Everyday Travel

The majesty of every bridge. The way every city glitters like Oz as it rises in the distance.

•what happens•

Right now, there are a bunch of 'draft' posts littering the backstage here at HalfAssedMama.com. The titles are interesting. "Englandia." "Long losts." My favorite is simply "the toyotas."

There are a great many things preventing us from blogging. We both just landed ourselves new jobs. In my case, I got a text in England from my boss. One of our co-workers was leaving; would I like to apply for her job? After five weeks, Troy, Penn & I returned home to a swirl of jet-lag-interview-hired!-ready-set-full-time-job-for-mommy on top of (p.s.) a week-long conference that took Troy to Massachussetts. I'm still skinning my knees daily, just trying to keep up, but it's good to be working at a new velocity for That Store we love so well. It will let up, in December. So look for that "Englandia" post, then. Right now it's swim lessons and scraped-together meals and piles of suitcase innards.

For Amy's part, it's packing and working, not sleeping and tidying up loose ends, because her new job means a rather abrupt move, cross-country. Which means, first and foremost, we will be half-assedly blogging from opposite coasts of the US! (Thank you to Bryn Mawr for proffering this upgrade in bloggerly coolness.) Amy has accepted a dream job as a production manager for the Bryn Mawr theater department. She moves to Philadelphia on Sunday. I went to her house a few nights ago in a work-induced stupor, and she sent me away with a giant ceramic ladle, a box of beads, an oversized bag of clothes, and a book of our blog. Of course, all the clothes are still in the bag. The beads have been picked over by a small child. And the book is right here, online, for anyone to comb through. But there's something different about seeing all those early posts in pages. I can open to a random date, as though our posts are part of a larger story. And so they are. Once upon a time, Amy wrote, "Right now, I'm going to go put one small piece in the kiln to see what happens..."

Right now, I'm going to go.  

xox

•oslo gin fizz•

Norway = amaze-balls with a side of awesomesauce. Will blog more if possible, but this Norske vacation is hard and fast, with an ever-changing obstacle course of family and four-year-old emotions.

At Vigelund Park...
xox

•camping with a toddler•

This is not a "how to camp with a toddler" post, I swear. Rather, a list of suggestions. Our recent car-camping trip with the toddler to Yosemite's Tuolumne Meadows was full of discoveries. It was about 80 degrees in the sun, and just above freezing at night. (See above for pajamas worn all day.) At 8000 feet in the mountains, things tend to get hinky if you've not brought the right gear.

List after jump!

Read more »

•my maine point•

I kinda grew up here. I'm a vacationer, sure, but I have been for 33 years. It makes for some interesting emotions.

In the past 10 years or so, I've transitioned into a forager. From a folksinger to a mother to a grocery-store employee, sure, but really: from a citizen to a forager. It started with second-hand clothes. Then expanded into appliances, instruments, bread and vegetables. Then it was fruit. Now, it's shellfish. And I'm right back where I started, on the coast of New England.

Today was the first day of sun on our Maine vacation, and the toddler responded by puking all day (possibly because he caught a rotovirus from his cousin Ruby). I responded by picking up a couple of chicken lobsters at the local lunch n lobster--a place I'm shocked I didn't take advantage of until now. $5.99 a pound isn't bad for a half mile down the road.


Cooked the lobsters.


Cracked and ate them.

Popped their shells in with some chives, chipotles, and white wine. What amounts to 1.5 cups of liquid is now in the fridge, waiting for me to come home tomorrow with an adequate amount of cream and sherry. Cross your fingers. :)

Meanwhile, I'm experimenting with mussels. Are they actually good, foraged from the cove in which you sleep? Hmm... a blog post from a quick search recommended (!?) manky-smelling mussels, specifically from coves in Maine. And repeat rinses with salted fresh water. We shall see what happens. (Gotta love a guy who calls himself a "DB" (douchebag).)


The puking toddler sleeps.
The mussels, sans wine (because I drank it), are forthcoming. xox