The Serial Killing Gardener: Back to School Edition

There are those gardeners who are trainable. They make mistakes, they learn from them, they improve. They are in a constant state of evolution to a higher-functioning mind. And a better looking garden.

I'm so not one of them.

Case in point: as I write this, the heat is still sweltering. The corn in my county looks like fields of pineapples, and the grass sounds like a bowl full of Rice Krispies when I walk through the yard.

And what did I buy two weeks ago? A beautiful planter to put on the little patio outside of our cellar entrance. Salvia splendens, a bright red flower, really perked up the outside of our basement apartment.

How many plants do I have now that I'm a cellar dweller? Uh...just the one. The Salvia splendens. Which is now just a plastic pot filled with shriveled crackly dead things. Not so splendens anymore.

Why do I do this every year? Why do I fall for the marketing at the big box stores, luring me to buy the bright bushy red flowers? Why don't I remember to water these damn things once I buy them?

After all, I know that it gets hot in summer. My birthday is in July, and for 40-some years now, I have never worn a sweater to blow out the candles on my cake (there are those wags who will say that those candles are at least partially responsible for global warming, but there is no real evidence of that). And I know that plants put underneath porches (like this one) seldom (read: never) get any rain, even when it's a big storm.

And yet, no matter where I'm living, I buy beautiful outdoor flowers, only to see them die.

I am a serial plant killer.

The kids are getting ready to go back to school, and I'm ready to learn something myself. I'm moving to Florida later this week, and it's hot there all year. As I pack up the last of my clothing (and throw out most of my socks!), I've vowed to learn something this year: when I get to Florida, I'm not going to buy plants that I will forget to water. In fact, I may not buy any plants at all once I get there.

I'll let you know how that goes.

Work Stay of the Day

Last week was my company's strategic planning session.

We strategically used the facilities at the Mount Washington Conference Center, strategically located in Mount Washington, just a few minutes from downtown Baltimore.

Mount Washington is a cute little area, lined with serious looking Victorians and well cut lawns. Of course, you'll only see that if you go there during the day because Mount Washington is the darkest neighborhood in the city. As I mentioned to my boss last week, as we stumbled through the parking lot looking for the pedestrian exit, Mount Washington is like Iowa on a cloudy night.

When the sun came up the next day, I had a great view of this building:

The Mount Washington Octagon was built in 1855, under the direction of the Reverend Elias Heiner of the German Reformed Church. It was used until 1861 as the Mt. Washington Female Academy.

After the Civil War the college failed and the building was bought by the Sisters of Mercy, who opened Mount St. Agnes College.

My father-in-law remembers hazing freshman in the building's steep parking lot when he was a senior at Loyola High School. (They made the froshs take their school jackets off and tie them around their waists like skirts. Oooh. Nasty.)

In 1971, Mt. St. Agnes merged with Loyola College and moved from the Mt. Washington site. USF and G then bought the property, and did a bunch of renovation to the Octagon. Today, Hopkins owns the place.

They have not added any lights since the original building was finished in 1855, as far as I could tell.

Incidentally, the building was never a private home. This is historic fact even though someone on our management team--someone who acts as if s/he knows such things--confidently told one of our directors during the second morning that "Yes, it was private originally." Really, if anyone is going to answer those kinds of questions, it should be Historic Travel Girl. Non-historic senior management dude/dudette should stick to answering questions about tax codes and annualized earnings. Or whatever it is that s/he really does know about.

I srategically kept my mouth shut.

Photo of the Day: Mackinac Island

I'm not a photographer. I don't understand light, F-Stops are as confusing (and useless) as video games to me, and composition always has and always will mean writing.

The most artsy thing I do when taking a photo is to put the subject off-center.

But some days, the PhotoGods shine on you and give you a shot that captures the feeling of your vacation.

I know this isn't an award winner. But when I look at it, it takes me right back to Mackinac Island. And that's a winner in my book.

Trying Anything Once

They say that nothing is perfect. But imagine, for a moment, that the second that a particular activity was imperfect, it would be banned forever.

This no tolerance policy would change our world forever.

Sushi restaurants would close, of course. Most hair stylists would be out of business (at the very least, they would never give a perm or try to dye anyone's hair red again). And...let's be honest here, folks..sex would almost certainly be a thing of the past.

But apparently, one bad experience is all it took on Mackinac Island in the Michigan Straits. According to local legend, in 1898 one of the residents drove his nice new horseless carriage into someone's lilac bush or something, and the town big wigs said That's Enough. No more cars in Mackinac.

And they've stuck to it. For 112 years now.

If you want to get around, you have to take a horse (they rent them for $38/hr at Cindy's) or you can bike, walk, or whistle for a horse and carriage.

It changes the environment considerably, and I'm not just talking about the smell of equine waste, either.

When horses are the only means of transportation, you have to slow down. Whether you want to or not.

Case in point: the hub and I were in Mackinac (said Mackinaw, just fyi) a couple of years ago.

One day, around 12:15, we decided we wanted to go to a restaurant a couple of miles away. We went up to the bell captain, and asked him to call us a horse. "Where are you going?" he asked amicably. (Everyone in Mackinac, for the record, is persistently amicable.)

"Woods," we said, referring to a restaurant owned by the Grand Hotel in the middle of the woods.

The bell captain looked at his watch. "I don't know," he said dubiously (yet amicably). "They close at two."

Confused, and slightly less than amicable, I said, "And???"

He amicably explained that it was over 80 degrees that day (it was about 81), so the horses were on "walking orders." It would take a horse at least 25 minutes to get us, then 30 minutes to get us to the restaurant. That would be approximately 1:10, assuming everything went perfectly. And the restaurant closed at 1:30.

Now, had we been in Baltimore, that little vein in my forehead would have been throbbing at full mast. I would have said something that questioned the bell captain's intelligence, or his ability to read a digital watch, or mentioned that his mother smelled like horse butt.

As it was, I said, "Okay. We'll walk into town." I may have even sounded amicable myself.

All of this is simply more evidence that a stay on Mackinac is truly life changing. Not to mention personality shifting.

Two weeks ago we decided to spend another couple of days on the island. It was a chance to get out of the cellar, and perhaps our last chance to relax before taking over the hotel. (Speaking of hotels, we stayed in the beloved Grand for the first few days of our stay. I'm new to the whole hotel ownership thing, but I think we can write our stay off as research. Or something like that).

Mackinac was as beautiful, and serene, and soul washing as I remembered. (This is rush hour in Mackinac's downtown. These are the carriages that are used to move people--but there are plenty of flatbed wagons, too, carrying boxes of vegetables and cases of wine to the hotels around  town. It looks just like the wild wild west).

There have been one or two cars on Mackinac since 1898. Like the one that Christopher Reeve drove in the 1980 movie "Somewhere in Time." (See more about this in my upcoming blog on the Grand Hotel).

But other than that, and an ambulance or two since then, the town elders have stuck to their guns and kept their resolve to keep horseless carriages off the island.

Thanks, guys. I needed that.

Grandma Knows What She's Doing

Mike's Grandmother turned 96 yesterday.

If you haven't met her in my blog yet, please check out my favorite post about her here.

Incidentally, she is still trading on the phrase "I'm old and I don't know what I'm doing." But she knows. Oh, she knows.

What she's doing right now, for the record, is living with Mike's parents. Yes...these are the same parents that the hub and I are having dinner with. Every night. While we live in their basement like rebellious teenagers in the 1970's (do teens still want to convert the rec room into a bedroom?)

A few weeks ago I promised some background as to why we have become cellar dwellers (besides just loving the dark and hating the hassles of homeownership). The short story is that we've bought a house in St. Augustine (yes, that St. Augustine), and the appraiser decided that it needed a bunch of work before we could settle. So, we're currently painting the house (yes, we're painting it...the seller refused to), and living with Mike's parents while it's being done. We hope to settle on it by the end of the month.

We painted a discarded door in the new colors...I hope they will look okay in a larger scale. Mike still isn't sure if he likes them...but I love them.

This door was taken from Mike's parents house. I think they took it out of the basement as they prepared for us to move in. I don't see any missing doors, though, so I could be wrong.

With me and the hub hanging downstairs, and Grandma living in the guest room, Mike's folks are officially at 100% occupancy. Which is pretty good for Baldwin, Maryland this time of year--because it's definitely low tourist season in Harford County. (That little bit of hotel-speak will become more evident in the next few weeks as Mike and I embark on our Next Big Venture. Which involves buying a hotel. But that's another blog for another time.)

Anyway, all of this is to say HAPPY BIRTHDAY GRANDMA. For the record, I think that you're young, and that you always know EXACTLY what you are doing.

For Better or For Worse

We interrupted the first weekend of living with our in-laws to attend a wedding in Newton, New Jersey. (Why are they living with their in-laws, you may ask? Tune in next week for the whole unbelievable story).

Back to this story: we had this out-of-town wedding for two people that I had only met once. The hub thought we should go (he is big on doing The Right Thing even when it is also The Hardest Thing), despite the fact that we had been packing boxes until two A-M the entire week, getting ready to move.

So I agreed to go.

Have you ever noticed that the trips that you don't want to take are often some of the best ones?

For some reason, HTG thought that Newton sounded like northern Jersey. That's the Jersey that everyone thinks about when they make fun of the Garden State. They picture barges of trash and loud-mouthed girls with orange tans and overly white French manicures. They think that every street corner has strip clubs full of guys that look like Tony Soprano. (Note to New Jersey's tourism board: you can send my check to "Cellar Dweller in Baldwin, Maryland...care of her In-Laws").

Anyway, I was pleasantly surprised when our trip took us to central New Jersey, through some of the prettiest country roads I've seen for quite some time. This is why they call it the Garden State.

Newton is in Sussex County, a county which famously had more cows than people until the 1950's or so. Its original name was Tockhockonetcong, but the surveyors in 1715 thought that wouldn't look too good on a t-shirt (nor would it fit on the map they were drawing), so they opted for the more marketable Newton. Today, Newton sits on the Tockhockonetcong River; if you can say it, you must be a native. Or drunk. When I've had one too many, I've found that everything I try and say comes out as "Tockhockonetcong."

You can learn more about the town's history at http://www.newtonnj.net/.

We arrived at the Yellow Frame Presbyterian Church in Newton a little early. My husband informed me that--even though the invitation said that the wedding started at 3:00--it wasn't going to start until 3:30 because "it's a Chilean thing." (The bride is from Chile). So we hung out in the parking lot and took a couple of pictures, while I listened carefully for music that would suggest the whole "Chilean thing" was just a rumor. I hate going to weddings late.

While we lingered, I noticed that there was a large fan--the kind we used to keep the cows cool--in the front window of the church. I began to suspect that the chapel was so historic that it didn't have air conditioning. (As much as I love old buildings, I do not love old buildings without a/c or heat. Really, I'm a historic traveler, people, not a re-enactor).

The church was a Queen Anne structure, my favorite architectural style. That meant that there were lots of great details everywhere--from the hardware (see left) to the stained glass above the unsightly cow fan. And there was a wall full of photos of the church's ministers over the years, going back to 1750.

Speaking of details, the bride and groom thought of them all--including cute paper fans that their ushers handed to all of the guests as they entered the church. Between the historic church, and the flapping fans, the whole day had a nice old-fashioned feel.

After the wedding was over (in a record 23 minutes--if that's a Chilean thing too, I may love Chilean weddings as much as I love Chilean wine), the hub and I lingered a bit longer, checking out the historic cemetery across the parking lot, as well as some of the other picturesque areas around the grounds. (Note to self: plant more cosmos next year. And get a mailbox).

Remember how I said that your worst fears can create your best memories? Later that afternoon, we were treated to an open bar (a good resource for newly married couples as well as those married for years and years), unusual appetizers like Chilean meat and corn pie...which was exactly what it sounded like. When the bride came by to say hello (which is when I spoke to her for the second time in my life), she said it was her favorite dish as a child. I'm no child, but I could see it cracking my top ten pretty easily.

After the appetizers, we enjoyed a Chilean sea bass that was worthy of a fancy restaurant with a $100 tab. It was, as I told the groom, like a great anniversary dinner.

After the eating and the greeting, the hub and I slipped away (pre-cake) to start the long drive back home, driving away from one of the prettiest parts of New Jersey as the sun went down and the deer came out. The drive reminded me of why I happen to love the state--from their juicy red tomatoes to their gorgeous Victorian structures to their juicy, gorgeous call girls.

Oh, and it reminded me that I wanted to wish Charles and Magaly a happy happy union: may you love each other no matter what-through thick waists and thin hair, for better and for worse, while living with your in-laws or living out your dreams. I hope your marriage lasts as long as the Yellow Frame Church you were married in.

Congratulations!

Organic Truths in Washington DC

Despite popular theories, I am not Amish.

I grew up in an Amish area. I was not allowed to travel more than 5 miles from home. And I worked hard as a kid. I envied those cushy sweatshop jobs in China. The ones where the kids got to be kids for two or three hours a day.

But that all that doesn't mean that I am Amish.

My love of the plain people and their fancy desserts is well documented.

My dislike of Washington, DC is equally well documented.

But what would happen if you combined the two?

I found out last week when I visited Nora's (http://www.noras.com/), a trendy organic joint at 2132 Florida Avenue.

Now, I wasn't looking for a trendy organic joint (as I write that, I realize it sounds like something else entirely). I was meeting a friend who was in town for a seminar, and all I wanted was a restaurant that:

1. Was right off of New York Avenue. I wasn't driving through a traffic circle this time.
2. Had valet parking. (See above: once I found the place, I wanted to be done. I wasn't driving through a traffic circle this time).
3. Had entrees under 50 bills.

Nora's should put all of that on their website.

Even without those critical optimizing keywords, the restaurant was 90% full on a Thursday night.

My friend was waiting at the bar when I arrived (which tells you something about her--which is that she likes her vodka tonics--and something about me--because I was late, having forgotten that even without the circles, the city has plenty of annoying stop lights which seem just long enough to let three cars drive through). Anyway, in the time it took me to write that parenthetical bit of useless information, my friend had chatted up a local gentleman who said the restaurant was his favorite. Well, he was a local in the past, but still liked to hit the old neighborhood to enjoy a good meal (while enjoying the pretty women at the bar as well).

In addition to checking out my friend (whose motto is Better Men in 2010, if you would like to submit an application), this gentleman also was nice enough to check out the menu. He thought the chicken curry sounded good...and my friend thought so as well. That's what she ordered. I think she liked it, although it's sometimes hard to tell with her.

I went with the Amish veal. Why? Because the idea of something Amish in this city of stupid traffic circles and unvarnished frivolity made me laugh. And the rest room had cool murals of Amish people (at least I think that was the artist's inspiration...the gal above looks Mennonite to me, and so does the quilt). Artistic license aside, I fell for the marketing of the dish and was pleasantly surprised when it came out.

The meal was far from Amish--the plate was a little pretty for that, and the portions a little small. But it was tasty, and the mashed potatoes underneath were a great surprise.

Because it was a girls' dinner, we goaded each other into getting dessert (the rule here is that when you eat with girls you are honor and duty bound to get dessert. It makes up for any dinners with men where you cannot--even if you did not like your dinner and are as hungry as a horse--you cannot order anything indulgent after the main course.)

My dinner companion went for some chocolate concoction that practically gave me a migraine just from the proximity to all that cocoa.

I opted for a dessert that made my chocoholic friend's nose turn up--rhubarb pie. I know that not everyone is a fan of rhubarb, but--being the good Pennsylvania Dutch girl that I am--nothing makes me happier than a dessert that's more tart than sweet. And the fact that everything was organic was just icing on the cake...or a sweet lattice topping on the pie, as it were.

In fact, it was so good, I would even consider braving another drive to DC to have it again.