spring break 2024

Last week, Liz and I took off for a few days to South Carolina to visit my mom.  It was UVM's spring break, and although Carolyn was traveling to Georgia with her rowing team - Liz didn't have any plans. I thought it would be a great opportunity for some one-on-one time with my girl, and a wonderful chance for her to spend time with our one and only Noni. 

After departing our house at 4:20 AM, we arrived in Greenville by 10:30 AM.  There was a slight snafu at the airport when luggage tags and identifying objects from someone else's suitcase, were placed on my suitcase, and I thought for sure someone had accidentally grabbed my bag (which looked identical to their bag - right down to the turquoise blue pipe cleaner I have wrapped around my handle) and departed the airport. For the next 90 minutes, Liz and I took turns calling the owner of the luggage tags no less than 70X.  When I sent Charlie a photo of the baggage tag - he also started calling them.  Seeing as this individual worked with Amazon, per the tag on the bag, I also sent an APB to several of my Amazon friends with the plea that they help me track down this person and implore them to return to the airport. Aside from needing my toothbrush, when we left Vermont it was 12 degrees, it was now 65 degrees warmer and I desperately needed to swap out my flannel for linen.  

See, I never check my bags for this very reason. But because we were flying in to Greenville on a regional jet with virtually no overhead space, everyone had to gate check their suitcases.  Suffice to say, it was only when I'd finally left the airport - and was nearly at my mother's house - that the person finally checked their messages and/or was tracked down by colleagues, they called to tell me that they had the correct suitcase and asked, "Did you open the suitcase to confirm it wasn't yours?" 

Uh, no.  Why would anyone ever do something logical like that? 

After driving all the way back to the airport to retrieve what actually was my bag, we had lunch with my mom and her friends in the lovely dining halls at Furman University.  Over the next few days, we accompanied mom to a doctor's appointment where she was diagnosed (and treated) for bursitis in her hip.  We lounged about watching movies (Cinderella, 2015 for the win!)... 

Visited my aunt Grace and numerous cousins... 

And made a fun event out of raking up 1,000,000 gum balls from Auntie's front lawn. This was the payment for Liz and Liz's hard efforts!  

We visited my sister, Marylou... 

And Liz got advanced lessons on knitting and crocheting from her grandmother and aunt. 

Before we left on Monday afternoon, we stopped for lunch at a Mexican restaurant near my mom's house where we played a raucous game of Crazy Bridge.  These days, I never leave home without a deck of cards in my purse; they're right next to my Altoids, First Aid Kit, multi-purpose tool and headlamp.  Scouting has clearly rubbed off on me, I'm almost always prepared. 

Not surprisingly, the Mexican food didn't sit well with me. Increasingly for the past few years, I've come to realize that I generally cannot eat out at restaurants without significant gastrointestinal upset.  Mom loaded me up with some Maalox and Tums and we bid adieu for the airport.  After landing in DC, Liz pointed out that because there are no Chic-Fil-A restaurants in Vermont, this would likely be our LAST CHANCE to have the world's best chicken nuggets for who knows how long?? The thought briefly crossed my mind, "I probably shouldn't...." but that didn't stop me from dashing in and adding an 8-count to her 12-count order before we boarded our final leg home.   

I was feeling great. 

We landed just before midnight, in the midst of a blizzard that was sweeping across Vermont. After dropping Liz back off at school, Charlie and I returned home and went to sleep.  A mere three hours later, I woke up with what felt like a rock in my stomach.  After getting up and moving about, the pain only intensified.  By 6:30 AM, Charlie awoke to my moaning and retching.  Expletives were issued when he asked what was wrong with me.  After pacing about the house for a while, by 8:30 AM in my pajamas and snow boots, and holding a bucket which I kept filling, my husband loaded his delirious wife in to the car for a trip to the Emergency Room.  I kept telling him I really thought it was just gas, but Charlie insisted that I be checked. 

God bless this man for staying by my side: in sickness, the worst of me most definitely comes out. I was cursing everything and everyone, including S. Truett Cathy, the founder of Chic-Fil-A.  He may have been a Christian man, but the devil is surely in those chicken nuggets.  

For the next two hours, as I literally writhed around in pain and cries, clutching and filling a disposable cardboard bowl the nurses gave me ... we waited in the lobby of the ER before being placed in a room.  They asked me what my pain level was on a scale of 1-10, and I gasped "12."  They gave me warm blankets and an IV with morphine and asked if there was anything else they could get me and I said, "A GUN."  The morphine didn't touch the pain. Nor did the oxycodone which they added to my regiment. They gave me even more morphine.  The only time I laid flat is when I had to for the CT scans and ultrasounds. The rest of the time, the most comfortable position I found was standing, with a slight bend over the gurney, with my head propped on a stack of pillows.  The painkillers didn't kill the pain - they just made me so groggy I couldn't complain as loudly. 

Charlie called to tell my mother I'd arrived home safely, but was now in the hospital. After 12 hours, my diagnosis was a splenic infarction.  We have no idea how or when this would have happened and visits to specialists are in my future.  But I remain unconvinced that my purportedly injured spleen had ANYTHING to do with the acute illness I experienced Tuesday.  Because it was ultimately determined to be a "nonsurgical" emergency, I opted to leave the hospital and return home where I would feel much more comfortable bending slightly over my own bed with my head propped on a stack of pillows. 

Although I was loaded up with prescriptions for Zofran and oxycodone, once home, I took two Dulcolax, and drank a hot cup of water with a capful of Miralax. Within two hours, like holy, glorious magic, I started to feel better.   I then downed two more Dulcolax and chased it with 119 grams of Miralax which were mixed into Gatorade, replicating the cleanse protocol that was required before the colonoscopy I'd had in 2022.  Wednesday was largely spent in the bathroom, but for the first time in 36 hours, I could stand upright and didn't feel like my body was possessed by dark forces.  Charlie took off his garlic necklace and extinguished the prayer candles.   

Laxatives did what morphine and codeine could not.   

Holy sh*t.  Gas is no laughing matter.  

I've already added Dulcolax and Miralax to my purse. 

yo - yo - yo, we're hooked on the dough

Last week was Henry's spring break from school, so we took a drive to Boston.  It was a great trip: we visited my sister, Beth and her son, Michael - and went out to dinner with my brother Wally and his spouse, Donna.  One of the days, I went in to my company's office to work - while Henry found a gym to work out for a few hours, and Charlie found a Starbucks to get some work of his own, done.  We had a chance to visit my Dad's younger sister, Peggy, who lives in Boston and spent the afternoon walking all around the city and to the New England Aquarium. 

On the drive back to Burlington, we stopped by King Arthur Baking Company which I'm so proud to announce: IS IN VERMONT.  OUR state: which I'm convinced is the coolest little state in the nation. 

There's a Bakery - A Cafe - A School - And A Store.  At the factory, just down the road a spell, you can buy all kinds of flour in bulk.  

Here I am with Henry...  he's 6'1 and still growing.  His goal was to be bigger than his brother before William returns home from Germany. While it's unlikely he'll surpass 6'4" in the next four months, he has become fanatical about working out and spends hours every day at the gym.  He'll be entering his first powerlifting competition next week and is very happy that he can lift insane amounts of weights. I've found this is very helpful for lugging bags of insanely heavy flour. 

Here's a picture of one of the classrooms, inside.  Look at all the pretty bright red matching Kitchen Aids!!!  This is now on my bucket list, to drive down and take a class @ KA with a KA!   

They have clothing! 

Hats! 

Beautiful baking sheets, bowls, and all kinds of gear that I didn't know what it was, but I'm sure would make cooking and baking so much BETTER. 

I'm happy to report we didn't go completely crazy. This was our haul. I bought the hat, Charlie and Henry both both shirts which they've been wearing this week.  Oh how we all love to bake!! 

Charlie and I have a pact that we will strive to not buy new gear and supplies for the kitchen until we redo our kitchen.  I'm not sure when exactly that'll happen: we're hoping for next year, but TBD.  Will admit, the one thing we *do* miss about Texas is our brand new gourmet kitchen which we had just finished remodeling before we left on vacation.  But, whenever I start to get weepy about the loss of our Wolf steam oven, I dream about our future kitchen. It might look something like this. 

Then I snap out of it and think about how blessed we are to have a functioning kitchen and although it is quite dated, I am reminded of our old appliances in Fairfax and how they lasted forever.   

(BTW: that oven fire didn't actually destroy our oven like I thought it would!) 

Here's my setup: ready for action - new scale and bread whisk - which has been great. 

Here's the sourdough I made earlier this week, which went went quite nicely with the corned beef and cabbage that Charlie had made for dinner.  It was delicious - but next time, I think we will cook it longer.  We read that you can cook corned beef for up to 24 hours in a slow cooker.  That sounds like a fun experiment we may have to test out for St. Patrick's Day. 

The "crumb" of the bread is the soft part within the crust.  Real sourdough bakers will say things like, "LOOK AT THIS CRUMB!"  LOOK AT IT!  Doesn't it look beautiful?  I still have a lot to learn with shapes and fun patterns, but appearance aside: this is the best tasting bread I've ever had. 

Another highlight of the week was receiving a case of wine from our niece, Alice, who lives in Northern California and works at Handley Cellar vineyards.  Charlie's brother, George (Alice's dad) had sent us a couple of bottles for Christmas, and Charlie thought they were so good - that very night, he went online, bought a case, and joined the wine of the month club. They'd been waiting to ship the wine since December because they wanted to make sure it wasn't at risk of freezing in transit. Since we had warmer weather this week - it was finally shipped and got here just before the storm that is currently dropping two-feet of snow on our mountains.  

So, we have a house full of yummy wine, and another batch of bread going in to the oven, today. 

AFTER TODAY, I've told Charlie that this was my prayer and intent for the REST OF THE WEEK. Even though I mostly wear wool and flannel, which are very stretchable, my friends have told me that if I'm going to lament going up a pant size, I must break up with King Arthur. 

This was Charlie's response, as he was awaiting his haircut. 

So it is, I've become quite the domestic: I cut hair AND bake bread.  

Now, if only I could just savor the smell of it without inhaling an entire loaf, I'd be all set.