The Scar Diaries. Boats, and Bikes, and Christmas Lights.

"Ha, you don't need to keep a diary," said Popeye.  "If you want to remember what you've been doing all month, all you have to do is look at your legs."



Well, my legs, and my arms, and my shoulders...

The highlights of December are clearly marked.  

Perfect 1" round scars on each ankle from the blisters of birthday roller skating.  Scratches from the Saturday morning safari rides.  Fire ant bites from the Full Moon Hash. 

What an excellent month.

The roller skating party on my birthday was so much fun that no way was I quittin' or sittin' until every last minute was up.  No matter what the rental skates were doing to my ankles.

Scout on skates.

Giving  their ankles a break:

Greg, Lora, Roger

Afterwards, the table for twelve at Coasters new bier gartin and 25 Dogfish Head brews available for tasting made my ankles feel much better.  (If not my head.) 

But then, everyone knows the best cure for a morning headache is a run in the park.  And miraculously, my other birthday present didn't rub the blisters at all.  Any bruises were the result of catching my toe on that stump, I'm sure.

New shoes.  Old goals.

Wickham Park Marathon

 2012 - 50k - Who's with me???

The demolition left no wounds, unless you count a few pangs to the heart.

If you see bikes wearing Christmas lights and people in funny hats at your local LongDoggers on a December full moon, don't think a thing about it.  (Just watch out for fire ants at the circle afterward.)

Longdoggers on a full moon.

Smiles got a new 29r.  Awesome!

The boat parade had some amazing lights this year too, but Scout and Pie Man always get my vote for best Christmas decorations.   

Grand Canal boat parade.

From the deck of Sunny Skies.

A little something for Santa.

Every year or two, Pepper is possessed by a vampire cat.  I still have no explanation for the Doctor Jekyll - Mr Hyde transformation. 

Apparently there is no known cure.  The best online advice I could find was stock up on bandages and disinfectant.  

Sweet.

Unsweet.

Fortunately, I had on a long sleeve bike shirt and blood comes out in the wash.  Unfortunately, the scars on my forearm will last awhile.

Popeye's been commuting to work on his bike.  In December that means 15 miles each way using lights.  I can't quite bring myself to ride in the predawn, but I usually meet him somewhere along his route home. 

Riding in the dark and the cold toughens you up.  I guess my evening half-commute makes me only semi-tough.  But it does provide an excuse to admire the Christmas lights along the way. 

 VW sleigh and eight tiny flamingoes.

Each Saturday morning, while Popeye is blazing around Palm Bay with the roadies, Killer and I ride around the block.  The Melbourne block, that is.  35-40 miles, with as much off road interspersed as possible.  Every once in a while our Felasco friends take that route and I get to ride with other people.

Sean and 'Sauce

     

OK, I allowed a "before" picture.

That extra ten has got to go.

At least Killer is at his perfect weight.

Semi at the top of the Parking garage.

Hey, it's Melbourne. 

You take your hills where you can find them.

Christmas with the Chick and her Hubby.  No cuts, no bruises.  Maybe a couple extra pounds.   

I have never been so excited to give a gift.  Who else in the world would love a lime green mixer?  Well, other than me. 

We got out of town for a couple of rides.  Didn't get marked up at either one.  There wouldn't have been room for any more scars anyway.  I've been layering them on as it is.

Greenway underpass at 49th St.

From Santos, it's an easy solo ride west out to 484.  Popeye and his friends did nearly the same ride, it turns out.  You'd think we'd cross paths in nearly four hours of riding, but there're so many alternate routes,  I don't see any of them until I arrive back at the trailhead with three minutes to spare before Popeye shows up. 

I have to say that the terrain out past 49th St. is a little more interesting than nearer Santos.  Those trails between Santos and the land bridge are so flat and so fast, they feel downhill both ways.  But, the upside to boring is no scars all day.

West of 49th St.

I didn't acquire a single scrape at Chuck Lennon Park either.   But not because it was boring.  Quite the opposite.  Swoopy and super fun.  Northstar and I go around a third time before quitting.

  

Tom riding around a sinkhole.

I hope that bike was riderless when it went in.

We did some other, only semi-perilous, activities.  Like the chili cookoff at Pie Man and Scout's.  Testing out their rental SUP fully clothed.  And a round of shots after Murdocks, and before watching Resident Evil on New Year's eve.  (Some things just have no explanation.)

I forgot all about burning old bad habits in the New Year's firepit.

But I did remember to say Rabbit-Rabbit this morning.



The only dilemma was what on earth to wish for.

Happy New Year, everyone! 

May all your scars be worthwhile.



Fat Tire Linzer Cookies

Come and listen to a tale about Minnie the Moocher. 

Ok, I really don't know the tale of Minnie the Moocher.  Not yet anyway.  If I ever see a neighbor in this place who will stop long enough to talk, I will try and get the story. 

Living in an apartment or a townhouse even a mile from the beach means lots of seasonal residents.  Lots of seasonal residents means, sadly, lots of abandoned cats.  

I am taken by one stray in particular.  I admit it.  I've been putting out food since last Saturday.  She showed up in the driveway and began talking to me in long drawn out cat syllables while I pumped my tires.  What else could I do?

And so the daily visits by Minnie the Moocher began.  Yesterday she actually came close enough for a pat.  Ribs, backbone, matted fur, and not much else.  I picked her up.  Shocking.  An adult size cat.  Maybe two pounds.  I swear.  I put her down gently, afraid she'd break.

I should have scooped Minnie up right then and there and gotten her to the vet.  Why didn't I?  You know how humans are.  I was on my way to go Christmas shopping.  Important human stuff.  I left her in the driveway with a dish of Nine Lives, and went on my way. 

This morning, no Minnie.  Oh no. 

To be continued.  (I hope.)  

She'll show up, right? 

Linzer Cookies and Bird Food.

None of the cookie experiments this year have turned out well enough for company.  Since we no longer live on the water, and didn't have our usual boat parade party, it wasn't crucial. 

I never made Lindzers before but I thought they had potential. 

As a test, we jellied up a few right away, dusted on the powdered sugar, popped them into a ziploc and left them on the counter overnight.  They were mush by morning.  

A Christmas cookie that cannot be made ahead is not a usable Christmas cookie. 

The trick is to bake the kind of cookie that can be pulled from the freezer, and go straight onto your prettiest reindeer platter.  Where it thaws attractively into a crisp, chewy, delicate, or whatever it is supposed to be, cookie, by the time the Lion Christmas Roast has finished brewing.

I will still serve the Lindzers, but jam and sugar may have to be a post dinner guest activity.  And if the guests are wearing dark colors?  Never mind, pass the chocolates.  

Lindzer Cookies are a delight, but not good candidates for my nearly always unplanned, last minute, needs.  They are seriously delicious, though.  Just eat them the same day.  And make sure any helpers are wearing white.

"A woman can never be too rich or too thin."
       Wallis Simpson, Duchess of Windsor

"...and neither can Linzer cookies."

BikeEatSleepRepeat

Hmmm, Wallis Simpson, isn't she the one who also said shopping is more fun than eating?  Something wrong there.  Just sayin'. 

This recipe is originally from Epicurious. The hazelnuts would probably have been even better than the almonds.  But I had almonds and that seemed better than a trip to the store, no matter what Wallis might think.

Lindzer Cookies

2/3 c. hazelnuts
(or 2/3 cup blanched, slivered almonds, if that's what you've got)
1/2 c. brown sugar
2 1/2 c. flour
1/2 tsp. baking powder
1/2 tsp. salt
1/4 tsp. cinnamon
2 sticks (1 c.) butter, softened
1 large egg
1 tsp. vanilla
12 oz jam
powdered sugar



Spread the nuts on a baking sheet and toast at 350 degrees 6-10 minutes, until lightly browned.  If you used hazelnuts, rub off the skins after toasting.  Turn off the oven - you won't need it again for a while.


Pulse the nuts and 1/4 c. brown sugar in a food processor until fine.


In a medium bowl, stir together flour, baking powder, salt, and cinnamon.  Set aside.


In mixer bowl, beat butter and 1/4 c. brown sugar until light and fluffy.  Add nut mixture and beat in the egg.  Turn mixer to low and add flour mixture slowly until combined.


Divide dough in half, shape into disks, wrap, and chill for at least 2 hours.


Go for a nice, long bike ride.  Come back. 


Turn on your oven.   350 degrees.


Roll the dough between two sheets of waxed paper to 1/8 inch thick.


* This is where the Dutchess of Windsor knows her stuff.  If you roll to say 1/4 inch, the cookie layers will be too fat and too rich for even the biggest of shortbread fans.  The ideal Lindzer is light and delicate, with just enough fruity jam to balance the nutty, sandy cookie portion.  The contrast of the jam layer will be outweighed if the cookie portion is too fat.  

Using a round cutter, cut as close as you can, and get as many cookies as you can out of the first rolling.  (The recipe recommends re-rolling the scraps only once.) 


Bake half of the cut out circles as they are, on an ungreased cookie sheet.  These are your bottom layers.


For the other half of the circles, use a half inch cookie cutter and cut a hole in the center of each before baking.  These will be the top layers - with a little window, so you can see what kind of jam you're getting. 

* I didn't have a small cutter, or even a straw, which might have been a polka dot sort of window alternative.  Sensing an engineering problem to be solved, Popeye headed to the garage (the garage?) in search of round, hollow objects that might serve as a small cutter.  What he came back with was the lid from a bottle of Stan's tire sealant.  A new bottle, at least - made cleaner by a bout of obsessive scouring on my part.  This resulted in fat-tire looking Lindzers.  At some point I reversed it and used the pointy end for one last cookie sheet of "normal" looking skinny-tire top layers.

Bake at 350 degrees.  10-15 minutes.  Turn on your oven light.  After eight minutes, start checking.  Take them out sooner than later.  These baked for nine minutes.  Cookies very thin.  Very, very lightly browned.

Into the freezer with the thinnest lightest cookies, destined for Christmas Day activity hour. 


Throw away any thick ones.  Even if cats are starving in Florida. 


If you can't bear to throw them away, then throw them to the birds (for cat lunches later).  Or, if you must eat them yourself, just know you are in for a sludge attack.  Trust me on this - I don't throw away almonds and butter lightly.   

As close as possible to the hour of consumption, take the cookie halves out of the freezer. 


Go put on an apron - or a white shirt.


Spread a teaspoonful of dark, tart jam on the bottom cookie.  (I used red current.) 


Layer on a top cookie, the one with the window.  Sift powdered sugar all over.  The cookies, that is.

Then make your choice.  Fat tire or skinny?


Almost worth abdicating the throne for.  


Or, at the very least, powder coating your guests.

And I'll huff and I'll puff...

No bulldozers were used in the demolition of this house.

There was, however, a really big claw. 

No thoughts of asking to drive this monster! 

Pat, the claw artiste, started with a bang.  Maybe showing off a bit.  Or maybe just to reassure us that he knew exactly what he was doing. 

First thing he did was reach in (through the roof) and pluck out a fan I had mentioned hating, and plopped it onto the lawn.  Then he ripped up a palm tree and dropped it through the roof, just for emphasis.

Once the opening act was over, it was all business for the rest of the day.  Really, I couldn't believe how much time it took.  There's more to it than just knocking down walls.  Who knew?

Sorting out the scrap metals and the stuff the crew thought worth keeping took much more time than simply knocking down walls and scooping up the rubble.

Two men sifted relentlessly through the wreckage as the claw did it's work overhead.  No hard hats in sight.

The fan was just the start of an impressive pile of scrap metal that grew slowly but surely over the course of the day.

Separating the scrap metal.

BTW, that 50's turquoise was my favorite part of the kitchen.

Extracted intact.  Somebody else likes turquoise too, I guess.  

Pat also wanted the carport roof,

which he dropped neatly in one piece.

It will be reincarnated as a shelter for his goats.

Plucking re bar from the wreckage.

Of course the neighbors turned out for the show...

Flanked by Jose (our builder) and Popeye,

Lou and Karen, representatives from across the street...

Frank, from the house to the east...

Me, with Kathy, from the house to the west.

I lost the best picture ever, though. 

Debbie, Jose's wife brought some burgers for the crew.  It was the only moment all day the crew took a break.  Debbie, surrounded by the demolition crew, with Pat the goat herder and claw artiste wearing the biggest smile of all.  (Must be nice to love your work.)  

It was such a great picture I couldn't wait to send it to her.  

I love my IPhone, but....  the screen does a flip turn every time you move.  Flip!  The little trash can landed under where send should be and schwoop! 

There it was, gone.  (To quote Gilligan.)

Speaking of vintage words...

Look what else the crew found - wrapped around some spare jealousy glass in the tool shed.

Sept 27, 1963

Popeye would have been 2 weeks old.

Presidents actually stood by the space program.

And who needed Wal-Mart Prices?

The 1963 paper didn't fare too well once we started turning the pages.  It's still in the trash with the burger wrappers though, if someone really really wants it. 

I think it's OK to discard old stuff, as long as you can take what it has to teach along with you into the future.

I think again about the new design.  I've kept a few of those 50's ideas, and changed a lot of them too. 

The old house has taught us well.  There's no substitute for good plumbing.  The side with the view should have windows, not walls.   And turquoise kitchens rule.

All over but the terrazzo.

Not a thing in the pool but a little dust.

So, it's the end of a long, dusty day. 

And one of my oldest wishes has been granted.

(Minus the bulldozer.)

Making peace with the Christmas bulldozer.

The demolition is scheduled for tomorrow.  

8:30 start.  Come by and watch if you like. 

Twenty years is a long relationship to have with a single house.  And it hasn't always been a civil one.  Whenever asked what I wanted for Christmas, my most frequent reply was, "A bulldozer."

The other day Popeye was wondering aloud if maybe he could get the demo crew to let me drive the bulldozer - just for the first pass through the old kitchen.  As always, I am truly impressed by his thoughtfulness.   

But the thought - the reality - of the old house coming down after all these years...  somehow I don't feel the elation that I thought I would.  In fact, I feel more like I have signed someones death warrant.

We have all the same old stuff in the rental townhouse that we had in the house.  The same couch, the same rug.  The same old Christmas tree we've had since the last time in a rental townhouse, when the Chick was five.  Why does it all seem newer here?

Maybe it's the high ceiling, or the floor that's not ancient terrazzo, that doesn't look as if it were speckled with little brown roaches.  Maybe it's the kitchen with the oven that doesn't run 50 degrees too hot.  Maybe it's the lack of a thirty foot hallway to get to a bathroom.  Or the fact that the whole place is not trying to slowly slide downhill into a lake.

I need to remember it's not the house that made Christmas or any part of life easy, hard, good, or bad.  (Although stepping out of bed to an inch or two of water on the floor, or finding that the wall had moved three inches overnight, did make it a bit trying sometimes.)

It's just a house, only a structure.  And not a very good structure at that.  I remind myself that there's no reason for emotion, nostalgia, or vindictiveness. 

I appreciate how lucky I am that I get an opportunity to set right the wrongs - within budget, of course.  To make our lives, not worse or better, but more carefree and much less annoying.

In this world of litigation anxiety, I doubt I'll get to drive the bulldozer tomorrow.  But it won't be the disappointment it might once have been.  

House on Shepard Lake

1959 - 2011

The Thanksgiving Dance. Making Stock and Taking Stock.

The Chick, her Hubby, and Popeye all confirmed the roasting of the giblet bag inside the bird last year too.  (Huh. I don't remember that.)

Apparently weird body parts are packed into cavities both front and back. As if reaching in there and fishing out the long, scrawny neck from the front weren't enough. 

I expect this is how new Thanksgiving traditions are born.

One of our old Thanksgiving traditions is to ride before turkey. 

The trail at Ft Pierce was not my first off road ride, but it was always my favorite.  And it was the first place I ever rode clipped in to my pedals.  

Somewhere around the half way mark at Ft Pierce, there is a section of Palmetto roots called The Dance. 

Over the years The Dance has been worn down and is now pretty much sissified.  But back when those bike trails were new (and bike tails were hard), you literally had to dance your bike over the roots to get through.  Staying in the pedals was essential.

If you cleaned The Dance without putting a foot down, you were good.  Really good.   

Had a few wobbles this holiday.  Roasting the giblet bag. Missing out on the Macy’s Parade (darn!) when it didn’t record.   And one long hang-time of a night spent sleepless and stewing over all the holidays past and all the ways for screwing up the present.

That was a long night, spent hovering as if unclipped and about to let the obstacles of worry have their way with my Thanksgiving. 

But if riding The Dance has taught me anything, it is that pig-headed determination can transcend moments of imbalance. 

Make effort.
Stay clipped.
Stomp those pedals. 
Stuff that turkey.

Just.  Keep.  Going.  

It wasn’t perfect, and I had a lot of help.  A wonderful daughter and son-in-law, a wonderful husband, wonderful friends, a wonderful bike, and of course, Barefoot Contessa's wonderful Thanksgiving advice.

But darned if I didn’t do it for once!  Kept my feet in the pedals, my wheels on the trail, and got the turkey out of the oven on time. 

I did it!  I cleaned Thanksgiving!   

 

The Thanksgiving Dance 

(For those with interest in the details.)

Wednesday. 

Make ahead day.  A quick ride over the river and back to the townhouse.  1 hour.

Stuffing, gravy, squash, potatoes, black bean cake, buttercream frosting, 2 pumpkin pies, one apple pie, and two pints of whipped cream.  6 hours. 

Wash dishes.  Clean house.  Whew.  Ready as it gets. 

Let Thanksgiving begin.

Shortcut over the Pineda.

Pies are done.

I write instructions for myself so I don't get distracted on The Big Day.

Thursday. 

Ft Pierce Trail.  Vero Beach. 

A great ride, and a great dinner with TriLady and her guest Tim, from Nova Scotia.  

Trekkie, TriLady's beagle mix, pulls the sweaty bike shorts out of my bag and drags them across the living room.  Keeta used to do the same thing.  I forgot what it's like to have a dog!  Pepper isn't big on turkey or sweaty shorts but she really likes having a loft.

Ft Pierce Trail

TriLady, and her friend Tim-from-Nova-Scotia.

Friday. 

Our big at-home turkey dinner with The Chick and her Hubby, Popeye and me. 

We must have been in Gobble Mode... 

From the first round of Wild Turkey and Cider cocktails...  

All the way through the traditional meal... 

Off to see the Muppets... 

Back home for pie. 

And no one thought to take a single picture. 

Even me.



Saturday. 

Santos.  Mo's.  World of Beer.

Popeye, Blownfuse, and Josh are quickly out of sight.  After a sketchy once-through on the Jon Brown, I decide the better part of valour is to stay off the red trails when riding solo. 

I head west on the easy stuff.  Just before the Land Bridge, the oak hammocks give way to pine flats - it's like flying. 

Sadly, a couple miles beyond the Land Bridge, the 49th St trail has been denuded.  Once pine-lined single track, it is now barren, treeless gravel.  State conservation tactics - go figure.  

Time to turn around.  There's something like 25 miles of perfectly good shady singletrack behind me and no rule that you can't do it twice. 

I meet Popeye head on coming back from the Land Bridge.  I guess he wore out his friends, so now it is my turn.  At least there is Mo's and World of Beer for replenishment on the way home.
 

Flat and fast.  Trail toward the Land Bridge

Pine flats.  Just east of the Land Bridge

Land Bridge

Multi-use section of the trail.

World of Beer menu board.

Sunday.  Econ.  

We meet Northstar and Tom, TriLady and Tim, at the Econ.  The plucky Canadian tackles the rooty Econ completely without complaint on my spare hardtail, even burping all the Stan's in a near miss with a head-on rider.  Spare tube.  Co2.  Good to go.  If a bit messy.

Popeye, in the lead, comes around a low bend and scares three or four baby alligators into the river.  The Canadian wants to see, of course.  Fortunately for my nerves the babies have all disappeared under water by the time I get there.  Where there are baby alligators there is always a Mama alligator.   Let's just keep moving, ok guys?

On the way home, we four native northerners have dinner on the river at Captain Katanas.  After our day in the jungle, we sit outside in the mild night breeze, talking about, what else?  How much we love snow and ice and skiing and skating.  


Monday.  Rest Day. 

Make stock.  Freeze drippings.  Chili for an easy non-turkey dinner. 

And because the chili pot is occupied with simmering stock, I bake our chili in the oven.  

Stock - carrots, onion, celery, turkey carcass.
Simmer about 8 hours for the real deal.

Baked Chili - who knew?

Today, baked chili.

Tomorrow, turkey soup.

Damn.  I love Thanksgiving.

This old house has gotta go!

We did it.  We are finally moved out.

Whoa, the old place looks even worse empty.

Here's a quick trip through.  Featuring the walls I hate, the kitchen I hate, and the waterfront lot that everyone loves.

Sometime in the next couple weeks, hopefully there will be a video with a lot more action. 

Featuring a bulldozer.

Here's a few still shots if the video is still being cantankerous. 

Even the dock and seawall need repair after last months's no-name storm.  It's supposed to be easier once the house is out of the way.

So.  It's quiet now, but that's about to change.  Hopefully sometime in the next couple weeks.

Can't be too soon for us.