I had a lovely long weekend with family. Part One involved a museum visit:
Don't get your hopes up; the sign on the door says "NO VACANCY." (On the other hand, fear not; the seagull perched overhead is a mere toy.) |
In any event, it proved sufficiently entertaining for post-dinner amusement, and my parents enjoyed seeing it again after many years.
For Part Two, after some delicious waffles, we headed west for my first-ever pig roast. In an inadvertently Seussian manner,† folks in NYC had asked me whether the pig would be roasted in a covered pit rather than in the open air on a spit. Given the location of the event, I thought it unlikely that anyone would dig a pit for the occasion. But given that all the New Yorkers assured me that the pit option produced a far tastier result, I thought it equally unlikely that anyone would go for the spit option. So I didn't know what to expect.
If truth be told (as they* say), the pig roasting was done in a manner that combined the best of all worlds - the delicious cookery of a covered pit, combined with the ease and convenience of a spit. Yes, apparently there is a third way: the smoke box.
I don't think the reporter managed to capture a picture of this activity, however, in which children explored certain alternative, environmentally-friendly forms of transportation:
I think someone earned extra dessert here. |
All in all, a delightful evening which brought the whole community together. The feeling was really that of a 4th of July picnic, but with more temperate weather and no fireworks display.
More waffles (hooray!) kicked off Part Three, when we went blueberry-picking. It turns out that there are some important differences between picking wild blueberries (as I've done before) and farm blueberries (as we did today) -- besides price, and the convenience of picking blueberries from high bushes rather than low scrubs. I am thinking, in particular, of the blueberry baskets provided for our use. These were white plastic, lined with white plastic bags, to be belted on to our waists. It was certainly convenient, but hardly the attire favored by the fashion-forward. And no, there is no photographic evidence of our visit and thus no proof that I or others in the group actually donned this infernal get-up.
We adjourned to a local pub:
Good heavens, what is that mysterious clear liquid? Could it be ... dihydrogen monoxide? Served to an underage patron?! |
An homage to Magritte's "La trahison des images" and possibly "Golconda" etc. |
Close-up: "Ceci n'est pas une fenĂȘtre" (which of course it isn't) |
Part Four included another episode of I, Claudius, another delicious home-cooked dinner, and a walk in the soft twilight:
A coastal scene |
Local flora |
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Notes
FN†: "Will they cook it /On a spit? /Will they cook it /In a pit?" cf. Green Eggs and Ham.
FN*: In this case, "they" means a precocious 8-year-old who has not only picked up this expression from parts unknown, but also used it to break the news to her parents that she "[was]n't missing [them] as much as [she] thought [she] would" when she spent a few days visiting other relatives.
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