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

We'll cross that bridge (and that bridge) when we get to it

Occasionally, someone will ask me where I get the ideas for my blogs. I will inevitably fight the accompanying eye roll and repress the sigh before answering, honestly, "The blog writes itself."  I will simply be walking around, minding my own business, when suddenly I find myself in the middle of a blog. Believe me, I don't look for idiocy. Idiocy finds me. 

I was delighted to discover that our hotel overlooked Boston's serene Charles River. That morning, I watched from my window as slender shells sliced through the water as individually captained crew members maneuvered their oars like the long legs of water bugs. Annoyingly athletic people jogged parallel, caught up in a concrete current.  Ducks and geese hugged the shore. The Charles was calling. 

But Boston was waiting so it would be hours before I could return to the water. 

"What are you doing?" my daughter Savannah asked after we had returned from a day of exploring Boston's historic places. I was sitting outside the hotel, trying to be brave enough to cross several lanes of city traffic to get to the river. "I'll go with you," Savannah generously offered. 

My destination was a bench I'd spotted on the opposite side of the Charles as we'd departed that morning. Even though it was getting close to dark, Boston was still sweltering. No need for a marathon here. 

We enjoyed the view from our bench...a quiet breath in a bustling city. Happy, I rose, ready to return. 

Wait. I just realized. This was all Savannah's fault. Whew! Usually, I'm the one to blame for these little fiascos.

Savannah wasn't ready to walk back yet. There was a boat house further down that she wanted to see. Yeah. I guess. Okay.

Then there were some pretty yellow flowers that lured me further down the river.

I stood, transfixed, before a baffling tree that boasted two different-shaped leaves. Surely, this couldn't be. I unraveled branches to determine if two trees had grown together. Was one a vine? Savannah could have cared less. I held up the two distinctly different leaves for her inspection and almost screamed with frustration when she shrugged. Thank goodness I now know how to

Google circle and search. It was a mulberry tree which is polymorphic, meaning that it naturally grows two distinct leaves on the same branch. There was no stopping me now. The mulberry tree was introduced to America in the 1700s to promote the silkworm industry that flourished in its boughs given the right climate. The mulberry tree produces leaves and berries that can be consumed along with a mildly hallucinogenic sap. Their sprawling root systems are not ideal for city-scapes. Male mulberry trees also produce high amounts of airborne pollen. "Wait," Savannah interrupted after she had desperately tried to ignore my excited sidewalk education of the mulberry tree, "are you telling me that there are girl trees and boy trees?" I decided to refrain from telling her that pollen is essentially tree semen. I changed the subject to the children's rhyme. The mulberry bush may have been used because of its central location in a 19th century English prison. Female inmates and their children would get their daily exercise by walking around this bush and the woman invented rhymes about daily chores to entertain the kids. "All around the mulberry bush" and "Pop

goes the weasel" eventually meld together over the years. More fun symbolism: "Pop" was another word for "pawn" while "weasel" referred to a coat. Poor folk would pawn their Sunday best on Monday and then buy them back on payday. This reflected the never-ending cycle of poverty. My own interpretation, not even remotely based on fact, has the monkey representing addiction. "You cannot foist your own interpretations into a children's rhyme," Savannah argued.

We were, at this point, very far from the bridge that got us here.

"It appears that we are equidistantly-placed between two bridges," Savannah observed as I exclaimed happily over some discovered mushrooms.

"I don't talk like that," Savannah interrupted. "I just said we should go back."

The magical appearance of a bedtime bunny at a little park led us further on into Wonderland.

"As in I wonder if we'll ever make it back to our hotel again," Savannah muttered.

We were now closer to the second bridge so I decided that we might as well complete the rectangle way rather than retreat.

Savannah sighed in resignation, looked back wistfully, like Lot's wife, and reluctantly followed me. 

She did not turn into a pillar of salt.

She did, however, keep us from being assaulted.

It was now dark.

I was tired.

To access the trail leading to the river path, we would have to descend into a densely wooded area, along some tracks that were now bracketed by hastily put-up tents and lean-to's, punctuated by small fires. Shadowy figures eagerly awaited our arrival. They looked friendly enough.

I had read about the Hoovervilles that had sprung up during the Great Depression and I knew the hobo-code. Savannah and I would surely be welcomed to a communal burning barrel and offered a refreshing beverage in a small tin cup. We would sing some songs together. Exchange life stories. And then we would be sent on our way with canned chili and Vienna sausages wrapped in cloth and attached to a stick to be slung jauntily over our shoulders.

For some reason, Savannah was a real party-pooper about this life-changing experience.

"You mean life-ending," muttered Savannah as we, instead, crossed the bridge, maneuvered our way across several lanes of traffic and entered a comforting zone of capitalism. Hello, CVS!

As we trod tiredly along the sidewalk, we could see the silhouette of our hotel...shining like a beacon in the distance. But this was the Washington Monument Conundrum all over again. No matter how far or how long we walked, we never seemed to get any closer. The towering structure mockingly beckoned us.

Savannah kept tapping her phone like it was the Star Trek walkie-talkie that Spock used. I was fine with it. I was ready to be "beamed up" or rendered immobile by the Vulcan neck grip at this point.

"There is no safe way to get to our hotel this way," my daughter informed me, "We're going to have to Uber." 

No. 

Amy Mosiman does not "Uber" home from a walk. We were simply going to have to walk the long way back.

Savannah sighed. "A: Walking will take another hour. B: Dad will kill me if I walk you to death. and C: An Uber costs five bucks."

Sold.

Putting two fingers in my mouth, I whistled shrilly. Lifting my arm above my head, I faced on-coming traffic and yelled, "Taxi!" 

Savannah yanked my arm down, waving her Star Trek communicator in my face. "Mom, I called an Uber."

"I hope it comes soon," I sighed, sinking down onto a bench. "I'm not fare-ing" well."

Austin Adventures: Part 5- Otterly delightful

Three-quarters of the Mosiman household had gone radio-silent as my departure to Austin grew closer. I had been adamant about my intentions...or rather, LACK of intentions. I planned on being suction-cupped to Savannah's couch the ENTIRE time...brain turned off...fueled by cheese strings, fruit gummies, and peppermint patties. I wanted only to be an emotionless-mass beached beneath warm cozy blankets.

But the emanating wave of silence was speaking volumes. I knew something was up but I didn't know what. Through the good grace of God, I had survived January but then February arrived with its own host of debilitatingly sad challenges. Finally, one late night phone call put me completely over the emotional edge and my family decided that it was time to play their trump card:  While I was out in Austin, I would be swimming with otters. No, this didn't solve all the problems of the world but it sure provided me with a bit of a lift.

I am no stranger to a fun animal encounter:

Penguin #1

Penguin #2

Almost a capybara

Whale-watching camel

I've swam with manatees in murky-water, touched a turtle in Mexico ("Only once," warned Brad Mosiman, who JUST THEN decided to follow the dictated rules. "Did you see the men with guns patrolling the beach?" Brad hissed at me when it looked like I was going to go in for touch number two), hand-fed carp the size of small cars, had a herd of deer tackle me for an empty ice cream cone, tossed mini-marshmallows to bears bellowing below me, had an elephant extract a full-sized marshmallow from my hand, and made a fist-to-finger exchange of Fruit Loops with a monkey.

All of these experiences were delightful...albeit morally questionable.

Finally, I could focus on something fun rather than wallow in the misery around me. Bring on the otters.

I immediately began searching for the perfect meet-the-otter outfit. I learned, late in the game, that your wardrobe, surprisingly, can really up the experience. My black and white ensemble may or may not have contributed significantly to a penguin becoming enraptured with me. With the otters, I was leaving nothing to chance. To cover my bases, I bought a matching shirt for Savannah. I'd wrestle her into it myself if I had to. I considered buying a can of fish oil with which to slather myself but my research revealed that these little guys can be quite the vicious carnivores and I didn't want to risk my encounter going awry with an unprecedented otter attack.  

Like all good things in Texas, this place was in the middle of no-where. Savannah nervously eased her Mustang over a questionable, rickety, old, one-laned, wooden bridge. Our expectations were LOW. As we waited by the mini-Jurassic-style entry gates, we could see a turkey with some cows in a field. Sweet. The gates opened and we drove in...and immediately started squealing:  "Look! A giraffe! Zebras! Mom! There are kangaroos!"

Two Saint Bernards came to meet us as we parked.

Our guide threw us in a side-by-side and drove us across the amazing property. Giraffes unfurled their legs and raced beside us. Savannah and I were enchanted. Our guide was much more based in reality. Motioning to one in particular, she explained that Jeffrey can be quite an ass. 

Wonderful. A giraffe that is an ass!

We heard the otters before she even turned the engine off...a mixture of birds and cats.

A friendly giant pig with an unfortunate underbite welcomed us to the otters enclosure.

"There are eight otters today," our guide began and Savannah and I mentally filled-in-the-blank regarding the rest of her sentence..."and you will be meeting ____________ today."

NO!

We would be swimming with ALL of them today!

Yee-Haw! Just fill my fists with Talapia and call me right on time for an otter's dinner party!

Savannah and I were eager to believe that otters mimic cats in that they do their business in a specific part of their enclosure and NOT in the giant otter stew that we were being added to.

This could not be happening.

But, yup. There we were...boiling away with a bundle of chirping, cheerful, energetic otters who slid, eagerly, in and out of our arms in the most wonderful Amy and Savannah soup you can imagine.

They were so happy.

I was so happy.

Pure, unadulterated joy.

We gobbled up our Tilapia. Extracted ice cubes from a cup and played with the floating glaciers before they melted. Dove and danced. Spun, spiraled, shimmied. They LOVED Savannah in the water and I seethed with jealousy. "I'm the one who got her the shirt," I explained to them but apparently ALL otters have ADHD so none of them slowed down to consider my words.

But then it was time to dry off.

On the land...they were MINE!

We were captivated as otters wiggled on their backs along the carpet. Savannah and I, wrapped in towels, sat among eight otters and their assortment of toys. A small maraca and an over-sized toothbrush were obvious favs. I realized, when I raised one towel-covered knee up that my sleek, furry friends loved my inadvertent fort. They quickly disappeared beneath the covers. Savannah and I did not have enough hands to rub the backs and bellies clamoring for attention. 

It couldn't have been more delightful.

We had more otters than you could shake a stick at (and they would just have a ball playing with it). We were given ample time...more than we could have hoped. In fact, WE called it because, two towels aside, we were still cold.

It. Was. So. Much. Fun.

The otter enclosure was spacious and clean. The animals were well-socialized, healthy, and seemingly very happy. It was an experience that you could just feel good about.

I am so grateful to Savannah for arranging this wonderful experience. Face it, there is NO bad time to swim with these sweet, playful creatures but swimming with them when you are in the midst of a bad time is therapy like no otter.

Austin Adventures: Part 4

My plan to fly to Austin and simply sit on Savannah's couch was being thwarted at every turn. My eldest daughter could not abide the idea that her mother not be engaged and enriched every moment of the blessed day.

"What would you like to do today?" Savannah asked.

As if she didn't already know.

I had been VERY clear.

"There's some sort of tulip farm not far from here," she said, moving to interrupt my locked gaze from her large television.

Darn it.

"That just popped up on my Facebook algorithm," I admitted, begrudgingly.

Apparently Facebook knew I was in Austin. And was also intent on enriching me.

I sighed. I guess picking a posy wouldn't kill me.

We broached the subject to my younger daughter, Sydney, who typically adores photographic opportunities. Turns out that, for Sydney, a forty-five minute drive wasn't worth the experience of frolicking in a field of flowers. By Wyoming County standards, forty-five minutes is a mere blink of an eye so I buckled up for this blossom-based adventure.

Texas does NOT disappoint. 

Drive to the middle of nowhere and you will, inevitably, find something.

A two-story tall shovel sculpture, for instance. I believe Sydney Linda arranged that particular excursion (And where was she now?).

Savannah and I finally came upon the tulip farm, yes, in the middle of nowhere and realized, immediately, that we had not done our research.

We didn't have time to explore the lovely barn packed with farm-related animatronics, fudge, backed goods, and gifts galore because we were racing to reach the miniature baby goat pens that stretched, a mile long, behind the barn.

Again...I tip my two-gallon hat to Texas. If it weren't for your three-digit summer temperatures, I'd happily embrace the notion of "Go west, middle-aged woman!" A cute little chain hooked each enclosure and anyone could go waltzing in to kick-back with the kids. Savannah and I danced right in.

Want to pick up a miniature baby goat? Go ahead! No snooty lecture or list of regulations required. 

Want to kiss and hug a miniature baby goat? Go for it! No animal rights group was picketing these pens...just families buying feed or bottles to nurse our happy little friends. The area was clean with ample shelter for each creature. A waterline ran the length of the pens. It wasn't fancy but SO MUCH FUN!

But we weren't done!

We had a MAP!

We had two complementary tickets to shoot apples out of an air-compression cannon but, in my excitement of blowing giant bubbles at the giant bubble blowing station we encountered on our way to the air-compression cannon BEFORE looking for the miniature Highland calf that we never actually found because we got waylaid by the racing pigs before contemplating zip-lining through a forest to land on in-ground trampolines the size of a basketball court, I lost one of the tickets. NO-OO-OO! I sacrificially gave the remaining ticket to my daughter and the young man, in charge of apple distribution, was so moved by my selfless gesture that he grandly gave me an extra apple! 

And Texas just trusted that we would just know how to operate this insane (but delightful) weapon that annihilated apples. Lock and load, baby!

We did finally make it to the tulip field. 

Beautiful.

We agonized over each choice as we filled our container.

I imagine that a tulip field in Holland would be like walking into an Impressionist painting. Walking into a tulip field in central Texas is like slipping under the cozy cover of a velvet painting depicting Elvis playing poker with a group of cheating dogs. "Savannah, climb on top of those wooden shoes (bigger than her car) so I can take your picture." 

"Do you think we should try over by the grand piano parked in the patch?" 

"No...that's a high traffic area. Let's try over by the windmill and the bicycles." 

"Are there more tulips over there?"

"At least we know there are a few pedals!"

Savannah and I were big fans of the tulip farm!

Austin Adventures: Part 3

Y'all know I'm a country girl. Dirt roads for miles. Up-rooted railroad tracks that run wild in both directions. Fields in which to frolic...woods to ramble...all there for the taking should I ever muster the energy to get off my couch. 

My daughters have both relocated to well-known metropolitan areas where one must drive to experience a centralized-pseudo-nature planted within the pastures of parking lots and pay-toll roads of the cities they currently inhabit. 

Savannah, fortunately,  landed in a nifty little neighborhood that has gated access to a small forested area buttressed by a slowly-flowing river. She and Lisa dubbed it "The Hundred Acre Woods" and enjoy it daily with their dogs. 

Despite its reference to the gentle children's story, "The Hundred Acre Wood" is fraught with danger and peril. Savannah has been attacked by red ants.  Sydney tested (and failed) the siren's call of an alluring rope swing coil dangling like a hypnotic pendulum over the gentle water. And...most terrifying...after a rare flood of the river...Savannah and Lisa came nose-to-extended-nostril with an out-of-place alligator. While Lyle, Lyle Crocodile (also a comfortable city dweller) could, quite plausibly, fit into this "Hundred Acre Wood" setting, my girls, fleet of foot, did not stick around to find out if their new neighbor could sing or not. 

So, imagine my delight when I am dragged to this den of danger and disaster almost every day of my visit.

To their credit, my children know that I am equal parts distractible ("Look! A butterfly!") and manipulable. Lisa assigned me the "important" task of getting a cute picture of their new foster dog, sweet Anne Bonny...left, neglected and abandoned to her own devices...pregnant and frightened...did not fare well on her first crossing of a sea of traffic. She lost an eye and crushed a rear leg for her efforts but saved her puppies.

Anne's four off-spring, treasures, all...found homes easily.

Poor Anne, a beaten and battered-down vessel, is having a tougher time. Her exterior, while not warm and cuddly, does tug, like an incessant wind on the foremast of your heart. Her interior, though? Unfathomable. Anne Bonny, not surprisingly, has trust issues. She is shy and easily startled. Despite her limited vision, she misses nothing and hovers, uncertain of her welcome, in the periphery. 

So...off I tromped...to the terror-filled "The Hundred Acre Wood"... for Anne.

And it was Anne who alerted us to yet another unusual inhabitant.

I've been on the look-out for an armadillo. Savannah would, occasionally, stop-short, alert to the underbrush...sensing its possible presence. "Look for small rabbit ears," my Wyoming-County-raised daughter advised quietly as I scanned the scene. "Does it have a call?" I whispered, ready to engage. "No...it just sort of rustles," she explained. 

Well, we heard a rustle.

"That's gotta be one big armadillo," I observed.

Anne was not having the idiocy of her people and began barking.

Sydney squinted through the briars and the bramble. "There's something over there. I think it's a cow."

I did my own concentrating. Wyoming County sports more cows than people. I backed up slowly. If Anne
could have, she would have clapped. "It's a bull."

The Mosiman women all backed up...slowly.

"He must have swam the river," Savannah said. I felt that reading his resume at this time was not relevant...unless it included that one of his strengths was working with others. We appreciated our surroundings at this moment as, unlike the open fields back home, we were buttressed, every few feet by trees. 

We soon left Ferdinand behind.

Breathing a sigh of relief, I remarked that things couldn't get much worse than that. "Well, there's always the possibility of a feral pig," Savannah mused, ignoring her sister's pointed glare, "If a bull could swim across the river..." 

I scanned the brush...immediately transported to some other well-loved children's classics like "Where the Red Fern Grows" and "Old Yeller." Sydney linked her arm in mine and said, "I doubt Wilbur would have the energy to get off the couch." 

Speaking of couch, it was time to get back to my natural habitat.

Populated with bulls, alligators, and ants, walking in "The Hundred Acre Woods" is no picnic. After this encounter, I was practically a basket-case.

 

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.