I was just told this story: leaving church one night when Brenda was pregnant with her twins, the parishoners saw a lunar eclipse and pushed her back into the building. Folks here believe they can cause birth defects, specifically cleft palates. So Brenda was given a safety pin to put on her shirt as protection, before she could venture outside.
From church, they went to a local restaurant, Papa's Pantry for dinner. During the course of the dinner, her husband, Rudy received many calls on his cell phone from folks eager to warn Brenda not to go outside without safety pins. And the other diners brought pins to their table for Brenda to wear.
One of her lovely little boys was born with a cleft lip, and some people think it is because of the eclipse. The doctors think it was because the other twin couldn't keep his feet out of his brother's mouth in utero. Brenda had done her part. By the end of the evening she had 20 safety pins on her shirt. It goes to show that if you're in this community, they really take care of you.
Friday, October 31, 2008
Eton, er Texas Mess, or Thanks to the Dog
(First off, my apologies for the crooked photo...I devoured the "Mess" long before I checked the shot..JPG)
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)One of the benefits of traveling with a guide is the ability to dissect a menu in record time. This is especially helpful when it comes to desserts...and answering the obvious question when handed a dessert menu..."which brilliant concoction of cream and sugar and butter shall I have tonight?"
Our guides in Scotland interpreted:
Millionaire's Shortbread--shortbread covered with caramel and chocolate. (Good stuff.)
Cream Meringue--two saucer-sized baked meringues sandwiching a layer of sweetened whipped cream, Oreo-style. (Bordering on ethereal, but comically difficult to eat.)
And our favorite, with a name none of us could decipher by ourselves, the Eton Mess. (Absolutely hands-down the best dessert EVER.)
A disastrous Pavlova in a dish, Eton Mess is a mixture of broken baked meringues, whipped cream, and strawberries. Wikipedia notes that the first Eton Mess may have been "invented" by a Labrador accidently sitting on a picnic basket in the back of a car on the way to an outing. It is the dessert served at the prize-giving celebration picnic in the spring at Eton College in Britain, and is really quite special.
Since our trip in June, I've been working off my "Meringue and Cream Weight" as I think of it, and am down to my pre-Scotland numbers. So I finally felt I could give a Mess a try.
Hampered by my inexperience with meringues, and yes, I'll blame the altitude too, I ended up with tasty, but weird meringue. The top layer was lovely, thin and brittle. Not attractive mind you, but the texture was right. Underneath was a firm marshmallowy goo. This was not suitable for the Mess, but of course I ate it anyway....standing up, in front of the stove.
Next, I whipped cream with bit of honey, chopped up some mango, since finding a good strawberry in these parts is nothing short of a miracle, and layered it all together.
The completed mess wasn't so pretty, but it had all the essential elements, each spoonful carrying an unpredictable ratio of crunchy sweet meringue, soft cream, and juicy fresh fruit. Fantastic, but probably just a once a year indulgence. Now, do you still think Scotland has terrible food? The secret is knowing what to try, thanks to Paul and Pauline, our guides.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Running, running, running
Today was a banner day. I topped my 2007 mileage total by passing 700 miles, so the rest of the year I'm marking virgin territory. Even though I tend to log the miles by myself, I'm usually not alone when I run.
There are people I tug along with me, people who inspire me to keep running:
Sometimes I chant with each footstep: Da-ra Tor-res, Da-ra Tor-res, Da-ra Tor-res, for the 41 year old swimmer who, when interviewed after winning a team gold at the Olympics said, "never put an age limit on your dreams." Yes, exactly.
Sometimes I conjure up the image of Dr. Charlie from Fitness Camp, the 91 year old--yes, that's right--cyclist donning his helmet and getting on his bike. This year, instead of sleeping in his little tent as he had in every previous year, he'd sleep in the bunkhouse with the younger guys.
Then there is the seemingly indefatigable Sadie, the 70+ year old marathoner in Houston, who is always out at Memorial Park.
Monte is a good coach when we run together and when we're apart, too. When I'm feeling a bit lazy and say I'm taking an extra day off, a simple "huh" over the phone will sometimes motivate me to get out there anyway. (He also pointed out that it has been 66 days since my last blog entry, and maybe I'd better get back to it.)
But lately, there have been two older guys out at the cemetery watching me get my mileage in. I don't know their names, but they're friendly and we sometimes stop and talk a bit.
On weekends, a portly guy brings Pepita, his honey colored Pomeranian for a walk through the cemetery. On our first meeting, Pepita is happy to see me, running to me to catch a pet and listen to a bit of sweet talk. But this little pumpkinseed is serious about her walks. On the second round she won't stop, determined to keep up the pace, eager to keep her little legs in a blur. She clearly has work to do. Her owner mostly keeps up with her; he's working off the extra pounds at Pepita's pace.
I came to know the other guy, also an older Hispanic gentleman, when I admired his family plot. It is well groomed, and I asked about the handmade cement planters and benches and the paintjob on the concrete curbing around it. He startled me a few months ago, when I heard a painful wailing across the cemetery. At first, I thought he was in trouble, or crying, as he was shuffling slowly and then I realized he was singing. I could pick out one word, "corazon" or "heart," so maybe it was a sad song of unrequited love. Since then we've talked, or tried to. I can't quite understand him as he lisps, has just a few teeth and a very small English vocabulary. But he's warm and happy to see me. And when I'm back from traveling, he comments that I've been away. Now I smile when I hear him sing.
There are people I tug along with me, people who inspire me to keep running:
Sometimes I chant with each footstep: Da-ra Tor-res, Da-ra Tor-res, Da-ra Tor-res, for the 41 year old swimmer who, when interviewed after winning a team gold at the Olympics said, "never put an age limit on your dreams." Yes, exactly.
Sometimes I conjure up the image of Dr. Charlie from Fitness Camp, the 91 year old--yes, that's right--cyclist donning his helmet and getting on his bike. This year, instead of sleeping in his little tent as he had in every previous year, he'd sleep in the bunkhouse with the younger guys.
Then there is the seemingly indefatigable Sadie, the 70+ year old marathoner in Houston, who is always out at Memorial Park.
Monte is a good coach when we run together and when we're apart, too. When I'm feeling a bit lazy and say I'm taking an extra day off, a simple "huh" over the phone will sometimes motivate me to get out there anyway. (He also pointed out that it has been 66 days since my last blog entry, and maybe I'd better get back to it.)
But lately, there have been two older guys out at the cemetery watching me get my mileage in. I don't know their names, but they're friendly and we sometimes stop and talk a bit.
On weekends, a portly guy brings Pepita, his honey colored Pomeranian for a walk through the cemetery. On our first meeting, Pepita is happy to see me, running to me to catch a pet and listen to a bit of sweet talk. But this little pumpkinseed is serious about her walks. On the second round she won't stop, determined to keep up the pace, eager to keep her little legs in a blur. She clearly has work to do. Her owner mostly keeps up with her; he's working off the extra pounds at Pepita's pace.
I came to know the other guy, also an older Hispanic gentleman, when I admired his family plot. It is well groomed, and I asked about the handmade cement planters and benches and the paintjob on the concrete curbing around it. He startled me a few months ago, when I heard a painful wailing across the cemetery. At first, I thought he was in trouble, or crying, as he was shuffling slowly and then I realized he was singing. I could pick out one word, "corazon" or "heart," so maybe it was a sad song of unrequited love. Since then we've talked, or tried to. I can't quite understand him as he lisps, has just a few teeth and a very small English vocabulary. But he's warm and happy to see me. And when I'm back from traveling, he comments that I've been away. Now I smile when I hear him sing.
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