Successes and failures

For years, I used to have dreams I was a secret runner. I’d fall asleep, lace up my shoes, and take off – running, bounding, practically flying through the air. It was easy and effortless. And the spectators – whoever they were on any given night – would be awed.  “Who is this girl? Why didn’t we know what she could do? How does she do that?”

I’d run, and run, and never get tired. The miles would fly by.  And I’d smile this big, huge crazy grin.

Then I’d wake up.  And lying there in the dark under the covers, I’d remember that feeling of effortlessness. I’d be inspired. “Maybe, one day,” I’d think, before rolling over and going back to bed, hoping the next dream would be just as good, vivid and real.

It’s been almost 23 months since I started Week 1, Day 1 of the Couch to 5K workout and 49 weeks since I ran my first half marathon. In 2012, I logged almost 689 miles on the path, finished 11 races, including four half marathons and a triathlon. (Since I started running, I dropped almost 40 pounds -- and gained roughly 10 back.) By my math, I worked out for well over 130 hours last year and went from being a running participant to a running leader – working out four to five times a week, pacing run-walkers with my training group and mentoring new runners who are trying to cross their own first-time finish line.

My 2012 medals and bibs.

With a turtle pace, my running isn’t effortless like those dreams from so long ago. But in two years, I’ve managed to transform myself from the girl who thought about things, to the girl who does them.

And so, catching up on TV yesterday I was surprised to find myself crying – REALLY crying. At every commercial break, there was another ad highlighting someone else’s weight loss success story. The married couple who’d shed more than 100 pounds on Weight Watchers.  The Medifast woman who has a tearful conversation with her future “leaner, happier” self.  

I was jealous. And defeated. And embarrassed. And frustrated.

I’ve worked so hard in the past two years, and yet here I am – still so far from where I want to be. I’m exercising harder and more frequently than I ever have in my life and the number on the scale isn't moving much at all. (I know, I know – it’s just a number. But when you stand there and stare at it, it sure feels like a measure of your own effort and self worth.) 

With every commercial, I felt more like a failure.  (Note to self: only watch things that have been DVR’d.)

I typed out a few tearful text messages to friends and after a few conversations, I had one of those knock-you-over realizations.

When I was fat and sedentary (instead of slightly less fat and active), I thought the hardest part of losing weight was going to be the exercise. When the thought of running even half a mile is intimidating and beyond your ability, exercise – and committing to make it part of your life – seems impossible.

Grand Rapids Half Marathon

But on a snowy Saturday two years into my journey, still sniffling from my meltdown, I realized that exercise is actually the easy part of the weight loss equation. It’s the food that’s the biggest, baddest mean girl bitch.

My life (and often my social life) now revolves around my training group. Some of my bestest friends in the city are athletic inspirations (ironmen, triathletes, marathoners, cyclocross riders). They encourage me and I support them.  We talk about training schedules, race bucket lists, rough workouts and speed drills. IT’S AWESOME.

(Pro tip, new Sporty Spices: When your community is all about exercise, it makes you want to be all about exercise. Who wants to bail on a workout if it means bailing on your friends? NO ONE, that’s who!)

So with a new year and new goals, I tried to talk me self out of my wallow fest. I decided to treat myself to a new yoga mat I’d been eyeing for months. (Shopping heals, y’all.) And I refocused. I thought about where I was and where I am and then how I’m going to get to where I want to go.  (Preview: it’ll involve a lot more mindfulness about food.)

Triathlon finish!

My word of the year is going to be “push.” Wallowing moments aside, I’m so proud of what I’ve done, but I know I need to push myself to keep going. I’m not where I want to be. and I’m working to be OK with that. Losing weight and changing your life aren’t supposed to be easy.  (Although seriously, you’d think the universe could have made losing weight nearly as easy as putting it on.) My wise BFF, The Modern Gal, points out that when I started this whole process, I would never have called running -- or any exercise -- easy. I've come pretty far to say that. So now it's time to do the same thing with the healthy eating. 

So here’s to another year of trying. And the reassuring fact that those skinny bitches in the TV commercials probably can’t run a half marathon.

So there.

My life.

Weird things happen when you live by yourself. I've lived solo since 2002, with the exception a several month period that basically reassured me that should I ever get married, my husband I will each need our own houses.



This was so spot on it, made me basically snort out a kidney. Not featured: having extended monologues with your pet.

Guest Post: Why I Run

Today I'm super honored (and a wee bit nervous) to contribute a post to Jennifer Luitweiler's series Why I Run.

Jennifer is one of my biggest runner cheerleaders on The Twitter. For that I am both forever grateful and forever bummed that we aren't friends in real life.

If you like to run, or think you MIGHT like to run, you should check out her forthcoming book, Run With Me: An Accidental Runner and the Power of the Poo. 


So please, click over to her blog and read my contribution. And know that I'll be over here sweating bullets while you do.

Turning pages

A brief selection of my summer reading.

Last week, I found myself splayed on the sofa one afternoon after work, windows open, dog barking, house a mess, and run sidelined for the afternoon. Why? I was finishing a book. And I refused to put it down until I was done.

Ask anyone who knows me and they'll tell you I'm a year-round book geek. But there's just something about summer and endless reading that goes together like peanut butter and jelly. (Milk and chocolate? My credit card and a shoe store?)

I've made heavy use of the Chicago Public Library's book request service this summer, plowing my way through more than a dozen books since the end of May. I won't pretend I'm reading super-intellectual books, But after a semester at seminary, I decided to sideline the deep stuff and bury my nose in Jodi Picoult, Anne Brashares, Jennifer Weiner and Sara Gruen. I've also tried to knock off a fair share of YA books (word to Maureen Johnson!), Tina Fey's autobiography, and some nonfiction thrown in, too.

So that's what I've been reading. What about you? Do you dive into a certain type of books in the summer? Or is it a 12-months-a-year affair? Anything you're dying to recommend?

This is a post about an ironing board.

Do not let the title of this post fool you. This is not a euphemism. This post really is about an ironing board. Specifically, this ironing board. Perhaps you'll agree with me that it has seen better days. (Note: All photos shot and edited on my iPhone because I was too lazy to do anything else.)

It's not just that this ironing board is The Ugliest Ironing Board in the History of Ironing Boards. It's that this particular ironing board has also lost a chunk of its padding, making it a shitty ironing board to try to use for its intended ironing purpose. (It's still great at holding groceries, fabric, books and laundry.) Adding insult to ironing injury: my condo is roughly the size of a shoe box. Add that to the fact that I keep my ironing board out a lot because, as anyone who has a sewing habit can tell you, you use your iron a damn lot when your sewing machine is going. Also: I am too lazy to put it back.

All this is to say that the World's Ugliest Ironing Board has been spending a lot of time front and center in my living room. Say it with me: BARF.

I keep thinking I'll sew a new cover. I don't. I keep looking at covers when I see the in the store and almost buy them. But they're too old-lady/paisley/vomit-colored. So I don't.

But on Friday, I found myself clicking through Etsy. Ten minutes and $33 later, I had a new ironing board pad and cover winging their way to me from this super-fabulous store.

For the curious, I disassembled my old cover/pad and discovered this disturbing-looking, totally flattened, and sorta crumbling bit o' foam underneath. It was sad.

Yes. Totally time for an upgrade. Here's the new pad in its bag. For the curious (com'n, nerd out with me), the pad is quilted and teflon-coated. This means it reflects heat, which is kick-ass when you're ironing.

Here's the cover. It's Joel Dewberry's Modern Meadow Sunflower.

Here's an extremely phallic-looking shot of the ironing board with its new pad. Sorta like a quilted space-like uber Trojan, no?

And finally, voila: here 'tis. The finished product. (Try to ignore the shit storm of clutter around it. If I was too lazy to use my real camera, you've GOT to believe I was too lazy to tidy up.)

So there you have it: Six photos and 400 words on my new ironing board cover. And one dick joke thrown in for good measure. (You're welcome.) (That's what she said.)

Pillowy Pillows

Because I'm me (and by "me," I mean, strange) the highlight of my staycation was finally getting around to some of those lingering projects. (And by "lingering projects" I mean sewing, which is why the burned-out lightbulbs in the impossible-to-remove light fixture are still dark.)

Anywho, this brings me to these pillows that I recovered, using my stash of Anna Maria Horner's Little Folks voile. I used the dobby yellow print as the center and did some simple piecing with two other fabrics around it. Because the voile is so sheer, I added a layer of fabric stabilizer to the back.



I used some Little Folks flannel on the back and, inspired by some sewing I did with The Modern Gal the weekend before, made a simple envelope enclosure on the back.



I did two pillows before my sewing machine crapped out on me (a story for another time), but I love how they turned out. Simple and sweet, and perfect for my living room.

Embroidered Christmas.

I've come a long way since my sock puppet days. (Although, I believe such maturity probably comes along with, you know, being legally able to drive, vote, drink, lose my 401(k) during a particularly bad day in the market...)

Anyway, even though it's after Christmas AND after Epiphany, which means I'm all kinds of late, I thought I'd show off some pictures of some little handmade gifty things I made for the holidays. I forgot to take pictures of some Christmas tea towels I whipped up for my family, but I did snap some pictures of Christmas ornaments I made as hostess gifts.






For the curious, I just downloaded a fun font, then traced it onto the fabric and stitched from there.

Then, since I couldn't stop embroidering, I made this awesome sexy librarian pillow for my badass librarian friend. I used a Sublime Stitching pattern and just did some basic piecing of fabric around the border.






And then, since I STILL couldn't stop embroidering, I made this pillow for me.

In which I stretch.

Stretch. That's it. That's my word for 2011.

I love the literal and figurative idea of stretching. It's about reaching, pushing, and sometimes pushing through. It's about moving beyond where you are and going some place that might not feel too comfortable at first.

I want to stretch beyond who I am, which, admittedly, is someone who sometimes feels like she's prone to staying in a bit of a holding pattern. I want to push myself to try new things and learn more and generally be comfortable in a place where I might be uncomfortable. It's not about radical change, it's just about becoming more limber -- bit by bit.

For the curious: I'll take a big stretchy step in February when I take my first grad school class in spirituality at McCormick Theological Seminary. (Full disclosure: I'm auditing it, so it's not the world's biggest thing, but stretching is about baby steps!) Another one will follow in the coming weeks when I start lending a hand at my local quilt store on Saturdays.

Literally, stretch is also about committing more to yoga. I'm still sweaty from this afternoon's class (where, by the way, I rocked out the wheel pose), and I'm hoping to make it to at least one of two special workshops being held at my studio this week. One is on New Year's Eve and the other is bright and early(ish) New Year's Day. I like the idea of starting 2011 by fully embracing at least one form of the stretch plan.

Meanwhile, as I wrap up The Sparkle Initiative, I've also been thinking about way to commemorate a the year. I think I've settled on this, with a bit of tweaking.

I've been loving reading about your words of the year. (And, of course, all the posts on Christine Kane's blog where people explain what they choose and why.) Keep 'em coming.

Peace out.

Image via: Elizabeth-Mae Swenson

Word of the Year.

Last year, I decided to follow the footsteps of the inestimable Christine Kane and choose a word of the year as a way to set a personal intention for the next 12 months. After some wrangling, I went with "sparkle." (For background on the WOTY, click here. Or, better yet, click on over to her blog and see the other words people have chosen and why.)

Eleven months and 27-ish days later, I think I gave it admirable effort. There were moments of radiance and some definite moments of ... well, not. But like I said here, my goal with sparkle was simple.

"I feel like sparkle just ... fits. Everywhere. It encompasses so many of the areas of my life I'd like to improve. It's a reminder of how to behave. What kind of result I should seek from my actions. How to treat others. And how to be."

Now it's almost 2011 (gasp, wasn't it August like 3 seconds ago?) and I've got to come up with another word. And, of course, so do you. So if you played along last year -- or want to get in on the action, it's not too late to pick a word that defines your intention for the year.

Think about it. Feel free to post your word and your rationale below and on your own blog. And let me know how you did on your word for 2010. When I pick my word, I'll put up a post here. And, like last year, I'm happy to make little photographic presents for you guys to help carry you and your word through the year.

Happy thinking.

Lots of love,
Your Sparkler.

Scene from my life.

Who: Me and my across-the-country co-worker bff.
What: A scene from my life. Or, why you should never get between me and my coffee fix.
When: Today, roughly 2 p.m.
Where: My desk.
Why: Because I'm an asshole.
How: IM conversation.

And, scene!

Me: So, I know I'm trying to be all mindful and not material and shit, but the effing coffee shop didn't give me my double-tall, extra-hot, non-fat latte.
Me: Instead, I just walked back to my desk and found out that all I got a regular Chai.
Me: Fuckers.
Her: So you're being the opposite.
Me: Yes. And I want my latte back. I'm bitter.

....
(At this point, we veer off topic. And I continue my amazement/bafflement/ashamed-at-my-own-materialism rant after discovering our church's young adult volunteer and his five housemates live on a $550 monthly household food/toiletry budget and they each get $100/month to cover ALL their incidental expenses. While living in Chicago. Then we talk about her two friends who've been laid off. Then we feel shitty. And grateful for what we have.)
...

Her: We really are lucky. This isn't shit to complain about.
Me: I know. But I'd be EVEN LUCKIER if I had the caffeine I needed.



This is why I'm an asshole. A tired, uncaffeinated asshole.

Christmas. In September.

Sometime in late August I was standing in my dining nook sewing room wearing thread-covered yoga pants and a ratty sport bra, hair askew, while I was sweating like I'd just finished a bikram class. I was plowing my way through a bottle of wine and slicing Christmas fabric (yes, Christmas fabric. Bite me.) while the mutt princess stared at me.

At that moment a single thought flashed in my head: this, right here, is why I'm single.

Relationship woes aside (and, for record, that moment was sort of perfect. Or would have been if it involved a better cutting table and some cheese. Preferably brie. Or gouda. Or really, anything. I'm not picky when it comes to my favorite food group.), I'm plowing my way through a Christmas quilt. Because, what says August September -- like sleighbells and shit?

Here's a sneak peak.



P.S. If someone hasn't already, I'm declaring turquoise as a Christmas color. Don't even try to disagree with me.

Me. With jazz hands.

There's a lot brewing in my world right now. And so I thought I could best illustrate how I feel with the help of one Laura Bell Bundy as the inestimable Elle Woods.






The most prominent change is a probably a new job at my company. I'm super psyched, even though it comes with pre-dawn work hours. (Also, since I am eternal cynic, I should offer the caveat that it's still early, but so far all systems are go.)

So that's me. What's up in your world?

A prayer for peace.

I mistakenly thought it was my turn to offer a prayer for peace during today's church service. So I spent a bit of time last night trying to put pen to paper (or in this case, fingers to keys) to come up with something to say about the topic. Given the past events of the week, I wasn't exactly lacking material.

Since it's an ungiven prayer, I thought I'd offer it up here. (Apologies if prayers aren't your thing.)

God, if ever there was a time to pray for peace, it’s now.

We’re too easily swayed by voices that seek to divide us. The news this week has been filled with daily reminders that all too often our society defaults to hatred and separation, instead of remembering Jesus’ mandate of love and radical inclusion.

We are too eager to separate ourselves. Us and them. The haves and the have nots. The right. And the unrighteous.

And so today, we ask you to help us remember the importance of peace -- in all its forms. Within ourselves, in our homes, our communities, between orientations and nations, races and religions.

The Psalmists remind us that we are fearfully and wonderfully made. So we ask you today to help us honor that gift, and make sure peace stays with us during every step we take, filling our hearts and our minds as we walk in this world.

Amen.

Please pass the peace to your neighbor.

Books to live by.

I'm a word nerd. A book addict. A bibliophile. But there's one book that I will always and forever (and once more, just for feeling) give people as a gift.

It's The Alchemist by the amazing Brazilian author Paulo Coelho.

It's not my favorite book by him. (That honor goes to Veronika Decides to Die.) But I can't help but feel like it's one of those books that sticks with you and finds a way of being pulled off your shelf when you need it the most. The ideas of following a journey, personal legends and the decisions that come with marching through life _ not just as a passive participant but as an actor _ are just so, so poignant. And powerful.

Some of my favorite quotes come from this book:

"When you want something, all the world conspires in helping you to achieve it."

"He had worked for an entire year to make a dream come true, and that dream, minute by minute, was becoming less important. Maybe because that wasn't really his dream."

"We are afraid of losing what we have, whether it's our life or our possessions and property. But this fear evaporates when we understand that our life stories and the history of the world were written by the same hand."

"Tell your heart that the fear of suffering is worse than the suffering itself."

I love this book so much I made my friend Sebastian, who is currently kicking it in New York City for a few weeks, buy it immediately. Or else face bodily harm.


As you can see from this picture he sent me today, he wisely obliged.

So, tell me my dear blog peeps... What about you? What's your favorite book to give people? Why?

Being a grownup. And puppies.

In light of great recent conversations with The Modern Gal...
And the fact that I didn't win last year's Real Simple Life Lessons essay contest...
Which means I can now publish this little not-winning essay entry of mine...
And because with every passing day I'm increasingly convinced that maybe, just maybe, my life is one that's meant to be filled with fur babies instead of not real ones...
Which is totally fine and dandy, despite what society says... (For a great post on that, click here)
And because there hasn't been a post about the Mutt Princess in a while ...

I give you last year's essay for Real Simple on the topic of when I knew I was finally a grownup. Feel free to add your own "eureka" moment below. (With apologies to my mom, who made me promise I'd never write about her on the blog.)

___
My parents preferred a purebred. My heart was set on a mutt.

It was a few weeks after my 24th birthday and I was still unpacking boxes from my recent move to Indianapolis _ a new and thoroughly Midwestern place where I could hear the roar of the engines at Speedway if the wind blew just right. This was corn country, far from my East Coast roots and the lush mountains of Tennessee where I’d spent the past three years soaking up southern culture (and some moonshine) as a newspaper reporter.

I’d moved to Tennessee right after college, loading my little Civic with whatever it would hold and renting a furnished apartment in a falling-down Victorian house from an elderly man who recited Bible verses and made me promise not to let men stay the night. I didn’t intend to stay longer than six months. But I fell in love with the place and the people, and somewhere along the way it became home.

When the offer came for a bigger and better job hundreds of miles north, I knew turning it down wasn’t an option. But after three years, uprooting my life seemed almost unimaginable.

In Indianapolis I had a house to call my own. Two whole bedrooms _ and a fenced-in yard _ that I could decorate however I wanted. But new places can be impenetrable when you’re young and unattached and unconnected to the community. My office was small and my coworkers were older. I didn’t have any friends there or know where to find new ones.

I was alone, and bored, and 100 percent homesick for the life I’d left behind. So, I did what any girl would do. I decided to get a dog.

At the office, I alt-tabbed my way through Petfinder.com. I wanted a small female dog _ not small enough to ride daintily in a purse, but small enough to comfortably sit shotgun in my aging car.

My parents always had purebreds. First, it was an English foxhound who, according to family lore, anchored herself firmly underneath my crib and let out a headache-inducing howl the second I began to whimper. (Bonus: no baby monitor for me.) Later, it was a small, scruffy border terrier whose breed was selected through a multiple choice questionnaire devised by my mathematician mother. I wasn’t convinced one way or another what breed of dog was right for me. But I knew there were dogs that needed a home. And I was ready to open mine to one who did.

She was honey yellow, with a curly tail and mismatched ears, and her name at the time was Sasha. She was a puppy, but housebroken. She could fetch. And, when I first saw her at the pound, she snuggled on my lap like it was the softest pillow ever.

It was love at first sight. My heart melted. I named her Macy Mae, loaded her into my car and headed home to begin life as a team.

Twenty-four hours later, I knew something was wrong. My new sidekick wasn’t eating and couldn’t keep food down. By the next morning, she wobbled when she walked. I held her in my arms when the vet told me the bad news. She had parvo, a usually fatal intestinal virus. By that point she was too sick to even stand.

If Macy could survive _ a big if _ getting her healthy would be expensive and cost far more money that I had, especially after such a big move. They told me to consider putting her down.
I knew a dog was a responsibility _ financial and otherwise. But I wasn’t prepared to pay $2,000 for a furry little critter who stumbled into my life two days before. I was sobbing by this point, as I held her and looked into her big, brown eyes. I did the math, said a prayer, and gave them my credit card.

I was her only chance. And in a way, she’d turn out to be mine.

The fight that followed with my family was one I’m not sure I’ll never forget.

“You should have gotten a purebred,” my well-meaning mother said on the telephone a time zone away. “This wouldn’t have happened if you’d gone to a breeder.”

That was when I hung up the phone. I probably blamed the dropped call on a bad connection. But I was angry. Furious. How could she think that? I loved this dog. She was my responsibility.
More than that, she was MINE. And I wouldn’t let her go without a fight.

It’s strange how some moments _ milliseconds, really _ completely change who you are.

Somewhere that day my reality shifted from being a girl alone in a strange place, who still asked her parents for permission, to being an independent woman who was firmly in control. Through my tears, I realized I was the one in charge of my life. I didn’t need an OK from my mother or my father. Or their validation. I just needed me.

Some people say they don’t feel grownup until they buy a house, get a 401(k), grieve the loss of a parent, or hold their newborns for the first time. For me, my first twinge of adulthood came that first time I realized that I was responsible for a something that depended totally on me, even if that something was a funny –looking pound puppy who most likely wouldn’t survive the night.

One week later, I brought her home. Wrapped in a blanket and shivering, Macy’s ribs traced an outline through her fur. She still wasn’t healthy, but she’d eventually recover. My credit card balance never did.

Four years (and three rounds of yet-to-be-successful obedience training later), Macy and I are still a team. She may be genetically incapable of learning to stay, but she’s still managed to teach me a lot. She’s licked away tears cried over breakups and shown me that there’s such a thing as unconditional love. She’s taught me pet people are, for the most part, kind and generous; that dog parks are great ways to make friends in a new city; and any bar that lets you drink a pint with a furry friend in tow is going to be, unquestionably, fabulous. She’s taught me that the world feels like a better place after a game of fetch; that there’s beauty, even at 5:30 a.m., walking through snow drifts with a dog by your side. There’s bigger things too, about how you can surprise yourself with strength you never knew you had; that learning to be comfortable with who you is never easy and never quick, and that being a grownup means putting others first.

She's a constant reminder that someone’s pedigree isn’t what matters; it’s who they are today that counts.

As an adult, profound moments come when you least expect them. Mine just happened to come with a cold wet nose, a curlicue tail, and lopsided ears.

In which I clean. Sorta.

So, I've been on a staycation this week. (Jealous?)

And while it hasn't been nearly as productive as I would have liked, I'm proud to say that I've been watching TV, eating brownie batter, bubble bathing, reading, reading, reading and sleeping to my little heart's content.

Of course, I've done less organizing, cleaning and sewing than I hoped. But I don't go back to work until Tuesday, so there's still time.

When I was taking pictures of the fruits of my power tool labor, I thought I'd take a few pictures of my FINALLY clean bedroom and show off some of my favoritey little things.

OMG! ISN'T THIS THE MOST EXCITING THING EVER!?! .... Or, uh, something.

Up first. What I'm reading right now. And after being forced to read it in school, I've got to say, I'm pleasantly surprised. In fact, I sorta love this book. Go Bronte sisters.



Next we go to who I came from. Ish. This is a pictures of my great grandmother on her wedding day. Next to it is some fancy pants letter press of a fiddle (an instrument I occasionally play, if given enough alcohol first), made by Yee Haw Industries and sent to me by the always awesome Currer Bell as a birthday present last year.



Speaking of Currer Bell, here's a great lamp she and some of my Chattanooga besties bought me for a birthday many many moons ago. See that stuff in the background? That's the 8 gazillion inches of snow that fell in Chicago.



The lamp lives on my desk, which for the next 10 minutes will remain organized. Or so I hope. I spend more time than is healthy here. Occupational hazard, and all.



Next, some desk lovelies. Some make me laugh. Some inspire me. Some are just, well, crude. But then again so am I. It's why you heart me.

A Christmas card I couldn't bear to send and instead I try to remember the message all year. Look closely: You can see a Noodles in the reflection. Aww.



My little desk Jesus!! He hangs out next to the post card. Yes. I love to be weird. In fact, I delight in it.



And then finally, my beloved bulletin board. Made by my grandfather when my mom was little, it's a stalwart.


The end. Please, tip your tour guide.

Home

There's been a death in the family, so I'm back home on Maryland's lovely Eastern Shore. I used to hate this place growing up and left when I was 16 to go away to school. I visited after that, but never really came home. Despite the years and the travels that have taken me across the country, it's weird how you never really can leave home. (Or maybe home never leaves you?) And almost 14 years after I first left, I realize that I sorta like this like place. Actually, I sorta love it.

It's weird and quirky and sometimes backwards, but it's teeming with its own unique heritage (Two words: Oyster Wars!) It's a weird town: similar to a small suburb, it's the only city in the area. And outside of resort spots that balloon on summer weekends, with 28,000 residents, it's the only game in town.

It's changed since I left. There's a Starbucks now. And more big box stores. And houses along the coast are being sold at Sotheby's for more money than I'll ever make in a decade.

But its rural roots are everywhere. Which leads me to this.




For the curious:
a) Muskrat on the menu is a seasonal fare. You'll only find it in the winter months.
b) I just stopped to take a picture. Not take a bite
c) But I hear it's tasty.
d) Don't believe me? Here's a list of muskrat recipes.
e) My favorite, in name only, has to be either smothered muskrat (with onions) or muskrat casserole.
f) $10 says this post is NOT going in the direction you expected.
g) For the record, during other parts of the year, I'm fairly certain some places serve nutria.
h) Which, P.S., are super cute little invasive species.

Addendum: My friend Doug says I should have called this post Muskrat Love. He's probably right. Well, crap.