The Day I Stopped Chewing on Pens

What is it about children and gnawing?
   I have seen many a chewed pencil through the years. I suspect that any elementary school teacher has seen even more than I.
   Just as "Ralphie" in A Christmas Story was a connoisseur of soap, I was a connoisseur of writing implements.
   There's something delightful about sinking one's teeth into the wood of a Ticonderoga. First, there is the piercing through the paint, kind of like a candy coating. Then there is that spongy resistance that relents with gentle pressure. When the eraser has worn down, one can chew through the metal of the eraser holder, providing half as much eraser again.
   Bic pens provided variety. If a good wooden pencil were the crunchy-on-the-outside-chewy-on-the-inside treat, then the Bic was the hard candy. Oh, how the crack down the brittle plastic satisfied. My jaws had power and my teeth had the strength to sustain it! (Had my mother known, she would have offered her motherly admonition: "Don't use your teeth!" This warning covered everything from pistachios to "clam shell" plastic wrap.)
   Then came the Biro. It was a stick pen that didn't write really well, but the texture was like chewing old gum. They had an unequalled springy-ness to them.
   Then it happened.
   It was my freshman year of college. My cousin and I were in Physics 101 together. We both sat in the front. I sat next to him, hoping to absorb some of his engineering smarts. Shucks, he got A's in Chem 101 when everyone else was getting a 70 point curve added on to their scores! He was a good lab partner, too: veeerrrry patient with me.
   Sitting there in the front, desperately trying to understand something the professor was saying, I was chewing my Biro. Suddenly it shot out of my mouth, as if all the potential energy of every Biro created pushed it forth.
   The pen went in a beautiful trajectory and landed in front of my teacher. He picked it up and handed it to me, saying, "Don't throw things."
   I somehow made it through the rest of the class, trying to not laugh or cry for the next 30-40 minutes.
   I never chewed another pen.
   Anyone around here have some gum?
 

Woodpeckers - the Backyard Naturalist strikes again.

It's well before 7 am on the second day of May. The thrum of a woodpecker rises above the eager calls of other birds.
     There are four Vermont woodpeckers which immediately come to my mind. There is the flicker, which isn't the characteristic black and white. It's most noticeable by the dark bar of color below its throat. Then there are the hairy and downy woodpeckers. I finally put a stickie note on my computer to remind me that the hairy woodpecker is larger than the downy woodpecker.
     And then there is the pileated.
     The pileated is a huge and dramatic beast of a bird. Once when I was walking, a pileated came up behind me and flew over my head. I've never before heard such a rush of feathers and wind. Just as it came into my line of sight, it chattered. It then perched high up in a tree and rotated around the trunk so it was then hidden from my view. I could have stayed there for hours just watching for it, but my lunch break was over. I had to go back to work.
     I'm blessed: I get to see a handsome pileated woodpecker six to eight times a year. At least one, if not a family, lives around here. When I don't see him, I see his evidence. Pileated woodpeckers don't tend to make polite little holes in trees. They are demolition specialists. If you see a larger woodpecker hole, look around. You may find splinters and pieces of wood as big as your fingers. That's the work of a pileated woodpecker.

     While on my walk yesterday, I noticed many fresh woodpecker holes in the trees. Empirically speaking, I'd say that this year there are many more fresh woodpecker holes compared to previous years.
     I noticed something else. The hairy and downy woodpeckers drilled into trees far lower than I have ever seen. I have never seen them at ground level. (Note: please correct  me in the comments if you have seen this more commonly. Thank you!)
     My first thought was that the long winter may have killed more bugs and provided a larger supply of nourishment for the woodpeckers. Perhaps the winter killed more areas in the trees, allowing the woodpeckers greater access.
     And then I realized that these could be the actions of desperation. What timid little bird would invest time hammering at ground level?
     I truly don't know.
     This year, I put out suet for my little friends. My attempt was unsuccessful: the squirrels made very short work of it. Therefore, my desire for warmer weather is at least partly altruistic. The woodpeckers need more food sources! 
     I think of Matthew 10:27 and Luke 12:27. As fond as I am of birds, Someone loves them and cares for them far more than I ever could. And as much as that Someone loves and cares for birds, He cares for each of us even more.
Shalom,
mrfb
     
     
     

   
   

Mad River Distillers - a review

       At long last it was a perfect spring day. The hubby and I decided to do something Vermontish. A great researcher, he found a Vermont distillery in the Waitsfield area. As a child, I spent many happy times in Waitsfield. Our relatives owned the General Wait home. Back then, the history was lost on me, so to take a drive in that direction seemed a wonderful way to spend the afternoon.

       Getting to the distillery is fairly easy. It is, however, my 5 month old car’s first time on a dirt road – in mud season. Fortunately, we emerge on the other side unscathed.

       When we arrive at the Mad River Distillers, a yeasty, bready scent welcomes us. The distillery has a cleanness and newness about it. The building is small, perhaps “bigger on the inside.”

       Our guide Will welcomes us and gives us “the tour.” The tour itself would normally take mere minutes, but he cheerfully answers my hubby’s questions. Will clearly enjoys both his work and discussing it.

       Several giant vats hold mash in various stages. The first one seems to boil with its yeasty production of gases. The second vat percolates more gently and the third shows no motion on the surface.

       The still is a coppery, bulbous, tubular wonder. It seems part pressure cooker and part time machine. As hubby and Will talk filtration systems, I hear, “Blah, blah, blah.” This isn’t because I don’t understand; I get distracted trying to figure out how I know this fellow.

       Ding ding ding! I figure it out. He resembles “Tom” from The Blacklist. Okay, now I can listen better to them talk about barrels and charcoal and maple water. I just hope I don’t slip and call him “Tom.”

       When our “tour” is finished, Will offers to let us sample their spirits. He produces tiny plastic shot glasses reminiscent of communion cups. Into these he pours perhaps a quarter ounce of the first sample, their Malvados apple brandy.

       How can a liquid can crash like fire into your oral mucosa and yet flood your olfactory nerves with joy at the same time? I don’t know, but I think I’m in love. I manage to make the brandy last for three sips. It tastes like an apple, it tastes like cinnamon, it lingers like spice with a fire that isn’t cinnamon at all. If I were to count the humming tingling in my mouth after the last sip, I’d say there were four distinct layers. It’s not a “girly” drink, not unless you are the girl in Cake’s “Short Skirt, Long Jacket” song, which I sometimes pretend I am. The next time I have a bad cold, I’d seriously think about reaching for Malvados.

       Next, we sampled their corn whiskey. I’ve never before had corn whiskey. If yellow had a flavor, it would taste exactly like that. I didn’t sort the flavors this time. It wanted me to taste it all at once. I tasted banjos and corn, something wild, innocent and even a touch of don’t-let-mom-catch-you. Instantly I was at the end of summer before school resumed, barefoot and chewing on a piece of timothy grass. It was nearly overwhelming to me, both with its strange flavor and emotional impact. It’s not a beverage I could drink often, but one I definitely would try again.

       To me, the First Run Rum doesn’t taste much like rum. It’s labeled as 48% alcohol, so that must be why. It’s quite potent, more like Bacardi’s 151. The distillers offer recipes on their webpage. I wouldn’t mix the First Run into a drink. Although it doesn’t strike me as very rummy, it is very sippable, providing a cheerful midthoracic warming.

       The Maple Rum again provided a hearty burn within the mouth and warming in the chest. But what? Unmistakable maple bloomed in my mouth. That flavor is why pear thrips and Asian longhorns are such horrid concepts to us in Vermont. This delicate taste called maple simply must be preserved for the ages. Will recommends that this one may taste better chilled.

       We move on to Vanilla Rum. This is the most “girly” of their rums and will lend itself best to mixed drinks. Its flavor of alcohol is a little lighter. It might go well in a vanilla milkshake. It’s drinkable by itself and also might be more flavorful if served chilled.

       By this time, we are joking that we may need to sit for a while before heading home. We chat and exchange ideas about sugaring, dairy, mud season and Vermont wineries. Will shares the challenges and complexities inherent in the liquor sales business. The Mad River Distillers are clearly artisans who understand practicality.

       At this point, my taste buds are almost overloaded. I know I won’t be able to sift through the flavors as carefully as with the first taste tests. We just have their versions of rye and bourbon left. Will had saved them for last due to their strong taste. They definitely tasted like rye and bourbon. I lost my taste for Manhattans a couple years ago, but these both would hold their own with sweet Vermouth and bitters.

       We visited a bit more and thanked Will for his time. He invited us to come back again. I know he meant it.

       Since we were out this far and the weather promised to hold, we took a wonderfully winding and steep (or treacherous, if you prefer) road back. We’d never been to or through Buels Gore. Now we have!

       So, for your next day trip, I recommend checking out the Mad River Distillers. I want to go back for some more of the Malvados. Or did you already guess that?