Fat Tuesday

I'm waiting for my guests to come to the table.  Tired of waiting and unable to find the new bag of brown sugar which I KNOW I bought last week, I've been killing a couple of birds with one stone with some satisfying payback thrown in, by bashing an old bag of brown sugar turned to rock with an iron meat cleaver.   Each bash of the cleaver is sweet revenge for the number of smoke alarm bleeps which emanated from their room through the night and will, I'm thinking, rouse them from their beds in short order.  I predict their arrival in the dining room any minute.  I'm confident that the sticky french toast will make things right. 
Blue Skye French Toast:  dip slabs of wholemeal bread into usual f.t. mixture.  As first side browns in melted butter (an iron skillet works best) spoon brown sugar and a bit of cinnamon on top.  Flip and repeat.  Top with finely chopped walnuts.  As this is Fat Tuesday, eat and enjoy.  We can diet through Lent together.

Jack Russell training tips

For those of you who live outside the US, it is a mystifying fact of American life that we are offered over 150 television stations with close to nothing of interest on any of them.  We have shows called, "Improve your Bust", "Say the Rosary with Sister Angelica", "Foot Health", and, my personal favourite, "Turkey Shoot".  We clicked on "Turkey Shoot" once when we first came here.  We'd just settled with a pizza and a glass of wine, turned on the telly and saw this big old turkey waddling through a forest, clucking and humming a happy turkey tune when suddenly BLAM he was SHOT. Blown up.  Exploded.   "Did you see that?" I shouted at my husband who was staring at the screen goggle eyed , mozzerella dripping onto his shoes.  SOMEBODY SHOT THAT TURKEY.What kind of a nature show is that?"

We therefore depend upon Netflix (order up dvds on your computer and they are delivered in the order you request to your postbox) for our winter viewing pleasures. I’ve just yaktraked up drive and across the road to reach our postbox  to post off 2 episodes of MI5, a British tv show to which we have lately become addicted . It concerns a team of 5 good looking  people who we are meant to believe work for the British Secret Service and who each week save the oblivious population from unspeakable perils using fabulous high tech equipment.  Bearing in mind that to us an ipod is high tech and the only perils we face involve ordering from the local Chinese Takeaway, we are enthralled.  Also, they keep knocking off lead characters which adds a certain exciting edge to the episodes.  "What?" I shriek.  "They've shot Adam?" And the screen went blank. “ SURELY they wouldn’t kill Adam.  Would they?  He’s the star!!!”   "Tell that to the turkey" said my husband.

Coping with a Maine Winter

The best way to cope with a Maine winter is to go to Florida.  If you can't do that then get a good hat.  My favorite one is a really nasty bright green with things embroidered on it in red and blue and a big green bobble on the top.  Its label says it is made from Turtle Fur.  That's why I bought it.  A little more wit and a little less truth would go a long way to making life better, in my view.  Then you need YakTrax on your shoes.  These are rubber strappy things with spikes for gripping the ice.  These are what I didn't have on yesterday when I hit a mean patch on the driveway and landed on my head.  I lay there for a while thinking about life in general and wondering if mine was over and then noticed some birds flying overhead.  Ok, I thought.  I can see.  I wonder if I can move.  Somehow it seemed too much trouble to check so I just laid there for a little while longer.  I shouted "Help" but it wasn't a very loud shout because there wasn't anyone around to hear me but it did prove that I could speak.  Ok.  I can hear and I can speak.  Things are looking up.  I turned my head back and forth.  Neck not broken.  Excellent. Nonetheless I am now faced with achieving an upright status from a prone position on an icy hill.  There is not much passing traffic on Friendship Road in the middle of winter but I found myself concerned that someone would drive by just as I flopped about trying to get up.  What would they think?  What if a guest drove in?  What if I were caught on satellite and beamed out on Google Earth for the entire planet to see?  I casually rolled to the side of the drive, off the ice and into the snow and under the cover of a shrub managed to get onto my hands and knees and thence to my feet. 
I saw a nature program on tv that said that not 10 miles outside of Miami there are snakes the size of school buses.

The Cardinal's Wife

I don't know how it happened, but somehow I am signed up to receive emails from Groupon telling me of local "deals for the day".  No doubt there's a button I can push somewhere that will get me off this list, but it has its amusements.  Today's was the best ever:  a Justin Bieber singing toothbrush!!!  I am offered TWO for just $14! 

It's finally snowing.  A cardinal has been flying about all morning, the only flash of colour in my monochrome landscape.  His drab Mrs follows along, careful to avoid the spotlight like a presidential candidate's wife, eyes glazed over in fake adoration, her little beak set in a bored birdy smile, while her dashing husband struts his stuff.

Mrs Romney confided in an interview that when she and her husband were discussing his possible run for office she said to him, "Mitt. I have one question.  Can you save America?"   Well, now.  I was struck by this. This took wifely admiration into truly heady realms.  But more important, I wondered what it was America needed saving from.  And then I remembered the Justin Bieber singing toothbrush.  Go Mitt! 

How to train a Jack Russell

 Several readers have pointed out that my “So You Want to be an Innkeeper” blog has little or nothing to do with innkeeping.  Hang on.  I hear murmuring. Did you think you were the only reader?  I have quite a few, as it happens, and not all of them relatives. 

But to the point:  well, look,  it’s not as if I entitled it “How to Fit Your Own Pacemaker in 4 Easy Steps” and then didn’t deliver the goods.    Innkeeping isn’t specific.  Innkeeping is loose.  Once you figure out how to live a life under a pile of laundry bigger than a Wall Street bonus it’s pretty easy, really.  People come.  People go.  You stay.    If this sounds appealing, why then, innkeeping is for you.  Early on in your new career you will learn how to deter those guests who will louse up the karma of your particular establishment.  Here at Blue Skye we don’t sing folk songs with our guests, we don’t have mystery weekends and chocolate tastings, and there is no television.  By not offering those things we manage to avoid hundreds of boring, needy and unimaginative guests.  It has been pointed out to me by more successful innkeepers that this translates into a lot of money I haven’t earned.  And truthfully, around the middle of February when the thought of paying for the heating oil just delivered brings me out in hives, I do sometimes wonder if perhaps I put off rather more people than necessary. But these thoughts are fleeting. I like to think that those few oddballs who find Blue Skye and enjoy it are grateful it exists in all its plainness. (I admit to an element of British understatement here.  Blue Skye is in fact wonderful if it’s the sort of wonderful you like.) And I in turn enjoy the conversation and opinions my guests bring to my breakfast table.  There.  Innkeeping 101. 

What's this got to do with Jack Russells, you may ask.  Absolutely nothing.  But I'm told that if you mention your dog in your blog that lots of people read it.  I'll let you know how that works out. 

Maine wildlife

We’ve been skunked.  More specifically, Jack, our young Jack Russell terrier has been skunked.  Peter and Jack set out for their nightly bedtime walk and Jack was mooching around the edge of a copse when a little skunk darted out and grabbed him. That’s Jack's story and he's sticking to it.    Peter tried to disentangle them but ended up having to kick the skunk to shake his hold on Jack’s face.  Jack and Peter returned home, reeking and cursing.  I grabbed the puppy and got into the shower with him while my husband stripped off in the mud room.  I ascertained that Jack, smelly and shaken though he was, was not injured. After much scrubbing he emerged from the bath slightly perfumed and outraged and, it must be said, still smelling of skunk.    My husband’s clothing, including wellington boots and coat were thrown into the washing machine in the cellar.  We figured that they hadn’t had a direct hit since the spraying end of the skunk was pointed away from them.   After a vigorous wash they were put in the dryer and in less than 10 minutes, there arose through the house a truly terrible  skunkified skunkness. Many washes later, we thought we’d cracked it.  What we didn’t take into account is that hours spent with the smell of skunk permeating the atmosphere rather dulls one’s sensitivity to it.  Next morning, in pristine work clothes, Peter cleared the top floor of the ferry within minutes of boarding.  At the boatyard where he works, his coat was deemed too offensive to be allowed in the boat shed and hung in a tree all day to the disgruntlement of the yard dog.   Weeks later, Jack still has a certain whiff of the wild about him.  I’m told that bathing him in ketchup would do the trick but it seems even more undignified than perfume and frankly, he’s such a proud and feisty little chap that pouring tomato sauce on him just doesn’t seem right.  Peter’s work jacket has been retired. 

Preparing for a Maine Winter

Dan Dan the Chimney Man (this is what he calls himself) is here this morning sweeping my five chimneys.  This involves much laying down of white rolls of paper which he and his elderly helper skid and trip on, the painted floors here being a bit slippy. Dan is wearing Bermuda shorts. No, I don't know why. I like calling Dan Dan to hear his anwer machine.  The current message,delivered in his thick accent says, " If the line is busy, don't get in a tizzy.  Never feeah, Dan is heeah, 365 days a yeeah.  Toodles!"
Last week the electrician was here replacing all of the smoke alarms.  All of this in preparation for the steady stream of city folk who come here and light the fires and set off the alarms with noisesome regularity.  We had a chimney fire in England once.  It was after a 12th night party when all Christmas decorations are supposed to come down.  My husband was directing guests down our icy little lane and I was waving merrily from the front door when I noticed that the holly wreath was still in place.  I took it into the sitting room and  tossed it onto the embers in the fireplace.   Moments later, from the kitchen,  I heard a deep, other worldly roar emanating from the sitting room.  I entered the room and saw nothing amiss.  Gingerly I approached the fireplace where the embers continued to flicker innocently while the roar grew louder.  I bent and looked up the chimney and saw the fire.  Peter appeared, saw me, heard the roar and disappeared into the January night, reappearing with garden hose which he aimed up the chimney.  The Faversham fire department's little truck could be seen  for miles wending its way toward us through the country lanes and our neighbours all appeared in the snowy night - many in bathrobes and all clutching bottles of wine.  It was, afterall Christmas, and it was England and a chimney fire is as good excuse as any for a party.   Only my husband was missing, engaged as he was with the hose, saving our hamlet from burning to the ground.  To appreciate the severity of the fire, one only had to notice that while the hose was on full force for many minutes, not one drop of water was in the fireplace.  When it was over,we all stood in the lane and toasted the firemen, wished each other a happy twelfth night and went to bed happy that all was well and safe and good.