The Housemate

He takes a 'nutitious' meal out of the 'fridge to cook...a Marie Callender Turkey Pot Pie. You know those things just don't cook right away. It's a break from his usual dinner of a can of clam chowder or re-fried bean burritos. So, he puts the pie on the bottom rack of the oven, and being a good boy, on top of a piece of aluminum foil. You know those things drip.

It's done and he's ready to chow down. I decide to watch thinking he'd dig in too soon and burn his mouth. You know how those things are molten. He grabs the foil and pulls it toward the front of the oven, his plan to transfer it to the oven door and then go from there. As he yanks, the pie heads for the space between the oven cavity and the door and flips over. "Oh shit," he cries. Trying to scoop the pie up with a fork to save it. It begins to break apart.

I can't help but comment, "Oooo, that's not good for the big Russian," as I hand him a spatula and suggest a spoon instead of the fork. He manages to save a big chunk of it and he grabs a sponge to clean up the slop before it burns to the bottom of the oven. He then checks the drawer beneath the oven where the crack leads. The slop found it's way there and coats a few pots and pans and the bottom of the drawer. It looks pretty gross...almost like vomit. I walk out of the room as he pulls the drawer out to tackle the mess.

The pot pie is lying face down on the foil and he puts it on the small counter above the oven. Another piece is in a bowl. He laments, "I waited an hour." He grabs a fork and quickly digs in, not worrying about the still steaming contents of the pie. He stands next to the oven, it's door is wide open, the drawer sits on the floor. Pot pie remnants are in the sink. The empty Marie Callender box is on the counter. The pancake griddle still has some pie guts on it. "Damn," he says. "I might have to make another one."

Chance for Snow

It’s November 10th and I’m still cycling to work. This may not seem to be that big of a deal for some, but ‘round here November can be an ugly month. November is it’s own season, for it falls between the exquisiteness of fall’s foliage and the beauty of winter’s snow. November is “twig season,” one of the 2 extra seasons we have in Vermont. It’s cold, damp and precipitation is usually a mixed bag of misery: horizontal rain, ice pellets, wet snow or a mixture of all three.

I hoped that the weather forecast was right. No, not the chance of snow, but for one of those magical bike commuting days when the wind comes from the SSW in the morning, pushing me into work, then switches to NNW in the afternoon, helping me home. Heading north through Hinesburg, the NRG windmill was pointing due south. Smiling, I passed car after car waiting for the stoplight. I was toasty. I put on some extra stuff for the ride, specifically my neoprene booties, just in case the snow came. The sun was shining through dark, broken clouds. The skyscape was wonderful, deep and purple.


Pedaling west I looked south to take in the scene. I caught my first views of the Adirondacks. No doubt it was snowing over there. And there was no doubt that I would not outrun the rain that was falling from the clouds boiling up in the wind. Sprinkles. Big drops. Horizontal rain. Still smiling.

I’m halfway out going north. No use turning around. The wind will help me I think. It doesn’t. The rain ceases and the wind blows stronger and from due west. I lean into the gusts. Those once exquisite leaves, now brown, blow and stick in my spokes. Two dairy cows use each other’s noggin to scratch their itchy heads. Cars pass me now in both directions. The drivers just look at me. I love it!