair of the best flannel PJs from the Vermont Flannel Company in Woodstock, Vermont, I thanked him for the gesture, but promptly sent him back to return them. "But you will want these when it gets cold. I swear," he argued. Flannel, maybe .... fuschia, turqouise and white plaid flannel .... never. I was certain that anyone who slept in those would either suffocate themselves, have nightmares or wake up with a full-blown migraine. I suppose it didn't help that they day he bought them was the hottest day of summer and we didn't have air conditioning in the house. My son and I were covered in bug bites and the only fan we owned was the size of a coffee pot.

But a funny thing happened recently. It got cold. Really cold. At least to us, whose blood is still thin as water from almost four years back in California. And we were all just recovering from a stomach bug we got during our travels to and from North Carolina when Isaac came home with another "day care" cold. Aaron and I followed suit. So, on a chily Saturday morning, we woke up freezing and Aaron said, "Between the weather and the day care germ exchange, I have a feeling we are going to be really scr*wed this winter." It was the first time I was scared as I thought about the reality of what we were going to be facing. Suddenly snow angels and cross-country skiing didn't sound so romantic. So, I agreed that as a start we all should get a pair of PJs (or two) from Vermont Flannel Company--that very day.

I was hoping they might have a solid colored pair. No such luck. Closest they get to solid is what they call the court jester pants where one leg is green and the other is a coordinating green plaid. No comment necessary, right? And the women who worked there, while they were helpful enough, were some scary broads. While Aaron was looking through their shirt collection, they gave me a list of other things I might need like extra large boots so I could wear several pairs of socks or my feet would freeze off--and a mask for my face. Something else about windchill factor driving temperatures down to minus 50 degrees and frostbite. I was hugging Isaac tighter and tighter, shaking my head "no" and backing away from them very slowly as if they were that poor disturbed woman who approached us in Burlington. I thought about the scene in National Lampoon's Christmas when Audrey's eyeballs were frozen open when they went looking for a Christmas tree. Yup, those were some scary women at the Vermont Flannel Company.

Nevertheless, Aaron and Isaac easily found matching pairs in subtle blues, and there are few things in this world cuter than seeing him in those PJs. And I succumbed to what I thought was the least offensive of the selection. And as the cashier handed them to me, I had flashbacks of going to the doctor and being handed a dressing gown and a paper blanket because that is about as excited as I was about this purchase. This was no trip to Victoria's Secret.

Sidebar: This place actually makes flannel thongs. Now, if you don't find something inherently wrong with that, then ... well ... I just don't know.

It took me a while before I was ready to sit down with my dish of steaming crow and call my friend to tell her that not only did I buy flannel PJs, but they were in fact plaid and ... ahem ... red. She asked me when I was going to wear them, and I told the truth. "I am wearing them right now." Buttoned up to my chinny chin chin and feeling pretty darn cozy. Not only did I not make it 'til Christmas before caving, this was only October 2. She didn't say, "I told you so" because that is not the kind of friend she is ... maybe that's why I love her to pieces. (I still hate that she was right).

What the heck have we gotten ourselves into?

Mad cow (no pun intended)

Or .... "The best workout of my life" ... or "Only in Vermont". I couldn't decide what to call this post, so here goes ... I hate running. I believe that if God wanted us to run, he would send someone to chase us. But the nearest gym is too far, and I get tired of doing Burpees and push-ups in my livingroom. I have virtually given up yoga because I simply can't bear the thought of giving up 1.5 hours for anything that isn't culinary, and the teachers, quite frankly, touch students too much. I am not that friendly. But everytime I look out my window and see this amazing river surrounded by a glorious collection of trees and wildlife, I simply feel guilty for not getting out and taking advantage of it. So, I choose to run along the river because I know that when I leave I would kick myself for not spending more time in the beautiful Vermont outdoors when it was right on my doorstep. (And why should the cyclists have all the fun ... they already get to wear costumes.)

But, as I embarked on my last run up Route 5, I brought along my digital camera. We are just now entering the legendary Fall Foliage season, I had a bright idea to capture the changes week by week and share them with my friends and family who have either never experienced the splendor of Autumn in New England or who miss it terribly since moving to California. So, I on this particular day, I decided to kill two birds with one stone and snap pictures while getting in a good workout. How efficient is that? (I am German after all.)

It started out business as usual. I tie up my running shoes and warm up with a brisk walk up my road a quarter mile to the "friendly" neighbor's pier (and stopping before I reach the house with the PRIVATE DRIVE sign in the yard so the cranky old bird who lives there won't catch sight of me and chase me down the road spilling hot coffee on her mud boots like she did once before.) I snap a few photos, then turn back for the serious run along Route 5.

Now, the serious jogging begins. I start out at the train trestle and head north to Thetford. I brave the bridge that cuts over the river inlet and hope no Mac trucks are passing at the same time because I am both afraid of heights and, well, Mac trucks. From there it is usually smooth sailing. But I bring my inhaler just in case.

One of my favorite spots, though, is a hilly pasture on the West side that usually hosts a dozen or less medium-sized cows. They all have horns, so Aaron says they are bulls, but I call them cows anyway ... some of them have babies and I can't be sure which ones have horns.

Now, let me just say that I love cows. I love their giant brown eyes and serene expression that seems to suggest they are right with the world--no matter what their fate, and largely because they don't know their fate. And they get in a hurry about nothing ... or so I thought. Because on this day, I spotted one of the herd loose and eating up a patch of my neighbor's lawn. (By the way, I call everyone who lives within walking distance of my house my neighbor even though they don't have a clue who I am.) This is the quintessential black and white cow you might find on a milk carton .... not because he is missing or something, but because he ... she ... whatever ... looks like a Jersey Cow. And he is chewing a load of tall weeds that are hanging out of both corners of his mouth. He looks at me nonplussed, and I think this is the perfect photo "op." So, I snap him.

It is then that I notice that a section of the barbed wire fence that keeps the cows in place is loose and I wonder what has keep the rest of the herd from the sweet grass across the street. Good behavior? Fear of Mac trucks?

I run on.

Within seconds I hear the sound of something pounding the pavement and I know it isn't my girly-girl pink and silver Reeboks. I look back and the damned cow is chasing me ... and what's worse ... his fellow bovine gang members are following suit, jumping over the broken barbed wire and mooing at me as if I had just made a leather jacket out of one of their cousins. I have never run so fast in all my life ... not even during track and field day at Collegewood elementary. But it is hard to run when you are also laughing, because honestly, what could be funnier than going for a jog and being chased by cows. At least in Pamplona, participants get a party afterward--if they survive.

I spot a dirt path that crosses the Green Mountain railway train tracks and make a pact with myself to find the first house that looks it has someone inside and that the inhabitants aren't serial killers. But as I run I realize that not only am I not brave enough to knock on anyone's doors, I don't even know if this dirt road is leading me back to Route 5 or not. All I know if that I heard a truck honk its horn, a loud "MOOOOO!" and I never saw the pack again. My heart rate is about 179 at this point (I highly recommend the Polar Heart Rate Monitor). I flag down a car carrying two women returning from a very important shopping trip to West Lebanon, New Hampshire. I know this because NO store in these parts carries packages of toilet paper as big as they had except for Wal Mart of BJ's, both of which are in West Lebanon. I don't know exactly how to explain myself so I say, "You are going to laugh, but ..."

They did. Hard. Especially when I told them that I thought it was my camera that had ticket off the gang leader. The passenger said, "Damn Paparazzi!" And they probably continued to laugh as they continued down the dirt road to their house where they put away loads of toilet paper.

On a positive note, I got to see a whole new view of the river bank and got some fabulous photos once I caught my breath. And sure enough, my little detour led me right back to the train trestle and right back home again. I tell you ... I have jogged through some shady neighborhoods, but nothing scared me as much as that cow. And my hamstrings are still sore.

Knit one, purl two ... or was it the other way around?

Or was that the other way around? And when you ‘yarn over,” do you wrap it counter-clockwise? I mean, if the needle is vertical, which direction is clockwise anyway? And what's a slip stitch, dang it?

These are the questions that fill my head late at night when I am knitting alone, or were asked out loud as I was trying to show my mother how to knit during my visit to North Carolina. I can now honestly say that I taught her a thing or two, since she is the one that taught me how to do most everything else (except cooking and how to use a computer). For a near two weeks straight, we sat in her living room at night and watched British comedies from Netflix, and tried to figure out new and more complex knitting patterns—or just finish a measly little scarf.

This usually involved a three step process: 1. A period of silence as we casted on the yarn and managed the first three rows, then 2. Several whispered expletives and the clanking of needles as one of us realized we had made an irreparable error, then, 3. The sound of stitches being pulled apart and a snicker from the person who did not make the error. We are a bit competitive in my family. Then it dawned on us. It was easier to knit, though much less fun, if we avoided an after dinner Cordial. To put it bluntly: Don't drink and knit. As my knitting instructor, Shelley, said, " It ain't rocket science!" But it does require a heap of focus, especially for a newcomer, so your mind must be clean and sharp—just like your needles. And while it may not be rocket science per se, it sure as heck isn't as simple as decorative napkin folding. This stuff is hard, and I guarantee you that Martha Stewart pays to have her sweaters knitted, and I double guarantee you that the shawl she wore leaving prison was crocheted ... not knitted.NOTE: What's the difference between crocheting and knitting, you ask? Well ... I really don't know, except that crocheting involves one needle, usually plastic or metal, with a hook on the end. (Might as well get dental work.) Whereas knitting uses two needles for the most part with a whole host of styles and types, many of which are made from bamboo or shaped to suit a specific purpose like cabling sweaters or are rounded to make big projects like afghans. Some knitting snob I know explained it like this: knitting is estate-bottled wine, while crocheting is White Zinfandel in a box. Not really, but as an emerging knitting snob, I caught her drift.And it just so happens that, believe it or not, (well, if you truly know me, you believe it), knitting is one of the top three items on my bucket list, so I am taking the opportunity while living in Vermont to learn the art. Knitting is big here, and I suspect the weather has something to do with it. But, I doubt there are many others who have listed knitting as something they simply must do before they die, but honestly, I don't care. It is a beautiful craft, steeped in tradition that was born out of a basic need to keep warm, but evolved so that a good knitter can make one beautiful at the same time. I find fewer activities more important than that.

My love of knitting all started thanks to an Austrian exchange student we hosted named Claudia (pronounced Cloud-ee-h) who once made me a colorful sweater in a single afternoon. I was much smaller then. She was a master of the traditional "Trachtenmode" German-style knitting patterns that included intricate designs, such as flower adornments and the addition of silver buttons. But it was the way she sat, gracefully and near motionless, save her delicate fingers that held needles moving like parts of a tiny, well-oiled machines, that intrigued me. In the course of a few hours, she produced some of the most delightful products I have ever seen—or touched—because knitted products are more than visually appealing. They have incredible texture that can range from kitten soft to deliciously nubby. She left an indelible print on my soul much the way she stitched an Edelweiss to a sweater—neither would ever wear off. Ever since then, I knew I wanted to be a knitter. I wanted to be like Claudia.So, while visiting Woodstock, Vermont, one day, I happened by the Whipple Tree Yarn shop. They were offering free knitting lessons the following weekend, and I signed up faster than you can slip a stitch (see, I know what that means, now). I joined a small group of other wannabe knitters including a part-time Woodstock resident from San Diego, an Endocrinologist at Dartmouth-Hitchcock who surprisingly said she had nervous energy to burn and thought knitting was just the trick, and a 6th grader who had been ordered to learn the family hobby as her older siblings had done before her. When I first arrived, I was directed to select a cheap skein of light-colored yarn (so I could see my mistakes) and given a set of size 7 needles. The instructor, a woman with silver hair cut shorter than a marine, hurried me along as she assured me that the yarn didn't matter much since whatever I produced the first few months would be completely unwearable. She never smiled, and if I am to be completely honest, she scared the living bejeezus out of me. I half expected her to yell, "Drop and give me 50, Maggot!" every time I made a mistake. But, I soon learned that if I made nice with her labrador retriever, Logan, the most beautiful dog on the planet, that I would get on her good side.

I don't really remember much else except that after 30 minutes, I was overwhelmed. My fingers cramped, I got hungry and I made one of the ugliest patches of knit work you could ever see. But thanks to my rampant perfectionism and love of the craft, I persisted. Since then, I have made a beautiful scarf for my mother-in-law—the ultimate critic of handicrafts. She even wore it proudly when we visited her last and said that it was quite likely the most beautiful scarf she ever owned. I had arrived.

I also made one scarf that ended up in the waste basket, but am now on my way to completing a gorgeous plum-colored organic cotton shawl. I can't wait for it to be done so I can start the next project. And I have since discovered an incredible yarn store in my home town called Northern Nights Yarn Shop. (Now, tell me that doesn't sound deliciously warm and appropriate.) I see lots of flannel-clad nights with hot chocolate and lit fireplaces in my future while I make Hanukkah and Christmas gifts for me family. Northern Nights has an endless selection of yarns, to the point that I get confused and want to just buy everything and play. But thankfully it is run by a reasonable “librarianish” woman who is eager to help reign me in with one or two manageable projects. She leads me through the store in a spinster-style black skirt and crisp blouse buttoned-up and pinned at the neck by a broach. She peers at the bins over thick black spectacles with her blonde hair in a tight French twist. And once she has found the perfect skein, she hands it to me and says in her Bostonian accent, “This is what you need.”
I also admire her business savvy and uncanny sense of customer wants and needs. For example, she told me last time that although she hates black and white yarns mixed together, she still carries them for her New York clients who knit while vacationing in Vermont. "Here they come to the country to see all this green, only to pick out nothing but black and white," she said. “I suspect it is what goes with their Manhattan apartment decor.” She also knows a lot about the complexities of international trade. No small feat, I realize even in the yarn industry. Once when I went to purchase my second skein of particularly colorful Scottish wool, she said, gravely, "You better buy it while you can. They just lost their US distributorship and I am trying to work something out to get their yarns directly from the owner’s son." Then she looked at me the way my junior high librarian did when we were making too much noise and said, "I don't fear the Federalies!" She is one cool cucumber.

If they don't have it ... you don't need it

I am talking about Dan & Whit's. It is our local grocery/hardware/full-serve gas station/household goods/outerwear/toy store and it sits in the center of Norwich. When you first walk in, it looks like a jam-packed convenience store, with all the groceries in the room the size of a 7-11. But once you learn the lay of the land, you find a small opening past the meat counter, sort of like the one Alice in Wonderland squeezed through, and you are suddenly in a warehouse-sized room that rivals the Home Depot. Back the other way is a miniature Bed, Bath and Beyond, and another alcove houses its own version of Toys-R-Us. We are very familiar with its inventory since we are in the bribe-your-child-to-behave phase when we go out to eat, so Isaac knows that if he is a good boy at Chinese food, he gets to go to what he calls "Damn and Whit's" and pick out a small trinket. In other words, this place is huge and versatile.

But I must admit that I didn't like it at first. It had the feel of a small-town general store (maybe because it is, duh), but somehow, after visiting many small-town stores in the South, they always make me feel like an outsider ... like I don't belong. I am not loosely related to the cashier or stockboy, nor did I go to junior high with the hardware manager. I haven't saved a customer whose car battery died in the parking lot with a set of jumper cables and I probably will never meet the owners--legendary figures whose family photos are plastered on a bulleting board. Still, since it is the only gig in town, and they have the best coffee on Earth (at least it tastes that good on the way to take my son to preschool), I will be spending more and more time and money there. And throw several inches of snow in the mix, and I am sure Dan and Whit's will save our necks more than once this winter with a few items we couldn't have possibly known we would need. And what's even better is that the more I go there, the more I realize that I don't feel like an outsider at all. I don't get treated any differently than anyone else, and I have learned that the customers range from natives to passersby to the Dartmouth Professor who pores over the selection of wine for his dinner party--quite an ecclectic mix. And don't ask me how I know he is a Dartmouth professor, it is just something one knows ... and the way in which he examines the wine, you just know it is for a dinner party in which something lofty and important (or just lofty) will be debated.

And with my renewed love of supporting the local economy, Dan & Whit's delivers on that too. Aside from a few Canadian tomatoes, most of their produce is local. They even carry a Vermont-made style of Wonder Bread, and some of the most incredible local dairy products from Cabot butter to New Hampshire's McNamara Dairy milk. Their chocolate variety is to die for. And when I can't make it to Killdeer Farm Stand, I can still get my organic blueberries and local maple syrup.

I am even begining to become a believer in their motto, which is printed on T-shirts and mugs they sell, that "If we don't have it, you don't need it." There was a time when we first moved in and I sent my dad there to get drawer pulls for my son's dresser since his were lost in the move. And, alas, Dan & Whit's doesn't carry them. I sarcastically scoffed, "See ... something I need and they don't have it. Where is the truth in advertising!" But I still haven't bought any drawer pulls, and have managed to get in and out of the drawers in my son's dresser just fine ... so, while they would be nice to have, I guess I don't need them after all. Long live Dan & Whit's!

A beautiful thing happened to me the other day

Shortly after I lost my baby boy, I was sitting alone in the livingroom leafing through the literature I had been given at the hospital. In particular, I found a pamphlet filled with information about what to expect after a loss, how to make wise decisions, and the importance of allowing one's self to grieve. It was peppered with beautiful quotes and poems about loss and love. One was a few lines from John Denver's song "Sunshine on my Shoulders." It had been written by someone who had given birth to a son at 38 weeks. He had died in the womb the night before his due date. I saw pictures of the parents holding the sleeping little one with a bittersweet mixture of pride and grief on their faces. As I studied the photos of those brave parents, I realized that I had just joined a very unlucky, but wonderfully compassionate community. No one else would understand what I was feeling except for them. Later that night, I was looking for something to post on my Facebook page. I wanted my friends to know that I had lost my son without having to say it. I had told them I would let them know somehow, and I knew that my close friends would get it without me saying anything. So, I googled the lyrics to "Sunshine on my Shoulders" and found exactly the passage I had been looking for -- something that I would say to my son if I could: "If I had a tale that I could tell you I'd tell a tale sure to make you smile If I had a wish that I could wish for you I'd make a wish for sunshine all the while" Today my living son and I were driving home from swimming lessons. It had been one of the first particularly sunny days in several weeks. As I drove alongide the Connecticut river, I was thinking how beautiful it looked with the sun playing on its surface. I was actually starting to see the beauty in my surroundings again and it felt good. My son started asking me to turn the radio on. I almost didn't since he sort of yelled it and we are working on developing manners. I asked him to say, "please." I waited a moment for him to say the word, and once he did, I turned the radio on. And what was playing? Sunshine on my Shoulders ... but not just any part ... the part right when my special verse starts. It was the first time I had even heard the song in years. I certainly couldn't listen to it after I lost my son even though it played in my head for a solid week. I began to cry, but this time it was with so much happiness and gratittude for having just been given this incredible gift--coincidence or not. I was so proud of both my sons right then--the one who gave new meaning to an old song and the one demanded that I play the radio at just the right moment. As I got out of the car, I looked up at the bright blue sky and blew a kiss to Jason, then whispered, "Thank you." And this time, I remembered to blow an extra kiss to baby Gem, who shall no longer be forgotten. It was an hour later when I realized that the song was playing exactly two weeks to the hour that I felt my son kick for the last time ... when I knew I had lost him.

One thing I miss about California

Not being Catholic, I don't know much about patron saints except that they are associated with certain life situations. They intercede to God for us. We can take our special needs to them and know that they will listen to our prayers. I have one of those in my life and her name is Maria de Jesus Flores Sanchez. But everyone who knows and loves her calls her one of two things: "Mami" or "Chuey". I don't think she qualifies as a "real" saint though, as she is still alive and is raising for children of her own. (But, I think that sort of qualifies anyone for sainthood, don't you?). She likes a beer once in a blue moon, has great taste in clothes and furniture and can make a meal to feed twenty out of a few grains of rice, a tomato and whatever else might be in the fridge. She sings while she works, can get any stain out of any piece of clothing (and I am talking black magic marker on white jeans ... I have seen her do it) and can fold three loads of laundry while cooing a fussy baby on her hip. Her only dreams are to steal away to a beach in Mexico where no one can find her for a day ... or four ... and to send her children to college. And for two amazing years, she was my son's nanny. People used to ask me how I found her. My reply was always the same. "By the grace of God," I would say. And it was true. There is no other way to explain it. She and her sister showed up on my doorstep offering to clean my house for a great price and I took them up on it. I asked the sister, who spoke fluent English, if she knew of anyone who would take care of children and she looked right at Maria and said, "She can and she needs a job." The first day she came to work, I was dead tired. My 3 month old wasn't sleeping through the night, much less a few hours, and I was starting back to work at my marketing job that I did from home. I knew she was experienced. Her four children were well dressed, well behaved and seemed to be doing just fine. I also knew that her oldest had been born at 2.5 pounds, several weeks premature, and was expected not to make it. He was now in junior high and dreaming of joining the high school footbal team in a couple of years. I must have looked like a wreck in my mismatched pajamas stained with breast milk and my hair uncombed. I nervously handed her the baby and said, "He doesn't sleep and he hardly naps. I am just warning you." She said, "You no worry" and she wrapped him up tighter than a tacquito, pulled him to her chest and began singing to him as she disappeared into the livingroom. I didn't know what to do with myself, so went into my office, shut the door and booted up my laptop. After checking email, I fell asleep in my chair. Almost three hours later, I went out into the livingroom to find my entire house cleaned top to bottom, the second load of laundry in the washer and my son happily napping in his crib. Maria looked bored sitting on my sofa leafing through a magazine. When she saw me, she jumped up and asked, "You hungry?" "Uh ... I don't know .. I mean, yes. But there is no food in the house." 15 minutes later, I had a plate with a quesadilla, fried potatoes and a neatly sectioned orange on my desk. Had I just died and gone to heaven? I remember being warned by my more childcare-savvy friends not to let her children come to the house. But it turns out they were as fabulous as her, treating my son as if he were the fifth duckling. Teaching him how to play soccer, sharing their candy and letting him have a turn at all their toys. He soon began going to her house every once in a while. It wasn't long before my son was calling her "Mami" and me "Mama". Her husband became "Papi" while my husband was "Dada". He even had a surrogate grandmother who loved him like he was her own. I remember picking him up at their house and seeing him perched on "Abuela's" hip while she sang a Mexican folk song and stirred a pot of chicken stew. One friend asked me, "Aren't you jealous when he cries for her?" No, I was not jealous. I was elated. So it went for another year and a half, like a very sweet dream. Not only did she take impeccable care of my son, she did ... well, everything ... and never once raised her voice or was in a bad mood. The one time she couldn't work (her daughter had broken her finger) she sent her sister in her place. I felt like I was experiencing what a close knit family was really like. Something my husband and I had always wanted for us and for our son. And, then, I learned I was pregnant with my second child. Maria couldn't have been happier for me and began cooking more and more meals and urging me to keep my feet up. I wasn't even allowed to get my own water. On the morning when I miscarried the baby, I couldn't stop the bleeding. My bathroom looked like a murder scene. Every towel and rug had been soiled, so I shut everything in the bathroom door before I left to go to the doctor. "Please don't go in there," I said to her, sternly. When I came home, there was a giant plate of my new favorite food, potato tacos, on the table and a very worried Maria sitting on the floor playing cars with my son. I immediately went to the bathroom to start cleaning only to find it spotless and all the linens washed and put away. "Maria! You shouldn't have done that. It was awful in there." She looked right at me and said, "For you .." That was all the English she knew to explain her actions, but I could complete the sentence for her ... "For you I would do anything." And the feeling was mutual. During those two years, there was almost nothing we didn't do to help each other. Sometimes we even cried together, and many times we laughed together. We hit all thre thrift stores and garage sales together, but no one could possibly understand how we could sit for an hour (when I should have been working) engaged in deep conversation when neither of us spoke the other's language. And to be honest, not even I know how we did that. She helped to give my son the best start in life possible. And she took care of his parents too when we most needed it. I paid her as much as I possibly could, translated for them, wrote her husband's resume and remembered each of her children's birthdays. At Christmas, we all baked cookies together and exchanged gifts. We were family.When it came time for us to move across the country, it was telling Maria that would become the hardest part of the process. I was worried for her. I offered to find her work, but she refused. She said she couldn't take on another nanny job because she just got too attached. All she wanted were some pictures and a chance to see him again. I promised her both. The pictures are in the mail and we just spoke on the phone for the first time in two months about some potential times to visit each other. Then I passed my son the phone and he talked to his "Mami". He was so excited and when she said his name the way she always said it ... like no one else could, he patted his chest, jumped up and down and said, "Yes!!!! That's me!!!!" We all exchanged heartfelt "I love you's" and hung up the phone. I can't wait to see her again.

Burlington--the biggest little city in Vermont

Most weekends, Aaron has to coax me away from my home base to get out and see new places. I am what they would call in North Carolina a home skillet. I am happy most Saturdays hitting garage sales and making homemade pasta. He, on the other hand, feels as if he hasn’t had a weekend unless he has gone somewhere, and Burlington—the largest city in Vermont—was on his short list of day trips. I remember meeting a woman shortly after I moved here who described Burlington as a “real city” with lots of people, restaurants and shopping and “woo hoo” events … whatever that means. (She was also the same woman who told me that she had spotted a bear in my driveway just a day after we moved in). Anyway, her description of Burlington made snicker to myself, since I knew the city only had 10,000 more inhabitants than Claremont, CA, where we lived previously—a small suburb of Los Angeles that I certainly would not call a “real city”. Nevertheless, that Sunday we made the one-and-a-half hour’s drive to see it.

I can honestly say that outside of the Black Forest in Germany or a few treks through the countryside of Austria, I have never seen any landscape more intoxicatingly beautiful than the drive up Highway 89 from White River Junction to Burlington. (OK, there is still the French countryside.) It is not just the densely packed trees and rolling hills beneath a pristine blue sky (we got lucky that day with weather). But it is also the white church steeples, patches of farmland and red or yellow barns that dot the way, reminding you that people do actually live here. It is not just a backdrop for a Disney movie. And then there are the signs for Moose or Bear Crossing along the way that seem almost planted, like some local joke. And they always make me laugh, especially as I hang out the window with my digital camera trying to snap a picture of one to use as my new Facebook photo so when people pull up my profile, they will see a yellow diamond-shaped sign warning of Moose. Only, these signs are real and serve important purposes, the first of which is literally to be careful not to hit a moose. Apparently they don’t scare as easily as deer and come with a much higher center of gravity and body mass, which puts the odds in their favor—even if you are in a Hummer. A little something Aaron learned during his first day of orientation at the hospital. I have since seen one of these creatures—stuffed and on display at the local Montshire Science Museum--and they are quite impressive. So, as much as Aaron has been bugging me to make moose chili a la Sarah Palin, I don’t think I could after seeing one up close and personal.) But I believe these signs are also here to remind me that, here, nature still reigns supreme.

Signs or no signs (well, partly because there are so few signs except those that alert you to animal life or the next exit), the drive is simply spectacular … the way the highway snakes through a series of connecting valleys, the whole drive gives you the feeling that you are somehow protected from the rest of the world—encapsulated and safe—from crime, graffiti, neon signs and billboards. I have yet to see a McDonald’s outside of White River Junction. As we drove, I suddenly understood what my husband meant when he called this God’s country. Because if you don’t question the existence of God while traveling up Highway 89, then there is only one possibility—you are blind. I can hardly wait to see the drive again in all its colorful glory during the peak of Autumn.

As you approach Burlington, it begins to look like many other suburbs of America, if not cleaner, greener and less crowded. I spotted a Michael’s craft store and a few of my former haunts, but we kept driving into the heart of the city. It is simply adorable full of many old buildings independent coffee shops and restaurants, art galleries and something I don’t see everyday …. French Canadians. They simply dress better than we do, and it was nice to see women with a stitch or two of make-up, bold sunglasses and fashion other than that which one dons while kayaking. (In Norwich where I now live, I feel like a tart if I leave the house in lipgloss). But here, I caught a whiff of the Europe I love.

We had something planned to satisfy everyone in the family, starting with lunch and a drink followed by a ferry boat and cross Lake Champlain to touch base briefly in New York. I wasn’t too keen on being in New York, since anytime you nearly get hit in a crosswalk in Vermont, you can be sure the license plates are from one of two places: Massachusetts or New York. I am fine staying on this side of Lake Champlain, thank you very much. And besides, the ferry trip turned out to be too long with a toddler so we opted for a shorter, scenic cruise. I wish I could tell you more about the lake’s history, except that Isaac was in rare form that day, and the guard railings were a bit too precarious for my taste—and in my state—I am hyper-vigilant to anything that might harm my family. All I can say is the lake is immense, has a beautiful shoreline (if that is what you call it) and several tree-laden islands with walls of red rock peering through. Apparently Lake Champlain played a significant role in many of our countries early wars, but I was too busy chasing Isaac around the boat and moving between the decks so no one person had to "enjoy" his behavior for any length of time. I was beat. I couldn’t wait to disembark, and I almost cried as we passed a martini and oyster bar on the way back to the car knowing I couldn't drop in for either of them.

Here is where it gets interesting. I was just explaining to Aaron how I was reading Chris Bohjalian’s novel, The Double Bind, which I chose because, like most everything I buy these days, it was written in Vermont and about Vermont (well, partly). It is a thriller about a young social worker, who, after a brutal attack on a rural bike path outside Burlington, dedicates her time to two things: her photography and her homeless clients. In particular she becomes obsessed with the life of a schizophrenic man who dies and leaves behind a stash of mysterious photos. Her obsession grows as she becomes convinced that a relative of the man (whom she believes is a real-life descendent of Daisy Buchanan from The Great Gatsby) is trying to take the photos away from her before she can put them in an exhibit to earn money for the shelter—ultimately causing the reader to question just who the schizophrenic really is. I won't spoil the rest because I know you are all going out to buy the book.

So, as we approached the parking garage on our way back home, I spotted a young woman, well-groomed and fashionably dressed in a black logo T-shirt, funky spectacles and wide-legged pants, pacing the sidewalk in front of the parking garage. Her hair looked freshly cut and styled … she could have been an up-and-coming hair stylist from an avant garde salon. She looked distressed as if she had just lost something important or had been mugged. As we got closer, she approached us and went straight for Isaac's stroller, leaned in and said to my husband, "He's not your baby, he's mine." She was very clearly about to reach in and take him. My husband got between them and asked her to back away (that would be the edited version of what he really said). I was stunned. At first I thought it was some strange way of paying us a compliment ... that Isaac was so cute she was going to steal him, but when she turned to me pointing a finger in my face and told me how much she wanted bad things to happen to me, I realized that there was something really wrong with her. She yelled a few more things about Jesus and fiery deaths, but did not follow us into the garage. We were both so rattled, that we didn't speak for several minutes until Isaac fell asleep in his car seat. I couldn't believe that I had just been reading about schizophrenia, Burlington, young women and paranoia only to be faced with it in the very town in which the novel took place. And after what I had just gone through ... having someone claim my baby was not mine was a bit too much to take. And I thought about the advice my neighbor gave me the morning she saw a bear in my driveway. “As long as you never get between the bear and her cub, you will be alright.” And once my initial shock and fear wore off, I remembered that this poor girl was someone’s baby too.

Maybe next time I go to Burlington, I will have more … or less … interesting things to tell about the town itself.

Flow

Ever since we decided to make the move to the Dartmouth area for the year, my life has seemed to be governed by what I can only describe as flow (my friend, Jane, if she reads this, will be proud). Flow is hard to pin down and define, but to me, it seems to happen when you open yourself up to all the possibilities of your future by simply paying attention to clues that present themselves and then following them where they lead you. Kind of the way the Scooby Doo gang would always seem to find a tiny fortune-cookie size slip of paper on the ground and declare, "Look! A clue!" Only, real life clues are never that blatant. In essence, flow creates the music and rythm to which my life wants to dance as opposed to what I normally do ... grab the dials of the radio and fiddle with them until I get just the right song with just the right clarity and volume only to find the song is half over by the time I fix it and have to start the process over again. But for now at least, the coincidences and almost predestined events that have unfolded lately can only be described as eerie--thankfully most of the time it's eerie in a good way. I will be writing more about them through the year.

It started right before we were to fly to Boston when I learned that I had placental problems and probably should have been on bedrest. For sure, I should not be on a plane. I didn't know what to do, because quite frankly, I didn't feel that California was the place to be with its overcrowded waiting rooms when I had this incredible medical center and even better insurance waiting for me across the country. So, I called a trusted friend who is expert in psomatic psychology, and please don't ask me to define it as all I know is that it is a sort of therapy that doesn't require you to talk about your mother or cause you to feel worse before you feel better. He asked me to close my eyes and think about where my body wanted to be. (I know ... only in California.) I was facing East and I saw myself in an incredibly bright cheery room with an expert, but loving, medical staff fawning over me.

"Then, that's where you need to be," he said. It was less than a month later that I found myself in a large, cheerful hospital room with the most incredible medical staff on the planet helping me through one of the most painful moments of my life. I was where I needed to be and it was exactly as I pictured it--even if the reason I was there was not what I had hoped for.

All because of a train trestle

The cross-country move was stressful enough. So you can imagine my dismay at arriving in New Hampshire, tired and pregnant with complications, to find that the house we chose to rent (site unseen) was a disaster. Yes, we should have known better, but we were worried that we wouldn't find anything. It isn't cheap to stay at a hotel with a 2 year old and an oversized labrador retriever for a few nights let alone the weeks it might take to land a house.

It wasn't just the pet-stained carpets or dog hair all over the curtains. The house was dark, damp and had a creepy basement. And it turns out that Grantham, NH, was an even smaller speck on the map than we thought ... and much farther away from the other specks on the map that dotted the route into Lebanon, NH, where Aaron was to begin work. It would have taken about a month to get rid of the cobwebs and another month to find a grocery store nearby. I couldn't imagine myself in the dead of a New Hampshire winter--eight months pregnant and most likely on bedrest--being stuck in this brown and beige box in the wilderness. Scenes from Stephen King's The Shining were flashing before my eyes.

So, while my son napped in the car (and I cried), Aaron drove us around looking for a real estate agency so we could find another place to live. At this point he realized that losing a few thousand dollars in security deposits and rents was cheaper than dealing with an unhappy wife for one year. So, we had made it back to Hanover where we thought we would have the most luck finding an agency and before we knew it, crossed the Ledyard Bridge into Vermont. We landed at a RE/MAX office in Norwich, Vermont whose agent just happened to put us in touch with a woman back in Hanover who just happened to find a listing for a rental house back in Vermont that ... yes ... took dogs ... but ... no ... didn't have pet-stained carpet. We were there!

The view from this small house, just a short distance up a wooded, hill is amazing. From the kitchen and living room is an unobstructed view of the Connecticut River and one can watch--depending upon the time of day--everything from motor boats to canoes and kayaks to the Dartmouth Crew team pass by. The opposite bank is New Hampshire, a virtual mirror image of the Vermont side, and it is sparingly speckled with quaint, but impressive houses sporting private piers and boat docks. Route 5, the road that runs in front of the house along the river, is quite busy, especially in Summer. It carries locals to and from town as well as vacationers who are traveling up the state and probably choose it for its scenic value the same way visitors to California take Highway 1 as opposed to faster, but less interesting interior routes when driving up the coast. What's more, the house was really well built, complete with wood floors, a "winter garden" and newly tiled bathrooms. I remarked how fun it was that we would have a woodshed too, thinking that we could jokingly threaten to send misbehaving children (or husbands) to it for a little behavior modification. Apparently it wasn't all that funny since woodsheds really do get used to store wood in the winter. A little fact I forgot since I still had California brain and had only been in Vermont in the summer.

I wanted to take the place on the spot, but we did the usual walk-through and made small talk with the landlord. We learned that the house had been built for the ex-wife of a local farmer who, upon divorcing the woman, parsed up some land and built this home just for her. The landlord bought the property from the farmer once the ex-wife passed away. I thought, how appropriate! It seems this little house might just have been built to passify disgruntled women. I am certain that Aaron could have managed to make it work at the Grantham house, creepy basement and all, to save our much needed three thousand dollars!

And then, Isaac chimed in. I didn't understand him at first, but noticed that he was pointing to something outside the living room window. "A Choo Choo Bridge!" he shouted. And there it was ... an old, red train trestle, just like some in the Thomas the Tank Engine videos we had been watching ad nauseum during his Choo Choo Train phase (which has not yet passed, by the way). It is literally smack dab in front of our house above a leg of the river that spills under Route 5 and forms a large pond just up the road from the house. That sealed it for me. Isaac would have his very own Choo Choo bridge.

But as my mother always says with her brand of German optimism (an oxymoron, I know), "The zing you vorry about zuh most usually never happenz." And, well, she was right. It was just a couple of weeks later that our new baby boy passed away in the womb and I realized that I wouldn't have to be stuck in Grantham on dirty carpet and painfully pregnant. Instead, I would grieving the loss of my son, Jason, which was far worse than anything I could have imagined happening to me in the wilderness of New Hampshire. And while I am not over it, or sure that I will get over it, I thank God that we accidentally crossed the river into Vermont that day and happened upon this little house on the Connecticut River because there is no place I would rather be right now. And while Isaac doesn't know that he almost had a little brother, he does know that everyday ... three times a day ... a Choo Choo train ... one of his favorite things in life ... passes by his house. And the look on his face everytime it happens is healing.

In fact, just a couple of weeks ago, Aaron took him for a ride on the Green Mountain Railway, an old fashioned train that only operates in the summer for tourists and local parents with train-obsessed toddlers. One of the first moments of true joy I experienced since my loss was running outside to wave to my husband and son as they passed by our house on that train. I will never forget the image of Isaac's Thomas the Train hat waving out the window to me as the train crossed our trestle and I watched from the deck of our new home.

Fresh off the Farm

Among the things in life that make me go weak in the news is a good Farmer's market. From the moment I exit my car, basket on arm and a wad of cash in my pocket, my heart starts racing and I can hardly get to the first stand fast enough--usually leaving my husband and son on a cloud of dust. But there is one downside to farmer's markets, which is having to be there in the middle of a perfectly good Saturday when I would rather be doing something else ... like, say ... canoeing. And, I like to shop when the mood strikes, or right before I am about to prepare meals for the day while the recipe is fresh in my mind. (This speaks more to may lack of organizational skills, really, then my penchant for fresh food. But either way, it works.) The good news is that I have found some of the most incredible spots to buy local food that I really don't need to get to the farmer's market.

Route 5, heading south out of Norwich, VT, has many of my new favorites, starting with the King Arthur Flour store and school. I am not much of a baker, namely because I don't eat a lot of bread or sweets, but also because I don't like to fuss with kitchen timers (which has made me incredibly adept at dissembling smoke detectors). So, a lot of what King Arthur has simply doesn't apply to me. However, they carry some of the best cooking odds and ends that you simply can't find at most places, like a stunning variety of sea salts and organic spices and any type of flour you can imagine--including a premixed blend of Semolina and all-purpose for perfect pasta. Plus, almost everything you buy comes with a recipe attached, and their selection of dish towels, serving ware and tools rivals any "box" store, including Bed, Bath and Beyond (Do they even have one in Vermont? Don't know.) My mother-in-law just bought me the best paring knife ever at King Arthur's by and I will soon be choosing new wooden spoons frome their French-made collection.

Right next door (how convenient is that) is my current favorite place on the planet: Killdeer Farm Stand. I know the name isn't all that appetizing, but don't worry, a Killdeer is simply a type of bird that comes to nest at their farm every year ... hence the tribute. I pass this farm several times a day going to and from my house, and it is simply picturesque. It comprises a giant lemon-yellow house that sits atop a hill overlooking their crops and what I can only imagine is an enviable view of the Connecticut River. I admit, much of what they have growing I don't recognize from the road, but I love the idea of buying something that took life so close to home. Among their best picks are the "native" corn (which I often never manage to get into the boiling water before eating it), green garlic (if you have never had it, you must), organic blueberries and lettuce. I also found the perfect potato there, which I turned into a latke drizzled with truffle oil. There are two freezers full of all natural, local meats, and, of course, there are cheeses, eggs, organic milks, yogurts and creams, herbs, and even bread from King Arthur's--all in a space just twice the size of my kitchen. And as much as I hate bumperstickers, I couldn't wait to plant one of their stickers on the back window of my car. If they'd have me, I'd move in ... or sweep the floors for free.

Farther down Route 5 in Wilder is Blood's Seafood and Catering. Although not much to look at inside, they have been voted the Upper Valley's best caterer a ridiculously large number of times (I know this because they proudly announce it on their prerecorded greeting when you call them to order your food). They are a lobster specialist and feature a tank about the size of 3 pool tables lined side by side filled with the creatures organized by size. Last night we ordered our first 3-pounder, which was much too big for the plate, and our cheap tools hardly made a dent in it. My husband had to get out a hammer and stand up while he worked at extracting the meat. While, impressive, I prefer the smaller guys and just tried my first soft-shell loster weighing in at 1.25 pounds. They steam them perfectly each time. While their general sea food selection is limited, they do carry some fish, and in the Spring (which I can hardly wait for) they have fresh Shad roe, which I sill put in my spicy tomato sauce and serve over the pasta I make with King Arthur flour. From now, I am buying their frozen roe, which still does the trick.

Speaking of seafood, in the opposite direction on Route 5 in Fairlee (about 15 miles north of my house) is a woman-owned fish market and restaurant called Holy Mackerel. From the outside, it looks like anyone's grandmother's house ... a cute little structure with a porch and flower boxes. It can be confusing when you first walk in because she also sells home-knitted goods such as socks, sweaters and hats. But in the back is where they sell their fish. I have lived on both coasts and seen some stunning seafood, but I can honestly say that their selection ... although small ... is as good if not better than anything I have seen. Their tuna is so pristine that it could be featured on a Food Network spot. Thanks to them, I was able to try Cohogs for the first time, which are similar to large clams and very tasty.

Of course, there are also the staple stores for everything else I can't get at these smaller venues, such as the Co-op that features locally made products first, and Dan and Whit's, our Norwich general store (a place that deserves entirely its own post ... more later).

So, if you can get your hands on some Vermont bleu cheese, here is a salad recipe that I adapted from one I enjoyed at Zin's Bistro at the Hanover Inn across from Dartmouth. It is very much like the original. Enjoy!

Salad:
--6 cups baby arugula (yes, it should be the baby variety or it will overpower the dressing)
--1 Gala apple (or other firm, crisp, red apple), cut into matcsticks.
--Chopped sugar-glazed peanuts or pecans (I usually just melt some butter and raw sugar in a pan and toss the nuts in the mixture to coat them, then let them cool before chopping them up. Don't be afraid to "accidentally" let some of the carmelized sugar pieces get mixed in with the lettuce.
--Crumbled bleu cheese (medium soft variety)

Dressing:
--4 Tblsp fresh lemon juice
--2 Tblsp organic extra-virgin olive oil
--2 Tblsp honey
--2 tsp French mustard (JUST regular, NOT dijon)
--salt and pepper to taste.