DuPont and Dauset. Like Chocolate and Cheddar.

Chocolate and cheddar. 

Separate, but equally awesome.  

Much like a two part, mid-October bike trip. 

The main course, four days of mountain bike trails in North Carolina, sharp and biting and steep. 

Then on the way home, the hills of Georgia, smooth and easy.  The perfect dessert.

 

 

When the Critter Sitter hears we are going to North Carolina,

she sends her own photo of the Blue Ridge from the week before.
Wow.

 

 

On Friday we load up and get out of Dodge. 

 

Destination #1:  DuPont, North Carolina, and the cabin that Northstar and Tom have rented for a long weekend.

 

DuPont State Forest is pure cheddar.  Sharp and tangy, all autumn'y orange and yellow.  With just enough serious bite to get our attention and keep us coming back for more each day.

 

The cabin is cozy.  It's difficult to leave in the morning.  Especially when the thermometer on the front porch tells us that it's 38 degrees as we eat our breakfast.    But the sun is brilliant, the leaves drift down like orange snowfall from a very blue sky, and by mid morning it's perfect.  Shorts and sleeves, and arm warmers put away, by afternoon.

 

The camera flattens the landscape no matter what I try.  No way can you feel the burn along with us from these pictures.  But believe me, it was all I could do to keep the pedals turning.  And ignore the lung-fires burning.  No stopping mid-climb to take photos.  Sorry. 

 

Without exception, every DuPont trail we ride has it's share of lung-burning bite.  But the reward is usually a sight beautiful enough to take your breath away all over again.  Once you had a moment to clear the purple spots from your vision and refocus, that is.

 

 

Cedar Rock Trail.

Popeye and I are new to DuPont.

Thankfully, we have Northstar,

expert guide to the good stuff.

 

 

 

No, I didn't beat Popeye up this climb in time to take his picture.

He rode most trails twice, waiting for the rest of us to make it.

 

 

 

Before picture.

They don't paint the rock to mark the way like they do in Moab.

They leave rock cairns instead and trust people not to trip over them...

Oops, sorry.

 

 

 

Water crossing on the way to see Bridal Veil Falls.

Do not be deceived. 

The water is deeper/faster/colder/slippery'er than it looks.

 

 

A kid runs up to us when we get off our bikes at the water crossing.  "My dad lost his shoe!" 

 

"Wow," I say, checking out the current.  (The shoe is likely half way to Savannah by now.)  "Sorry to hear that."  Someone is going to have a long rocky walk back to the trailhead. 

 

Do we really want to do this?   If you lose your footing in this current, you could lose more than a shoe down the slippery rocks and all the way to the next bend. 

 

 

Bare feet for the crossing.

 

 

 Not one of us gets dunked, drops a bike, or even a shoe.  Sissy stuff right?  Although I come close.  There are a few teetery moments on one foot after the bike dips into the current and drags me, braced in a standing skid on numb feet, for a yard or so downstream before fetching up.  Whew!

 

Later we chat with a helpful local rider.  He says the trick is to take extra socks.  If you wade across wearing socks, you won't slide on the mossy rock.  You will stick instead.  (Wouldn't make it any warmer, though.  Just sayin'.) 

 

The famous Bridal Veil Falls turns out to be worth the climbs and the crossings. 

 

There's a trailhead for the last bit populated with hikers, but they look benign enough, so we trust leaving the bikes in the bike rack to walk out to the base of the falls.  There' no telling how old this facility is, but for some reason Northstar and I both think it's funny when our 29r's won't fit.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

One of the many trails we ride on Sunday

goes past a huge, unused lodge from the DuPont era...

 

 

 ...to a perfectly still Lake Julia.

 

 

 

End of a great day.  Pack em up.

 

 

Down the 10mph squiggles of East Fork Road to the cabin...

 and then back up again for the final highlight of the day - supper!

 

 

 

Uh oh.  Look at the time.  The vacation report is going to have to be a two parter. 

 

It's nearly night. 

 

Specifically, Tuesday night. 

 

Time to stop sorting through photos of the blue sky days and golden leaves of two weeks ago, and come back into the twilight present of mid-November and early darkness. 

 

Time for our first inaugural time-change-Tuesday night ride. 

 

The time change means changing up the evening workouts.  To replace the summer Tuesday road ride, we decide on a Tuesday fat tire night-ride for the winter months instead.  

 

At 6pm, Popeye will begin his commute northward from work on his Fuel.  I will ride my Superfly south from home, then over the bridge.  The plan is to converge routes at the library on Pineapple, and head toward the spooky, dark, charred trails of Wickham Park from there.   

 

Sounds fun, right?  

 

(As long as I don't think too much about the last episode of the Walking Dead, it will be, anyway.)

Parmesan crispy. Cheddar crispier.

parmesan

cheddar

Craving salty?  Yeah, me too.

At first I thought of melting some cheese on an English muffin or a slice of rye, but then I thought, why bother with bread?  It's the melted cheese I really want.

First time ever making Parmesan crisps.  Took a couple rounds.  Ran out of Parmesan, used up the cheddar, but I think I got it now.  

If you want real instructions, Barefoot Contessa, Giada, and Epicurious, all have super easy, step by steps to follow.

Basically you melt spoonfuls of grated cheese on a cookie sheet lined with parchment, in a moderate oven, say 375.  At about five minutes, turn on the oven light and keep watch.  Take em out when they reach a color that pleases you. 

Larger shavings piled high, make bigger, chewier clumps.

First attempt. 

What not to do if you want delicate.

 

More delicate shavings, finely grated and spread out a bit, make more delicate crisps.

By the time I got that figured out, the Parm was gone.  But it worked exactly the same with some Cabot Seriously Sharp Cheddar.

For that crisp and salty craving...  perfect.

I am going to have to get out for a ride now.  Otherwise there will be no report on how to store them and how long they keep.  They'll be long gone instead.

Shopping procrastination.

The old washing machine churns away oblivious to its swanky new laundry room. The dryer grumbles along beside it, doing the same old work, no matter the surroundings. 

The new dishwasher is quiet - for a dishwasher. 

No!  Bad kitty.

Pepper runs out of the bedroom and leaps to the kitchen counter (where the crock pot is just starting to work up a sweat).  

The new robot vacuum comes steaming out of the hallway after her and thumps into my chair leg.

The vacuum is named Rover.  I started out calling it Rosie.  Like in the Jetson’s.  But dog like, it always seems to be barging around the house after the cat, no matter where she runs to hide.  

Pepper would normally run outside through her new ChubbyKat door, but the automatic sprinklers are on.  She settles for a watchful crouch behind one of the rickety old bar stools instead.

So, the day's housework progressing nicely, lots of noise and motion. As if the chores are checking themselves off the list. Which, in a way, they are.

The toughest chores on the list have no automatic timers, though. No robotic wheels. No clickers.  No autopilot.  And unfortunately, no check marks either.

Shopping. 

(The heirarchy of Ugh, in geometric progression.)

Food shopping - not so terrible. 
Furniture shopping - could be worse. 
Clothes shopping - OK, it's worse. 

Ugh.  Ugh times Ugh.  Ugh to the power of three.  

I would a thousand times rather write any kind of meaningless essay than go shopping. 

Which explains where I am - typing at the dining room table - instead of searching for a desk/work-table for the newly designated office/sewing/guest room.

If I didn't have my run shoes in the car for a stop at the park on the way home, I am not sure I could convince myself to go at all.

So why the shopping phobia? 

I have no explanation.  Not a good one, anyway.

 I do not like the act of acquiring things.  Even necessary things.

Because if you don't get it just right, then you have not only wasted your money, but you must go back.  And back again.  Until you do get it right.

Too much pressure and no joy.

I already know going in that what I want is impossible to buy. 

Because it doesn't really exist.  

Bike jerseys that fit, and have pockets. Pants that don't have to be taken in at the waist. An old farm table small enough to fit in the guest room, yet big enough to lay out a whole quilt.  And bar stools.  Sleek and modern for me, yet cushy with backs to lean on for Popeye.

So, who cares?  What's the point of writing this?

Shopping procrastination.  Duh.

So...  

Have I mentioned the new (to me) pavement-dirt-beer-taco ride in Sebastian on Friday?  

Or the Malabar Scrub Sanctuary ride on Saturday morning in partnership with the mysterious new BMBA organization? 

Or that there was a full moon hash on Saturday night? 

How about the tiki torches burning bright above pale, white sand under a wide, white moon?  

Have I talked at all about the muddy goo aroma of the car after the Econ on Sunday?

No?

Seriously, I have to get going.

But I'll put off the inevitable a few more minutes and see if there are at least some pictures I can put up.  How's that?  A bit of extra procrastination for me. A few of my lame phone snaps for you.  Sweet deal.  For me, anyway.

 

The new work space-to-be.

Friday night.  Old view.  New dock.

Malabar Sanctuary's Road-to-Nowhere.

Execpt that it does go somewhere.

About 8 miles of decent, twisty, single track - and new bridges.

The local fat tire crowd.

Good turnout.  Probably fifty.

Saturday night.  

The hares setting up tiki torches on the riverbank.

 

Sunday afternoon. 

The Econ has gone down five or six feet since last week.

All trails passable, if a bit sloppy here and there. 

 (The bump on the right end of that log is a baby gator.)

Inspector Gadget.

 

 

 

Popeye, ready to get going.

Is that a glow in the dark necklace still hanging on your seatpost?

 

 

 

Northstar wins the clean up contest.

 Far less muddy than the rest of us,

plus the best pedicure.

 

 

Monday - already?

 

  

 

 

No tubes, no pressure. Econ, Turkey Creek, Wickham, and Econ again.

1999...    The group has gone on ahead.  Semi is waiting for me, the lagger, at the top of a rooty ridge along Turkey Creek.  I get off - again - and push my brand new Klein hardtail up to the spot where he stands over his bike.  He reaches for my front wheel.  

"What?" 

His only answer is to lean down, unscrew the presta valve, and pssst, let a long puff of air out.  Hey!

"There, now maybe you'll be able to stay on your bike."

In all the years since, no one has ever given me a better piece of advice for staying upright on rooty, sandy trails.  Just one little pssst, but what a difference.

Mountain biking for us the last few weeks has been sparse to not at all.  Crazy house project.  So when Northstar got a new 29r a few weeks ago, Popeye and I jumped at the excuse to take time for the Econ.  

We start out on the straight and narrow and proceed to the rooty and twisty. 

Tom in front, Northstar behind him.

Northstar feels as if her new bike should be making a bigger difference over the roots and logs.  "I know 29rs aren't magic or anything," she says, rolling up behind me, "but do you have any advice?" 

Who?  Me?  Advice?   

Besides the flat out surprise at being asked, I just don't have much experience at giving advice.  I am pretty lame at it, in fact.  (I am too busy trying to keep myself on the trail, there's no time to pay attention to anyone else.) 

I just don't know what to say to help her out.  She's been nursing an injury for a month.  But she has been injured before and she knows she's in for a recovery ride.  She's ridden the Econ a thousand times, so the terrain is no surprise either.  What is surprising, at least to me, is that she is not feeling the 29r magic.  How can that be?

Switching to a 29r really is a kind of magic.  It should roll over just about anything you point it at without nearly as much need for the rider to lift the front end up and over.  For those of us with less than Charles Atlas shoulders, it should feel like a vacation.  I just can't immediately think of one single reason why she isn't feeling a big difference from her old 26. 

But suddenly Semi's old bit of Turkey Creek wisdom pops into my otherwise empty brain and I reach out to feel her brand new front tire.  Rock hard.  "Let some air out.  Here, feel your tire, then feel mine." 

Yet another reason to never give advice.  It always backfires somehow.

I reach down and give Killer's rear tire a demonstration squeeze.  Instead of the expected slight give, it practically collapses under my thumb.  Whoops, too low.  Way too low.  (Thanks to Stan's No Tubes it is holding, but sooner or later it will bottom out on a root or a rock and could damage the wheel.)  

My friend gives Killer's tire a (squashy) squeeze for herself. 

"Well, not that low of course, but you get the idea" I say quickly.

Her husband shakes his head as I mumble something about more rubber on the ground.     

The mountain biking part of my brain is apparently as dried up as my Stan's.  We've been so preoccupied with the new house that I have let 6 months go by since re-upping my tire sealant.  Rookie mistake.   How can you tell someone else they are running their air too high, when you are clearly running yours way too low?

I shut up, my credibility blown.  As is my big chance to pass along the best Florida mountain biking advice ever.  

I sigh in resignation, and get out a CO2.  Being tubeless has definite advantages.  A couple of puffs and good to go again.  At least I can catch up quickly and (try to) pretend it never happened.

We have moved.  Hooray!  We are mostly unpacked.  Hooray!  We can go riding again.  Hooray! 

And we do.  Friday night, Saturday morning, and Sunday afternoon.  Three days in a row.  Not bad for a two day weekend.

Thanks to TriLady, I have some practically new tires in reserve. 

Thanks to Popeye's highly developed organizational skills, they were actually easy to locate, even after moving twice in 10 months. 

And thanks to Stan's I can run them with hardly any air.  Because Jolly Jeff Rogers is back from California for a few days, and the old Intersil gang has cooked up a Friday ride at good old rooty, sandy Turkey Creek. 

Just like old times.  Only not.

Once the rough and tumble new trail in town, cut by Semi and friends a dozen (or more) years ago, Turkey Creek now seems a little sissified.  But not for the reasons you'd think.  The big oak and palmetto roots might be a bit worn in places, but there's still plenty of 'em.  And the sand hasn't gone away either.  The trail still alternates from creekline to scrub, technical to boring. 

The sissification of Turkey Creek seemed to happen as we replaced our old bikes over the years.  Without tubes, the guys don't worry about pinch flats any more, and I don't worry about careening off the palmetto roots and into the creek.  Full suspension takes away the old energy suckage of standing up for every bump.  Big wheels roll over most anything you aim them at.

So how do you make the same old haunt of Turkey Creek more exciting?

Ride it when it feels old and haunted.  

After dark.    

I don't get down here often any more.  The dry parts of the loop are still fast and fun.  But there's been a lot of water under the bridge lately.  Literally.  It's the rainy season. 

Plus, I forgot about the new bridge.  

I pull off trail abruptly and let the guys ride by.  One by one they are out of sight as the bridge takes a turn to the left around a big spooky tree.

I stand on the bank.  There is not enough traction in these new tires - or in the world - to get me to ride this long winding bridge through the swamp at night with the rain falling like tiny globs of spit from the sky.

I get off to walk.  The flowing water makes no sound.  Nothing splashes.  No frogs croak.  There is no moon.  The dark is even deeper than the creek.  The water sweeping by just under the long, narrow boards will be leaving it's mark on the trees for tomorrow.  

There could be anything outside the narrow cone of light from my headlamp.  I think about last season's finale of the Walking Dead.

But of course it is the thought of gators that really livens my step.

The guys are waiting up the hill.  "Where were you?" someone asks.  

"Had to stop for a picture," I say, not lying, but not confessing how spooked out I am either.

The rest of the loop goes fast.  I wish we could stay and socialize but Popeye has his way-too-early Palm Bay ride in the morning.  I get up sorta early myself, skip my intended bridge repeats, and ride Killer to the park instead.

Nearly forgot.

They burned Wickham again a couple months ago.

(on behalf of the gopher turtles and scrub jays)

Regrowth happens quickly.

Then back to the Econ on Sunday.  Finally a perfect weekend.  3 perfect rides, and no worries, about shrubs or swales, or builders or  boxes.

Back to the Econ

Turkey Creek is not the only place the water was high.

The high water mark is shoulder height.

See the dried grass and sod wrapped around the tree?

Back home again.  It's Monday.  The new backsplash tile is stacked in the garage and the cabinet guy is on his way over - again.

I am thinking of a quick road ride in the meantime, but the ever organized Popeye has put my road bike in the attic (where, I cannot argue, it belongs).

The sure-footed 29r is the perfect street ride anyway.

I walk out into our clean, new garage and locate the pump.  But before I up the pressure to 30 or so for my pavement ride, I give Killer's front tire a squeeze. 

There is a nice springy feel of "give" under my thumb.  After three trail rides in a row, I know it's just right.  There's really no need to check the gauge. 

(Except that now I am curious about the number, so I do.  It is 15psi, in case you are curious too.)  

But all I really need to know is that low pressure is perfect pressure.  In more ways than one. 

Chocolate Cake with 7 Minute Frosting - Work in Progress

We have finally moved - hooray!

Just in time for Popeye's birthday.

I know, I know, you want to know all about the new house and the move and all that.  Later, OK?  I promise. 

But first, a birthday request has been made for Saturday.

Chocolate Cake with 7 Minute Frosting.

It's a Wednesday.  Which means I am home alone.  And I alone am responsible to see that an experimental amount of this 7 Minute Frosting makes it to the freezer. 

Cake can easily be made ahead and frozen.  As can buttercream frosting.  But I need to see if this Fluff-like, special request frosting can be made ahead of time.  I'm thinking not, but it could pay off to try.  Especially if you have a long list of other things to do on the day of the birthday.   And a lot of unpacking in the meantime.

Before investing 7 minutes, the unpacking must continue until the double boiler can be found.  I have never attempted to make 7 Minute Frosting without a double boiler and do not wish to start now. 

Fortunately Popeye (a Virgo, duh) is of a meticulous nature.  He has already sorted his boxes into his pile, and my boxes into my pile.  So I have my share of the unpacking all in one spot.  Unfortunately, any dawdling really shows when your pile - right in the middle of the dining area - isn't dwindling in a timely manner.  

But I locate the double boiler after only the second box.  So, ha!  Let the dawdling begin.

First of all:  Do not be afraid of your double boiler.  It's easy.  Just follow these two rules - even if you're not a Virgo.

#1  Put enough water in the bottom pan until it is at a level just short of touching the top half.  

#2  Set the lower pan on medium heat, to boil gently while you put the ingredients together in the top pan, away from the heat.

OK?  Here we go.

 

7 Minute Frosting

 

2 egg whites at room temperature

1 1/2 cups granulated sugar

1/4 tsp cream of tartar

1/3 cup water

1 tsp vanilla extract

 

In the top half of the double boiler mix egg whites, sugar, cream of tartar, and water.

 

With a portable electric mixer, beat egg white mixture on high speed until thoroughly combined.  Scrape sides and place over boiling water.  (Gently boiling water on medium heat.)

 

Continue beating with mixer at high speed for 5 to 7 minutes or until frosting is thick and stands in peaks when beaters are lifted. 

 

(When I was a kid I never believed that my mother loved me.  Looking back, I admit I could be wrong about that.  She never once said the L-word.  But she did make this frosting on my birthday - with a hand cranked egg beater.)

 

When the frosting peaks, remove from heat, add vanilla and continue beating until frosting is thick enough to spread.  Makes enough to frost a two layer cake.  Or it does if you don't eat it all up first.

 

 

 

In this, the experimental phase, I want to try both freezing the 7 Minute Frosting by itself, and also frosting a cake and freezing the whole thing.  Just to see if it's still viable and pretty once thawed.  Otherwise, I can make the cake ahead, but will need to wait and make the frosting on the day of the birthday dinner.

 

Now to make the cake...  just as soon as I locate the directions for this new oven.

 

Postscript:

 

The new KitchenAid oven is awesome - and intuitive.  Never did find the directions.  But these cupcakes tested perfectly the first time.  Right on the money at the prescribed temperature and baking time.  Hallelujah. 

 

Now, to find a way to get the most possible frosting per bite...  

 

 

 

 

Chocolate Chip Banana Bread - or - How to wait for a realtor.

So the last post was not about bikes - except possibly the need for a garage to put them in.

This post isn't about bikes either.  Pretty much the same reason.  What can I say?  This house project is driving me bananas.

Closet shelves built into the wrong wall.  Unsodded land and an unguttered roofline ganging up to wash another half ton of dirt into the carefully constructed swale.  Squabbles over the well shared with a neighbor - a neighbor who doesn't want to share.

That was the list for this morning.  God only knows whats happening over there now that I have come back to the townhouse to wait for the realtor.  The realtor who was planning on four but can't come til five.

So what do you do with an extra hour at home?  Clean?  Vac?  Mop floors?  Yeah, maybe you could do that.  But I can't.  Not today.  I have had enough you-know-what for today.

I'm gonna bake something.  

This may be a problem unique to Florida, but in the past few weeks we have had three bunches of bananas come ripe.  And we have one more green one up there to go.  With about 80-90 bananas to a bunch, that's a LOT of bananas.   

See em up there?

Hanging just left of center with a big pink blossom underneath.

Here's what they look like up close (and ripe).

Small. But plentiful.

It's a typical August afternoon on our side of Florida.

I am trying not to think of how much mud there will be

to shovel back up that hill later.

The sod had better come tomorrow.

So, might as well go bananas the old fashioned way.  (As long as the electricity stays on.)

And what the heck?  The place will smell pretty good when the realtor arrives too.

Chocolate Chip Banana Bread 

(Not even enough mental energy left today to experiment.  So this one is straight out of the Hersheys Chocolate Cookbook)

2 cups unsifted all purpose flour

1 cup sugar

1 tsp baking powder

1 tsp salt

1/2 tsp baking soda

1 cup mashed bananas

1/2 cup shortening (I'm not a fan of glucky shortening, so I used butter.)

2 eggs

1 cup Hersheys chocolate chips

1/2 cup chopped walnuts

Grease bottom only of a 9x5x3 inch loaf pan.  Set aside.

Combine all ingredients except choc chips and walnuts in a large mixer bowl.  Blend well on medium speed. 

(That's it for batter directions.  Simple, huh?  I creamed butter and sugar first though, then mixed in eggs and bananas, before adding the dry stuff.  I know - such a slave to convention.)

Stir in the chocolate chips and walnuts.

Pour into prepared pan.  Bake at 350 degrees for 60-70 minutes or until cake tester comes out clean.  Cool ten minutes, Remove from pan.  Cool completely on wire rack.

Now this is how to wait for a realtor.

And boy am I glad I didn't knock myself out to clean the place. 

She never showed.

Oh well.  Her loss, right?

Demolition to Almost-House

Warning:  To read about biking click back to July.  This particular post is not about bikes or anything related to bikes.  Except maybe that driving this project from the beginning was the need to have an actual garage and get our nine bikes (plus bike workshop) out of the living room.

This post is for everyone who has asked, "How's the house coming along?"  

Which would be pretty much everyone we know.

Honestly, I can't thinking of a more boring subject, but here are a few pictures since the first of the year, when the actual build started.   

The tough part, getting it right on paper, took most of 2011.

We are just hoping that the build doesn't take all of 2012.  

December 2011 - August 2012

Move in date - ????

Matt, with Jose, our builder.

Eager to get started wreckin' stuff.

Demolition Day.

Me, with Kathy from next door.

Is it any wonder she keeps her shutters up?

Frank, next door on the other side, supervises daily.

Walls and Trusses

Looks big, doesn't it?

Windows and drywall.

Half wall for the kitchen island.

Too many choices!

But we have to narrow it down to two - inside and outside.

Sky blue.

(Also known as Gin Bottle Blue.)

The old dock and seawall were pretty messed up

after that no-name storm last October.

New seawall.

And unfortunately, also a new swale.

There goes our native vegetation.  :(

Meanwhile indoors...

Decisions, decisions.

"Driftwood" laminate flooring...

cabinets, appliances,

granite...

..."watermelon" pendent lighting.

Anyone recognize Blownfuse without a helmet?

Fans up, and lighting in.  Hooray!

Back outside for some sea grape modification.

Matt having waaay too much fun borrowing the neighbor's chainsaw.

Matt and our builder, Debbie.

Measuring what's left of the sea grape

for native plant requirement.

It's still a mess.

Both front... 

...and back.

But we like to think it has potential.