To Boston and beyond...to brave the heat, the crowds, the closed in spaces, and my own innate clumsiness (Part 2)

Hyped as a historic mall food court, Quincy Market calls to me, for some unfathomable reason, like a siren's song. And why not? Who wouldn't want to battle teeming crowds of overly-seasoned tourists in July through narrow passageways to bellow your order to dismissive employees who view their clients as cattle for you to then fight to the death for the rights to a sticky table?

This girl.

Who is claustrophobic, agoraphobic, enochlophobic, and menopausal? 

This girl.

All for lobster bisque in a bread bowl.

Lisa was understandably baffled. Savannah was heroically determined.

Survived it. Was worth it. Would do it again (in another five years).

In addition to the Swan Boats, my other request on this trip (besides torturing myself with Quincy Market) was to tour the U.S.S. Constitution, famously named "Old Ironsides." Up to this point, I had only viewed this famous vessel through the smudged windows of a tour bus or a quick "fly by" on a Duck. A key player in the War of 1812, this frigate is the oldest Navy warship still in service. She never lost a battle....unlike me who began wilting under the unrelenting rays of the scorching sun the minute we got dropped off at the harbor. The journey across the parking lot had me ready to wave the white flag of surrender.

To put it quite simply, she is splendid. The woodwork gleamed, ropes were woven magically into tight spirals and tucked to the side. She rocked gently as I walked, in awe, across her deck...a history book brought to life. The U.S.S. Constitution is the equivalent of a four-story building and I braved the ladder down to her second level, fighting my anxiety as I stood, stooped, before a gallery of long cannons. A patient and knowledgeable young man gave a brief presentation about the vessel, blowing my mind by dispelling the long-held myth that the warship was nicknamed "Old Ironsides" because enemy cannonballs would bounce off her hull which were constructed of resiliently sturdy live oak. "Bounce would not have been an adequate verb to describe how The U.S.S. Constitution withstood the bombardment," the sailor explained. He had me at "verb." Any member of the armed services who effortlessly whips out their parts of speech is a credit to our great nation. "Simple physics can explain the phenomenon," he continued while I swooned, either from the heat, the closed quarters, or his academic prose. He then dropped the phrase "kinetic energy" and my knees buckled. Apparently, the live oak had the ability to absorb the impact of the incoming cannon balls, creating a ripple effect that dissipated the destructive force of the armament. How I wished for an accordion fan. Oh my beating heart.

Lisa and Savannah braved the decks below while I returned topside to fry in the afternoon sun. Savannah returned and, alarmed, rushed me into the museum. Best air conditioning EVER. Highly recommend. 

Our Uber driver arrived soon after. We were separated from her by a low chain fence which Savannah and Lisa skipped nimbly over. Not to be out-done, I followed...immediately tripping and performing an awkward and near-catastrophic stumble dance that was mere seconds from a painful face-plant (had I not been so graceful and dexterous). Applauding my success, the driver waited until I got settled into her backseat before commenting on the hot weather. "Maybe next time," she said, winking at me in the rear view mirror, "you should skip the Constitution."

To Boston and beyond...as long as there is air conditioning, limited walking, lots of snacks, and not too much history (Part 1)

 Poor Savannah.

She definitely got stuck with the wrong travelling companions. 

If there is a peak...Savannah will want to summit it.

If there is a bridge...Savannah will want to cross it.

If there is a river...Savannah will strap on her floaties and start swimming.

For Savannah, there exist no obstacles to impede her journey...only challenges for her to overcome.

She should have known she was in trouble when the only way she could wrestle Lisa and I into the line for "The Freedom Trail" tour was to buy us large lemonades and shift us strategically from shady spot to shady spot. She ignored Lisa repeatedly calling this excursion "The Oregon Trail" and distracted me by pointing out the thousands of squirrels cavorting about the Boston Commons. "How long is this tour?" Lisa and I wondered, wilting in the heat and thinking wistfully of our Duck Tour from the day before. "Forty-five minutes," Savannah said gently, thinking this would reassure us. She missed the look of alarm that passed between Lisa and me. 

We made it as far as Paul Revere's grave (I searched frantically for a shovel, "Move over, buddy.") before Lisa had renamed "The Freedom Trail," "The Trail of Tears." "We have literally walked two blocks," Savannah hissed as the tour guy, dressed in period clothes MADE OUT OF WOOL, droned on about a bunch of historical nonsense. Pausing to ask if there were any questions, someone (I swear, NOT ME) inquired about the remaining length of the tour. "About two more hours," he said, not comprehending the bomb he had just dropped on Boston. Savannah, fearing a mutiny, admitted immediate defeat and we withdrew subtly from our party and retreated. The battle was lost. Savannah surrendered. 

We headed over to fulfill my wish to ride Boston's famed Swan Boats. Delightful. A shockingly low $4.75 ticket price. I was getting sick of paying fifteen dollars for each site only to see a plaque bragging that so-and-so  had slept there. I would like to suggest an alternative option where I would happily relinquish my fifteen dollars to sleep there myself for the duration of the ten minute tour. Throw in a specialized guest book that you could sign under the heading "________ slept in Paul Revere's House" and you have a recipe to rack in those rates on a ninety degree day. I had already (inadvertently) begun the tradition of visiting the restroom facilities of historic and notable places. Sleeping isn't that much more of a stretch on my list of life's goals.

While Lisa and I were intent on wheedling our way to lunch, Savannah was still busy pointing out the thousands of other historical sites we could go visit. "Could we go to a museum?" I asked, ignoring Lisa's glare as I knew there would at least be air conditioning and a snack bar there. Savannah brightened and checked out the options on her phone. "Were you thinking science, history, or art?" I winked at Lisa. "Art," I said decisively before whispering to my tired and hungry friend, "We can take the Monet and run."

To Boston...and beyond: The Culinary Capers of Savannah, Lisa, & Amy

Who, as an adult, wouldn't want to vacation with their mom?

Much like the ostrich with her head buried deep in the sand, I, too, am occasionally oblivious to the obvious. Doesn't everyone love vacationing with their mom? I fancy myself quite the delightful traveling companion: Flexible and easy-going, adaptable and fun. I just naturally take it for granted that my daughters would want me to accompany them to historical excursions, natural landmarks, and exotic locales. 

But now there are spouses involved.

My husband attempted to gently break it to me that there may be (brief) times that my presence might not necessarily be welcomed. 

What an utterly ridiculous notion.

So I didn't think twice about stuffing myself in the back cab of my Titan to join Savannah and Lisa on their post-July 4th Semiquincentennial jaunt of Boston and surrounding areas. 

I knew things were going to go well immediately when Lisa broke the long-standing (Brad) Mosiman rule

by foraging to eat before we had even left Wyoming County. Two hours on the road warranted a rest-stop pickle purchase. Barely an hour after that, we were eating fried green tomatoes in Troy. I would not go hungry on this trip. Once fed, Lisa was more than accommodating with the Mosiman tendency of researching, learning, endlessly discussing, and then immediately dismissing the fun facts about the places we visit. Troy is the birthplace of Uncle Sam, originating with a meat-packer named Sam Wilson during the War of 1812 when he stamped the meat barrels with "U.S.". We also delved into the history of the Shakers, which was an off-shoot of the Quakers with one of the significant differences being that Shakers practiced celibacy...which explains their near-extinct population today.

Our trip was successful largely because I am well-versed on 4th grade level poetry, prose, and American history while Lisa speaks fluent food. Savannah, thank goodness, is bilingual, expertly translating when needed. My mundane appetite appeals to the consistent menu of McDonald's while Savannah and Lisa's tastes are Michelin-rated. Silly me...I thought Michelin was a tire.

My girls are acutely aware that my anxiety can appear under any number of circumstances:  Crowds, strange places, close quarters, too many choices, any entree that costs more than $19.99, loud, sudden noises, and accents. Savannah and Lisa were strong advocates of secluded seating locations, limiting my menu-viewing, and narrowing down my choices to a more relatable three options. Lisa orders food with a confidence that I find inspiring and intimidating. While she was rattling off ingredients that I had never heard of, I was complaining to my server that Savannah had stolen my gummy candy ring garnish off my fancy drink. A new gummy candy ring was rushed out to me on its own small plate. 

I was more confident in Quincy Market, home to the best lobster bisque bread bowl in the world. Unfortunately, it was as crowded and as hot as you can imagine the week following July 4th while the World Cup was currently going on. Empty-handed, I took to high ground, perching like a vulture on a railing, waiting for a table to open up on the second level while Savannah and Lisa fought the masses for the soup that was my sole reason for driving seven hours. WHY? WHY? WHY? do I not bring my own cutlery? My bread bowl deserves a table cloth (or at least a clean table) and an actual metal spoon. But...no matter. Like my patriotic forefathers, I, too, could endure the hardship of screaming toddlers, obnoxious tourists, plastic silverware, and the appalling sight of people eating chicken fingers in a seafood city as I soaked in the historic atmosphere beneath the Great Dome that had been designed in 1826 by Alexander Parris. 

I enjoyed so many amazing meals on this trip. I should have kept a food diary but I'm not diligent enough to do it justice. We sampled pastries, Mediterranean, Mystic pizza, and more Michelin-rated restaurants. I had a funnel cake-type dessert delicately shredded into a filled bird nest bowl, a crispy-coated Caribbean shrimp that I was obsessed with, a hummus flight, and ham-hock croquettes. We enjoyed a pleasant evening overlooking the Boston Harbor where the Mayflower was docked in preparation for the weekend's upcoming Tall Ship Parade, bay bunnies bouncing out of the bushes at dusk.

And, of course, Dunkin.

My indecisiveness practically paralyzed me as Savannah and I stood patiently in line for Lisa's coffee. I spotted a Dunkalatte on the menu and, befuddled, immediately researched it. I landed on an article brilliantly written by Nick O'Malley, laughing hysterically (to the point of snorting) and reading parts of it to my fellow customers. Thank you, Nick, you had me at "melty milkshake." You were an instrumental part of my seven hour solo drive home after dropping Savannah and Lisa off at the Hartford Airport.

We'd determined which of Rhode Island's magnificent mansions to tour based on food. The Marble House sported a Chinese Tea House atop the sea cliff out back. Of course it did. 

Alva Vanderbilt had the Tea House built to host women's suffrage rallies. In 1911, the Chinese Revolution provided a brief window of advancement for women's rights. Brave women soldiers helped smuggle in the weapons that would put a substantial dent in the armor of the Qing Dynasty. One of their leaders, Qiu Jin, protested vehemently against the painful and permanently-disfiguring practice of foot-binding before she was executed. Alva arranged for some of these women to come to her home to be honored. I was excited to experience the Tea House (#1) because Sydney loves to partake in the custom of "High Tea" and (#2) my friend Katriel was in China at that exact moment. Unfortunately, it turns out another trigger for my anxiety is obscene opulence. 

Savannah and I were eager to re-visit Carson's Store in Noank from her tenure as an engineer at Electric Boat in New London. We stuffed Lisa into the tiny booths and happily ordered their generously portioned breakfasts. "Did you text me from the bathroom?" Savannah asked as I returned from the back of the restaurant. I nodded. "I wanted you to see the teeny-tiny sink," I explained.

There was more...so much more. A never-ending smorgasbord of deliciousness. I am so blessed that Savannah and Lisa invited me along, welcomed my company, and kindly tolerated and accommodated my anxiety issues. I admired how comfortable and effortless they were in the more upscale culinary environments of which we found ourselves. Me? When it comes to a Michelin-rated restaurant, I just feel like I'm in the wrong attire.

7

What do you call a 2,000 pound dumpling? A one ton won ton

In hindsight, the only things that I should have been eating in Austin were antacids. My previous blog detailed the disastrous consequences of colorful gourmet consumption on a girl with a white-washed appetite. If only...if only...my exposure to fine dining had been limited to five-star restaurants but, no...the fancy food followed me home. 

Savannah and Lisa were determined to make my stay luxurious with extravagant accommodations and mind-blowing amenities, forgetting, unfortunately, that I am more hobo encampment than Hilton Diamond member. 

I am flummoxed whenever people graciously bestow anything upon me...be it compliments, gifts, or acts of kindness. Stop. No. I can't handle it and my face SHOWS it. So it wasn't out of character when my expression froze into place like the rose-shaped ice cube that adorned the carrot margarita that Lisa thrust into my hand as I floated in her darling little back-patio pool. "I can get you something else," she stuttered, shocked, I'm sure, at my lack of social graces. "No-no," I hurriedly assured her, gripping my glass, "This is delightful." 

Delightful?

Don't people consume carrots as punishment? Or from fear of going blind? What's next? A Long Island Iced
Tea made of lettuce? A parsnip Paloma? An Alabama Slammer made up of asparagus? No. Just, no.

I was spoiled, non-stop, with bountiful breakfasts, lunches, and dinners.  

The problem was that I don't typically eat, non-stop, bountiful breakfasts, lunches, and dinners. I usually skip breakfast. I snack for lunch. And...snack for dinner. I also snack between lunch and dinner as well as between dinner and sleep-time. Occasionally, I also sometimes snack between my non-existent breakfast and lunch. Hence, the slim, girlish figure that is the envy of all.

Savannah would greet me each morning as my own personal barista and I would delight in the foam art that she would adorn each steaming offering. She is currently experimenting with a combination of abstract and nouveau styles that really gets my gears spinning. I don't think she could top her first creation, though...her interpretive tribute reflecting the wonders of nature depicting a humpback whale rescuing a seal from a lurking predator. So spoiled did I become from this coffee-inspired art that I almost sent my order back this morning when Sydney Lynn and I were presented with a poor imitation. Sydney, God's own angel, gently reminded me that not everyone is blessed with Savannah's innate talent.

Lisa is a fearless presence in the kitchen. She is not afraid to incorporate
something new...from ingredients to gadgets to techniques. Failure only steels her resolve to succeed. She works intuitively with the system of trial and error...persistently climbing up the culinary ladder with each attempt. Knowing my enthusiastic love of soup dumplings, my talented daughter-in-love was determined to make this complicated dish for me. 

Savannah and I, of course, were equally determined to "help" her.

Mind you, the timeless tradition of artfully folding the dumplings dates back hundreds of years, requires a lifetime of practice, and infinite patience. Savannah and I watched about ten seconds of the hour-long Youtube tutorial and confidently declared ourselves "ready-to-go!" Lisa laboriously honed her craft, hunched painfully over her dough, systematically folding petaled curves into place, daintily adding minute drops of water to moisten her canvas as she worked her way around the dumpling. I slopped water onto my dough like I was getting ready to mix mortar. Savannah engineered her own triangular technique. Lisa let us ruin about a half dozen dumplings before she kicked us out of the kitchen.

Savannah took this opportunity to force me to take her previously-threatened air-fryer course. I had declared myself incapable of learning even one more thing. I was still using a hand-held can opener at home (with varying degrees of success, depending on the day). Unlike Ariel, I was not infatuated with gadgets and gizmos aplenty. The last microwave that the girls forced on us (Replacing Ol' Sparky) lit up like an airplane runway and had too many buttons. Nevertheless, I stood by respectfully while Savannah wowed me with the wondrous convenience, ease, and crispy features of her air-fryer. My smile was frozen on my face while in my mind I chanted, Please don't buy me an air-fryer for Christmas. Please don't buy me an air-fryer for Christmas.

Lisa's soup dumplings were AMAZING. Have you ever had them? Oh my goodness! A super-fun texture with an explosion of flavor when you bite into them. It. Is. An. Experience. I love them. And her.

So...my poor tummy...a stale snow globe of a vessel that may, on a rare day, experience an isolated sprinkling of salt, just encountered a tornado of tastes, a blizzard of blended ingredients and flavors, followed by a hurricane resulting in crippling heartburn. 

Soy worth it.

My recent stay...deep in the heart (burn) of Texas

 I am a simple girl with simple tastes (The notable exception, of course, would be my highly-refined taste in men). So, imagine my delight as, when I was following a clearly-struggling-to-carry-my 80-pound-bag-through-the-door daughter into her Austin house, I was aromatically assaulted by the tantalizing smell of hot dog soup simmering on her stove. I was home. Transported to my childhood and Savannah's. 

I waited for Savannah to drag my luggage like a bloated body into my room, watching her collapse at the waist like her puppet strings had been cut, gasping for air like a landlocked guppy. I frowned as she then gingerly stood and stretched, her back making alarming cap-gun noises. "Have you taken a break from working out regularly?" I asked, watching her leverage one end of my bag up onto the bed before throwing her body weight up under the other side to raise it to mattress level. Success! "Can we eat now?" I inquired impatiently. Savannah nodded...so emotionally overwhelmed from having her mama visit that she was unable to formulate whole words. 

I sighed happily.

Savannah had made hot dog soup. Lisa had prepared pasta salad. 

There was string cheese in the fridge.

Fruit gummies in the pantry.

Miniature Peppermint Patties at-the-ready.

I was good for the duration of my time in Austin.

But, no...Mama needed to be taken out on the town. 

The stifling HOT town.

Again...simple girl. 

Golden Arches cheeseburger and fries girl.

But I was game...

First stop:  Aba Austin in the famed South Congress Avenue district. 

Worth it for the cooling stations alone. Silent misting fans provided a welcome respite from the torturous Texas sun. The busy restaurant welcomed us warmly and quickly accommodated my rapidly dramatic decline as I battled an external climate crisis and internal insecurities based on economic disparity discovered during our brief wait for a table...I didn't know that was such a thing as a shampoo scrub and that I needed it to detoxify my hair. Apparently a major selling point is that it expired twenty-four months after the first use but I was convinced, after discovering the very reasonable forty-five dollar price tag that, given time,  I could recreate the scrub using the black sea salt and basil in my own kitchen. The shampoo scrub really whetted my appetite so I was extra-eager to get to Aba Austin despite the fact that I wasn't sporting the $800-$3,000 cowboy boots everyone on South Congress Avenue was wearing while window-shopping. I would just have to hope no one noticed my orthopedic sandals. 

Oh! Thank goodness! Basil decorating my drink! I inconspicuously rubbed it in my hair before popping it in my mouth. My imagination was ignited by giant slices of raw radish chips and purple carrot swords that cut a current across a settled sea of hummus. Whipped feta? Yes, please! And more olives than you could shake a purple carrot stick at. 

For dessert, we ordered the Pistachio Panna Cotta. For a girl accustomed to the inevitable disappointment that is attached to the varying distribution levels of hot fudge atop her McDonald's sundae, it defies description. Lisa, trying to help, compared it to flan. I am not a flan fan. This is a cool, layered dessert...a confoundingly firm yet creamy base topped with citrus and nuts. A surprising array of tastes and textures that combine to lower your body temperature while heightening your senses.

Hours later, my digestive delight turned to despair as debilitating heart burn arrived, slipping beneath the bedsheets to join me for a sleepless night of crippling cramps.

Never again, I vowed in the morning, ashamed to meet my own gaze in the mirror. The only thing this girl would be chewing for the foreseeable future would be Tums tablets.

"What would you like for brunch, Mom?" Savannah asked an hour later as I faced yet another food-restricting failure, this time, roof-top, at Paperboy East. Only Texas would so-blatantly besmirch brisket in a breakfast hash. My limited Western New York exposure to brisket compels me to consume it in only its purest form. I went for the Ricotta toast...topped with basil (Yup, one swipe across my hair first), mint, curd, kiwi, berries and...crumble! "Toast" was not an accurate description for this bread-based breakfast bonanza. When I wasn't tunneling through my toast, I was sharing a UFO-shaped blueberry pancake made with brown butter and sea salt (tossed a few grains into the old mane) stealing some sauteed sweet onions from Savannah's hash.

The Texas blue laws curtailed my Sunday morning mimosa so I ordered a fun cocktail called a Spring Fling that I promptly renamed the Sour Patch Kids punch (after they scraped me off the ceiling). Fortunately, the glass came with a generously sugar-coated rim so I went into immediate survival mode and methodically pushed all the sugar up and into my drink. Perfect.

Until...hours later found me again with an uninvited guest to remain, steadfastly by my side, to wait out the long night. 

I know, in my heart, that these two amazing restaurants do not bear the entirety of the blame of my gastric distress. It is important to be accountable for one's choices and one's subsequent actions. Ultimately, everyone is responsible for their decisions and must bear the consequences. That is why the next blog will point to the other party who caused this traumatic pain:  Stay tuned for the role that Savannah and Lisa played in this stomach-turning saga.