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!